#IN THE PAST BUT IT HAS LITERALLY NEVER BEEN THIS BAD IN TERMS OF NEW PLAYER EXPERIENCE

[petit-papillion]

I'm not sending this message to be hateful or to criticize but I honestly think that we overrate Charles too much. I like him a lot but I find it exaggerated to put him on the same level as max. Maybe at one time Charles could have reached the same level as Max or really had a rivalry with him but now I think it's too late. he missed his chances. Charles is a very talented driver but not a generational driver. I think he made bad career choices, that he should have left Ferrari because even if the team makes progress, it will never regain its former glory. I think Charles is destined for 2nd place. Especially now that Lando is improving a lot, he is starting to surpass Charles in terms of skill just as his team is surpassing Ferrari. I think Lando will be the one to become Max's rival and win a title before Charles. It must be recognized that Ferrari will always make mistakes, and when she doesn't, it benefits Charles's teammate. I doubt that Charles will be the priority with the arrival of Lewis. Charles should have left Ferrari when it was time, now it's too late. I think that that's too bad. But Charles and Max are absolutely not in the same category, Max is too far ahead of Charles and has been for a very long time. I think it is too late for Charles and Ferrari, they missed their opportunity. I can't see Charles becoming champion in front of Lando or Max

Hello Anon. Not really sure what brought on these thoughts, but I respectfully disagree with several of your points.

Not a generational driver? To be honest, I think that term is overused and puts unnecessary expectations on a driver. So much also depends on having the right car, the right people pushing you forward, the right mindset, the right opportunities. Maybe THE generational driver is a woman who only drove karts for fun and never pursued a career in professional racing.

Should've left Ferrari? Where exactly do you suggest Charles should've gone in the last 5 years? Red Bull? Already have a number 1 driver in Max. Mercedes? Had a number 1 in Lewis, and then their car was shit for a long time. George only has 1 win under his belt. McLaren? Also shit for the longest time and Lando is their golden boy who only just this year got his first win. Ferrari may have fumbled some opportunities, but Charles is the only one with a Top 3 finish in the WDC in the past 5 years from a team that is not Red Bull or Mercedes. And besides that, he is a Ferrari man through and through, something I wrote about in early December - a couple of months before his new contract was announced:

Not number 1 priority at Ferrari once Lewis arrives? It's possible. Only time will tell. But Ferrari does not give long contracts like they've given to Charles to anyone else, so there's that.

Not in the same category? It's true that Max is far ahead, just like Red Bull has been ahead of Ferrari. At the same time, it's not like anyone else has been able to come close to Max and the RBR's car's superiority until recently. Fred is doing a fine job making improvements in the team, but it takes a while to turn the ship around.

Lando to become champion before Charles? Again, it's possible, because a lot depends on the car they drive. It takes a combination of a skilled driver and a fast car, as we have seen with Checo not being able to do what Max can with the same car, and Lando not winning any races in an inferior McLaren. The experience driving a fast car may need to be developed as well, and Charles certainly is not the only one who has made mistakes under pressure. I literally just finished watching a race where George and Lando both made mistakes that cost them the lead in a race either of them could've won.

By the way, here is Max this race weekend being asked if he had to bet on just one driver to become world champion, who he would pick:

🎥 archive33mv

Finally, just so there is no misunderstanding: I will always keep hoping that Charles achieves his dream of becoming WDC, just as I never gave up hope he could win in Monaco. I am not as delusional to think it will be easy. Or even if he manages to win it, that he is at the same level as Max is right now. But I would like him to get there...

#can't believe how last race everyone was singing his praises #and so so happy for him #and now we are back to #he will never be wdc #the team didn't mess up as badly as they're made out to either #anyway #off my soapbox #charles leclerc #anon ask

[chuulyssa]

🇨​​ 🇴 ​​🇳 ​​🇫​​ 🇪 ​​🇸​​ 🇸 ​​🇮 ​​🇴 ​​🇳​ ！

BSD MEN REACTING TO A CONFESSION.

