⋆˙ ৻ꪆ 𓂃 ⋆. 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐌 .ᐟㅤ 20 ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎writer ⸝ ㅤ ‎‎‎lover ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎microbiologist ⸝ㅤ ⸝⸝⸝‎‎‎ㅤ𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐜𝐞'𝐬 baby ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎big-fanged ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎designer ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎nerd ᰔ ⸝ㅤ ‎‎‎patch maker ⸝ㅤ゛overworked ... ⸝ㅤafri-latino .𖥔 ݁ ˖୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

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Aww ty bb !! I just found it a lil funny 😭 no frowns over here

LMFAOOOOO 😭😭😭 damn I forgot thank you for reminding me 😍

god forbid I respond to my homegirl

omg yasssss Shakespearean queen !! 😍😍

THIS ONE AND THE GETTING PHYSICAL WITH SURFER LUIGI THOUGHT oh my gawwwdddddddd 🤤 hi tae

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⌗ it's blu or bust .ᐟ

Drummer Boy!Luigi - who you know has entered the room when the room smells like pink peppercorn and sandalwood...and by the amount of boys whooping out his name like Future just strutted through.

Drummer Boy!Luigi - who, despite his feral energy on stage, is actually quite shy in person. he's often hailed as the "gentle giant" of his little indie band, Blulite.

Drummer Boy!Luigi - who is consistently covered in handwraps down to the knuckle-n-palm, poor little hands bleeding away from his piss-poor drumstick posture.

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Him being attractive was always going to be an advantage, which in this case it helps push things in the “right” direction for those who believe in highlighting the American legal system’s tendency to laze about high-profile cases just to throw another mf in jail, BUT, it doesn’t stop at just him, OR always roll in the right direction, either.

It’s giving reheating the perp walk nachos

I actually don’t have much of anything to say about it really ngl 😭 I thought it was neat.

LMAOO GTFO MY INBOX 😭😭😭

They say first impressions are the most important. Don’t make waves…at least not when you’re the little fish in a new pond. He didn’t care about all that shit, though. First impressions are for pussies who don’t believe their true personality is enough to wow a crowd…if you’re unlikeable at face value, change. It’s that simple.

Your boyfriend hadn’t felt the need to box himself up since your sophomore year of high school– right around the time he got back on the ice after dropping it at thirteen. He had been playing since he was seven, and the adults– his father especially –knew that he was made for the rink. Any other sport they threw at him didn’t stick…and trust, they tried it all.

He was too short for basketball growing up…okay, that was fine. He wasn’t fast enough for soccer– true, but painful –and he simply wasn't durable enough for wrestling. One of Lu’s many talents, however, was his mouth…and its ability to talk shit.

He heard it all the time growing up. 

“You’ll cut your nose off to spite your face.” “You’d make a great lawyer.” “A hard head makes a soft ass.”

It was safe to say that he knew too many sailor songs to be a good sport. So Luigi’s parents put him in the one sport he could let off some steam in a less-than-family-friendly way while still offering enough protection to his growing body. Hockey.

And just as gifted as he was shit-talking, he could sweet-talk, too. Charismatic, confident, cocky, charming…a combo that had you sitting on the cold, metal benches of the skating rink by the time you were fifteen. You didn’t even really give a shit about hockey– who does? Unless you lived in the Midwest and ate hotdish for dinner, there was a slim chance you gave a fuck about some skating himbos, much less at a high school level.

But he was loving. Kind and unfiltered in a way that not many teenage boys were able to be, who always projected a visual of the last girl they met in hopes of attracting more. But that wasn’t Luigi. He didn’t have the time for that, and he made that clear.

“I’m saying, babe…I barely talk to women; I’m a nerd. I’m in robotics, I do not play a top-three sport, and I literally have, like, negative muscle. How many women do you think are attracted to that?” he chuckled, tugging his blue Gilman Hockey jersey over his barely-toned stomach. “This look okay? How does it fit?”

“Perf,” you’d say, cracking the bubble gum in your mouth before holding up your Polaroid camera. “Smile.”

And you promised him that you’d keep that photo of him until he won his first championship. And you did. That scrawny, deadpan, off-guard little photo of fifteen-year-old Luigi sat snug in the back of your phone case as you cruised through adolescence alongside your boyfriend. From dangling out the window of his first car to celebrating his full-ride sports scholarship to UPenn, you did it all together.