↷ A/N ─ yes new divider again because im indecisive as heck

★ FT. ─ dazai , chuuya , ranpo , akutagawa , atsushi , fyodor

!! TAGS ─ mentions of suicide, insecurities, overall fluff

"i love you."

ᴅᴀᴢᴀɪ.

promptly replies with, "i love you too."

he'll lean into you with an amused smile because he lowkey thinks you're joking

when he realizes you're serious about it he'll immediately stop the stupid grin

and look at you with this sincere look you've never seen on his face before

he'll hold your hand and everything while repeating "i love you too," for a second time, only this time he's serious about it too

definitely asks for double suicide later

"You know it's my motto to unalive myself with a beautiful woman. How lucky of you to have been bestowed upon this honour."

"Mhm."

"I'll say yes if you join me in a double suicide," he asks with puppy eyes.

"Dazai, you already said yes."

"I'll say it again!"

​ᴄʜᴜᴜʏᴀ.

he stops abruptly and half chokes on his expensive ass wine

poor boy is really confused 😭 because "where did that come from??"

he tries to play it cool but he's literally SCREAMING inside

we all know he's been betrayed a lot of times in the past so he feels hesitant about it

will decide to give it a shot tho

100% calls dazai to brag about it

"You may be taller or whatever (as if that matters in the first place) but were you the one able to steal her heart? Eh? I think not!"

You chuckle hearing him update his rival of his new relationship status.

"And anyway," he raises a glass of wine for toast. "I'd like to thank my good looks, good looks and did I mention my good looks (?) for making tonight the happiest night ever."

ʀᴀɴᴘᴏ.

"i know."

he has always observed every single thing about you - how you behave around others vs how you behave around him, the little times you look at him like you want his attention etc etc

he's known about this since like soooo long

he defo also knew when where and how you were gonna confess

went to yosano for tips to react to it and bought you chocolates and stuff. he thinks it'll make you happy :D

eats all of that himself even tho he originally bought it for you but you let it slide because he's a cutie patootie

"You could at least have been a bit subtle about it," he says, munching on his chips. "I mean, anyone who saw you would've been able to guess. I didn't even need my ability for this!"

He lifts his chin up thoughtfully, fingers ripping open another packet of snacks. "You should be grateful I'm not a snitch. Eh, well," he shrugs, "You're now dating the greatest detective in the world! Congratulations!"

ᴀᴋᴜᴛᴀɢᴀᴡᴀ.

"eh???"

like chuuya, he's pretty confused too

"are you sure?"

tries to keep a straight face and hide his fluster

he'll narrow his eyes at you as if he's trying to read your emotions. he doesn't wanna get hurt if he gets too attached to you and you two end up breaking up

also how tf is he supposed to believe that someone like YOU like someone like HIM?

reassure him that he's perfect please :( poor baby deserves the world

"I am a lot of work. I don't think you can keep up with all of that," he says shortly.

"I'll try my best."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to!"

He stares at you for a few moments, looking like he's about to cry.

"Oh, alright then," he waves a hand around. "But don't you ever leave me."

ᴀᴛꜱᴜꜱʜɪ.

screams

"SAY IT AGAIN PLEASE!"

jumps around everywhere in happiness

you dont even get a verbal answer the man's just dancing around

either that or he just faints

he's, like akutagawa, insecure about himself. but he's much more open to showing his emotions to you.

you end up cuddling the whole night or he calls off work to be with you for the rest of the day <3

"I..." he repeats the same word for the fifth time in a row.

"Yes?"

"Don't mind me, I'm just trying to come to terms with the fact that I get to date you."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, no!" he panics, wringing both hands all over himself hastily. "I love you! Really!"

ꜰʏᴏᴅᴏʀ.

no reaction. im sorry

spares a small glance at you but otherwise doesn't get distracted from his work

you think he's gone deaf from the way he just ignored you cuz what????

will spend like 15 minutes that way before extending an arm to you and you lowkey DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO??? HELP??

he'll stare at you for a few seconds before pulling you onto his lap and continuing with his work

and that's his way of saying yes

He shuts the computers around him down and taps your outer thigh twice. You immediately stand up and help him up. He stares at you for a few seconds, contemplating something.

"You know, I never thought I'd enable others to call me a lovesick fool."

"Does that mean you are a lovesick fool?"

"A little, maybe," he turns around and walks out of the door while you follow him with a soft smile on your face.

© chuulyssa 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

#bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd scenarios #bsd hcs #bsd headcanons #dazai hcs #dazai x y/n #dazai x reader #chuuya imagines #chuuya x reader #fyodor hcs #fyodor x you #fyodor x reader #akutagawa hcs #akutagawa x reader #chuuya headcanons #dazai headcanons #dazai x you #fyodor imagines #atsushi hcs #atsushi nakajima #atsushi x reader #dazai bsd

[thepunkmuppet]

the possible future of the hatchetfield series: hatchetfield halloween party livestream full rundown

again apologies if someone has already done something like this, but I’m procrastinating doing my coursework and just want to talk about hatchetfield I want everyone to be aware of this exciting stuff that was announced in the stream so here you go:

the next starkid musical to be released will not be in the hatchetfield universe.

the guy who didn’t like musicals will soon be ready to license.

nightmare time 3 was originally planned to be released in the same year as nightmare time 2 and will wrap up the overarching nightmare time stories (which seem to be miss holloway and the foster sisters respectively).

if they did a fourth hatchetfield musical, it would be about miss holloway and her backstory. it is already written. I am very very extremely normal about this fact 😃

there is a possibility of a hatchetfield movie, and workin’ boys was sort of a test for this concept. it would be a slasher murder mystery centering around the hatchetfield community players (zoey chambers and the cast of workin’ girls, possibly also with ruth, hidgens, alice and any other theatre-oriented characters but that part’s just my speculation). the transcription of the teaser description can be found below the nmt descriptions.

ok so here are the transcriptions of the nmt3 episode descriptions:

Story #1: Bottle Imps

Bill Woodward has been chosen to test CCRP’s latest and greatest product; Bottle Imps. These reality-bending buddies will bring their owner the one thing they desire most. When his new imp, Lovely, leads him to his soulmate, Bill decides to use his magical companion to play matchmaker. But to help Charlotte find the man of her dreams, Bill will have to bend the Imp’s rules. Rules he’s been warned, must never be broken…

Story #2: Frankenruth

Desperate to see a naked body, Ruth Fleming and Richie Lipschitz volunteer at the morgue of St. Damien’s Hospital. Their terrible plan becomes exponentially more terrible, when they become unwitting subjects in the experiments of the body-snatching madman, Doctor Laszlo, who claims to have conquered death itself. If Hatchetfield thought Ruth was bad before, then they will cower before the unspeakable horror of… Frankenruth!

Story #3: Becky Barnes Climbed a Tree

Becky Barnes is on top of the world! Not in a literal sense, of course. She’s deathly afraid of heights. After years of struggle, Becky’s life is finally everything she dreamed it would be. She’s engaged to her high school sweetheart, Tom Houston, and the two have a surprise baby on the way! But, as the couple prepare for the arrival of baby Marie, a shadow from Becky’s past returns to haunt them.

Story #4: Devil’s Night

Tim Houston has a crush. Unfortunately, it’s on his older, mature and totally cool babysitter, Grace Chasity, who he fears will never see him as anything but a snot-nosed little kid. But when a devilish maniac with murderous designs on Grace attacks Hatchetfield the night before Halloween, Tim must protect his beloved, or join the killer’s growing body count. It’s another slashing adventure on the night HE came home… Devil’s Night.

Story #5: (long special episode) Miss Holloween

It’s Halloween in Hatchetfield once again, and Miss Holloway is celebrating the same way she’s done for decades, staving off the horrors that go bump in the night. But when Duke gives her an invitation to his wedding, the dejected Miss Holloway begins to chafe under the terms of a contract forged many years ago. She strikes a new bargain, but unfortunately her creditors are known for their tricks, not treats. Just as Miss Holloway gives up her powers in exchange for a mortal life, a monstrous new threat rears its ugly head. As All Hallows Eve descends, and all Hell breaks loose, Miss Holloway must save the town or die trying… for real this time.