You can’t really say it came as a shock; four-time MVP, Dave Tyler Junior Player of the Year award-winner, and seven sniper pucks look pretty impressive on a college application. With or without the 4.0, his grit on the rink was enough to earn the spotlight. He didn’t care about that, though. He knew one thing: if you didn’t get into Penn, he wasn’t going.

It was nerve-wracking. You applied early decision and got deferred, which wasn’t necessarily ideal when Luigi’s recruiter was waiting on the green light from a potential all-star player. The fact that he was willing to hold off on such an offer was…shocking, considering how quick-thinking he was when it came to important decisions. Thank god for luck, because by the grace of admissions, you were in right alongside Luigi. 

Go Quakers.

Anyway…that brings you to present day. Game day. Lu’s very first time competing at the college level. He hadn’t even officially met the team beforehand– he found himself way too busy with orientation and life commitments to stop by and officially “spend time” with his team. All he knew was that he was the youngest member of the Penn Quakers and that the boys were eager to see why the coach had been hyping up their new teammate so much.

They hadn’t even met him yet, and they had already had a negative opinion of him. Dickheads, I swear.

If they didn’t think highly of him before, their opinion was sure to sour now. Forty-five minutes before they were supposed to be on the ice. The seats had begun to fill with friends and family alike, because again, nobody cares about hockey unless they’re related to a player, or fucking a player. Take your pick.

Forty-five minutes before they were supposed to be on the ice…and nobody wanted to go in the locker room. At least, not beyond the lockers, and they only got that far because they needed to access their gear. 

Remember when I said Lu had an incredibly gifted mouth that could navigate a conversation like a well-drawn map? Oh, yeah, he could eat, too.

And he had been doing so for the past hour. Two gloved hands pressed firmly into your goosebumped skin; one holding you down just below your navel, just enough to feel the gentle jump of your lower abdominal muscles as the tip of his tongue circled your clit, and the other hooked around your right leg to keep you from running away. He was making a scene…a splash, if you will.

The college process had been strenuous on you both…and when he wasn’t running across the street to CVS to buy something he forgot at home, he was without a doubt assembling some furniture that he’d need to survive even three days in college. A man deprived is not a happy man, so as soon as he got you alone in that locker room, he knew what had to be done.

“Well, they won’t hear if you don’t make noise,” he crooned, his nose and upper lip glistening with cum and arousal as he latched onto your cunt with a gutty, wet slurp.

The wet, slick, and near-slimy muscle traced up and down the vertical of your slit, like a picky eater licking the buttercream frosting off a cheap, grocery store brand cookie. Like Mr. Softee’s angel-colored ice cream after playing his lungs out on the pitch. If he were on an aggressive cut and pussy was the only thing he could eat, you’d assume that hypothetical were reality.

He lapped you up insistently, the sound of his hunger bouncing off the concrete walls and mixing with the high symphony of your pants. He reveled in how your legs just couldn’t seem to stay still, the muscles in your thighs twitching and jumping underneath his gloved hand.

“There she is…there’s my sexy lil’ lady,” he crooned, mumbling into the m-shaped curve of your womb.

Your back lurched off the cold, metal bench, the ridges on its surface catching a couple rogue strands of your hair as you cried out into the lifeless room. The pleasure washed over you in continuous waves; one warm, tingly splash giving way to a stronger tsunami.

“Fuck, you’re literally gushing,” he marvelled, his brows furrowing in amazement as he lazily threw off a glove and prodded his ring and middle finger in and out of you.

“Gi, you’re gonna…” You whined, roughly fisting his brunette curls to self-soothe, “...make the t-team miss their match! Ffffhhuh…Finish u-up!”

You were right. As unfortunate as it was, he couldn’t hold you here forever…and he was positive he had pissed his new teammates off on account of fucking someone in the locker room on his very first day. But it’s fine, he’d rather have a fucked out girlfriend over an upset team that can’t do shit about it.

“Fuck,” He huffed, rolling his eyes to the back of his skull in annoyance before pressing a long, pressured kiss to your slippery cunt and tugging your pants and panties over your hips.

The walk back to the stands was nothing short of humiliating, either. Twenty pairs of eyes scanned your glossy eyes, fucked up baby-hairs, twitchy muscles, and drunken walk as you slinked away.

And still. Through it all.

“Hey, guys. I’m Luigi!” he greeted, popping his head out moments later with a bright, glistening grin.