Story #6: (long special episode / season finale) Orb Weaver

Lex Foster had a life once. A home. A boyfriend. Now there is only the road, and her sister, and the fear of the men who are hunting them. As Hannah Foster watched Lex sink deeper into despair, she is certain of only three things: Webby is gone. She cannot help them. They are alone. Elsewhere, an old soldier awakens from a catatonic state. Returned from some unimaginable Hell with a mission. He knows that somewhere, two magical girls require immediate evac… then maybe some coffee.

very important: if you want nightmare time 3, WATCH NIGHTMARE TIME 2. BUY A TICKET TO THE LIVESTREAM. SHOW THAT THERE IS LOVE AND DEMAND AND IT’S WORTH THEIR TIME AND MONEY I AM BEGGING YOU

hatchetfield movie: Cast Party Massacre

The Hatchetfield Community Players. You will never find a cattier troupe of two-faced thespians. But when the blood begins to flow at their latest show’s cast party, they must consider: is there a secret murderer in their midst? And more importantly, who amongst them is a good enough actor to pull off such a performance? Can they set aside their petty squabbles and tangled romances, or is it curtains for this ensemble? Who will survive… the Cast Party Massacre!

#doing the lord (wiggly’s) work 🫡 #I hope this isn’t dodgy in any way in terms of the livestream being pay-to-see #but I just wanted people to know and be able to talk about it #hatchetfield halloween party #workin boys #workin boys spoilers #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #hatchetfield universe #the guy who didn’t like musicals #tgwdlm #black friday musical #npmd #nerdy prudes must die #nightmare time #nmt #nightmare time 3 #nmt3 #lex foster #hannah foster #miss holloway #douglas keane #duke keane #holloduke #general john macnamara #zoey chambers #ruth fleming #richie lipschitz #bill woodward #charlotte sweetly

[liveontelevision]

Okay, this started as a rant about Lucifer lore and turned into an argumentative essay on why Lucifer is a bottom. My b.

18+ Smut ahead, lots of angst

•••

Here's the thing about Lucifer. He was an awesome dreamer, fell in love with Lillith, and was banished to Hell. Literally forced to see what the gift of good will can do at its worse. Unless he's made some personal contact with a sinner to get like updates about what the gift of good will did right, he had to be stuck in a depression for centuries, at least until Charlie was born. And while that would've definitely given him a new passion, he'll never feel confident in dreaming again.

With how much he dislikes sinners and what they represent, i wonder if there had to be some strain on their relationship when it came to Lillith taking control? They never really talk about if they had a fallout or if she just disappeared, but i dont think they really got divorced either.

When Lucifer looks at that family picture and winces, does he feel bad about not contacting charlie? About something he did to make lillith leave? Or maybe he feels bad about being upset at lillith for leaving in the first place? There's so much to umpack there i live for the lore.

Love Interests:

But when that comes to potential love interests in the future, Lucifer hasnt had to court anyone before like ever. Not in the circumstances that they live in a big city like Hell. So when he finally ends up catching feelings, he has no idea. People around the hotel literally need to pick up on context clues for him and have an intervention to tell him he's in love again.

Even if he hasnt seen lillith in 7 years, their relationship had to be a drastic change compared to new love. I think that his love interest would also pick it up before he does, and you would let him work at his own pace. Fuck, it is so important that he goes through this process at his own pace.

With so much strain on his past relationships with loved ones, he fully gaslights himself into thinking he doesnt deserves and isnt allowed to feel affection anymore. I hate making characters i love suffer. But i feel like in his state of mind he'd go through depressive episodes and panic attacks, maybe some night terrors. Theyed be about his past and his subconscious would essentially tell him he has feelings again, and he shouldn't act them in case he scares you away and abandons you, like heaven. Or drives you away like lillith. Or purposely blocks you out like charlie. Mans is struggling i swear. He needs some comfort.

After finally coming to terms, hes a nervous wreck about every decision he makes. He'll constantly stare in the mirror in the mornings, making sure he looks his best, would plan mental scripts before even having a conversation with you, and would become a bumbling mess just trying to make jokes out of the situation, some base level actions, like how we saw in the show. He'll manage to finally ask you out, but all he really knows how to do is profess an undying love (i feel like his confession to lillith was hella dramatic) so it was a little awkward, but still cute. And of course you said yes.

So let's say its been 5+ years since he moved into the hotel, met you and finally managed to confess his feelings. When it comes to the actual relationship? You give him reassurance and support him through his mental episodes, and laugh at his jokes and praise him for everything he does. He has such intense imposture syndrome though, that even other demons have to reassure that theres no way you dont love him with all your being. Because it is literally obvious to everyone but him.

He's pretty good at doing the romantic fluff stuff in public, he loves to make a big show out of treating you like royalty and even trying to embarrass you when you become close enough. He's always more charasmatic in public, it seems easier than doing that alone.

Not in a negative way, but Lucifer is so never to be alone with you. You take the lead a bit more in those scenarios, suggesting ideas like movies or just coming up with small talk yourself. He needs someone who'll be patient with him. Being alive for millions of years AND being left or shamed by all your loved ones during that time is literally the definition of Truama.

Of course he's been bottling all that shit up, he has no one to confide with. There's no one who's been alive and witnessed it all the way he has. So bless you for loving and caring for him even without understanding all hes been through.

You'll have some rough patches, where this emotional side locks him away from you and everyone else. It might be a few days before you see him. He'll lock himself in his office, pumping out ducks by the dozen just to keep himself from sleeping, because he's scared he'll have night terrors if he feels asleep. He's in a constant loop;

"what if i fucked up?"

"what if i try to talk about it and then they realize how bad i fucked up?"

"what if that's enough of a reason for them to leave me?"

"what if i scare them away?"

"what if that fucks this up?"

"what if i fucked up.. Again..?"

After he leaves his office, youre excited to see him out and about, but you cant make a big deal out of it. You have to speak to him calmly, make sure he's physically okay before talking to him about his thought process. It might take awhile, but he'll eventually trust you enough to open up. And of course it'll never be bad enough for you to leave him, he's just struggling.

Physical Contact:

It takes him an even longer time to become physical with you. He hasnt been intimate for over a decade at this point, but as soon as he becomes comfortable with little affections like hand holding, cuddling, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissing? Hoo boy, he melts after your first kiss. It couldve been even a small peck and he would still become a nervous wreck just trying to ask for more.

He'll ask for physical touch more than provide it at first. You'll give him a quick kiss and he'll look up at you super eager just like, "another?" He'll grow into tastful pda's, linking arms, quick hugs and smooches, holding hands all that.

He becomes putty in your hand when you're alone though. You'll nudge him to lean against your shoulder or even lay his head in your lap while youre lounging or watching movies. He becomes so relaxed in your presence, that you'll want to suddenly peck him just to see his suddenly flustered reaction.

You'd give him massages that he would always be hesistant over. He was always a little nervous that he wasnt giving enough to you, but you were quick to assure him that wasnt the case. You'd straddle his hips while giving him a slowww massage. It starts with light touches, tracing your fingers over his shoulder blades and spine. You'd trace your fingers over his chest when you would cuddle too, depending on the position. Or stroke his back sweetly. It was enough of a distraction to keep his mind occupied, away from any spiraling thoughts he might be having.

He purrs. Convince me that he doesnt purr. (You cant)

Being secluded for so long probably means that he doesnt fly as much as he used to. It was probably a passion of his, and he was especially delighted to share it with lillith and charlie.

So during those 7 years he barely flew, he also didnt take care of his wings. I feel like theyre something to be summoned, so they arent constantly tucked into his back. You'd basically scold him sometimes to just let you clean his wings.

You'd do it in like a spring-type bathhouse that Lucifer would have in his castle somehow. It was one of the first intimate moments he's experienced in years, so he was generally going insane. Feeling your hands and a little comb rake through the feathers on his giant wings? You'd have to tap his shoulder sometimes to keep him from falling asleep to the relaxation alone. After the first time, the water you used was pretty dirty and he had a lot of loose feathets that were combed out. Damn, he needed this.

Intimacy:

After awhile, you sit down and would have a discussion about being intimate in bed. Lucifer would be absolutely nervous about overstepping by asking this, (even though you've been together for about a year at this point). He would use his mental scripts and basically practice what he wanted to say.

It would mainly be him saying he wants to do this because he loves you and youve done so much for him that he wants to give back to you in this way. It would consist of him saying its okay if you dont want to, or if you ever want to stop to just say so. But of course you want to, how could you not?

It would start slow, he actually tries taking the lead in this specific situation. He would kiss you first, his lips trembling at the thought that this is actually happening. Feeling his nerves, you'd cup his face and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs lightly. That will help him ease up enough to start letting the passion take over more.

He'd become more confident in slipping his tongue into your mouth and placing his hands on your hips to pull you closer to him. Lucifer would get lost in the moment, pulling you to straddle his lap as he kissed and licked and bit his way across both your shoulders and down to the softeness of your breast. After leaning back to look at the damage his eyes would become increasingly wide, looking up at you with a flustered expression. Seeing you losing it as much as he was, gave him enough courage to keep up at it.

He would almost hesistantly take a hold of your breasts and would massage them softly, running his thumbs across your nipples and becoming absolutely delighted at the reaction you gave. The adrenaline from the pleasure would make you start grinding against his lap, which would make lucifer's hands on your hips pull away for a moment and make his breath stutter. Lucifer would look you up and down as if he didnt know what to do next, studying your body with darting eyes. You'd press a small kiss on his forehead before guiding his hands back onto your hips with yours, keeping your eyes on him the entire time.

"Are you okay, Luci?" He would gulp before nodding his head and turning ridiculously red across his face, maybe from the idea of what was to come, maybe just from your voice alone. You'd keep your hands ontop of his at your hips as you'd keep moving, letting out breathy moans. He would be holding his breath without realizing, an absolute nervous wreck just from the view.

He would already be hard just from the previous make out session, so this would cause him to lean his back against the bed, his strength giving out. You'd keep up at it, feeling his hips jolt up to meet yours at times.

He was a sweaty, twitching mess in front of you and you hated to admit how much that excited you.

His scripted plan was immediately forgotten, but he was quick to remember that he wanted to please you.

He'd snap out of his state of intense pleasure, to carefully switch positions, him looking over you with your back against the bed.

You both discuss it, of course, attempting to set boundaries before hand. Even just the tender discussion would get him riled up. So he'd lean foward and kiss you again, showing off his forked tongue before peppering kisses down your entire body, until he was close enough to let his hot breath heat up your folds.

You'd feel his nervous breath on you before delving in. He would be hesistant of course, but would be quick to get used to your entrance after running his tongue across your entirety multiple times. Lucifer loves providing pleasure this way, so his brain immediately knew what to do once the nerves past. He was quick to take a tight hold onto your thighs to keep you in place as he entered you with his demonic lengthy tongue. He would look up at you as he sort of aimlessly dug around at first, waiting for a reaction. Once he'd see you dip your head back with a muffled moan, he would close his eyes to focus all his attention to that one spot. He'd reach his thumb around to circle and massage your clit that he would find far too quickly. You'd arch your back and try to get more friction against his tongue, but it's easy to forget that he is quite literally the strongest being in Hell. You weren't going anywhere.

He'd love feeling your hands in his hair and would absolutely lose it feeling you pull hard when he'd hit just the right spot. As soon as he set a steady thythm and was hearing your voice become more unhinged, he'd speed up to an extent that you didn't realize was possible after going for so long. You discussed cumming before and he made it very clear that he was okay with you finishing on his face. Fuck, he wanted it. You still warned him, moaning out his name to get his attention, "I-I'm almost there- K-Keep doing that.. like that..! Luci-" you'd almost direct him though the whole process, but were quick to become a moaning mess unable to communicate with words. You'd reach your limit and he would let you buck up into his face this time, loosening his grip on your thighs. He'd pull away after licking you clean, sending overstimulated pleasure across your entire body, with a line of your juices following his tongue as he lifted his head. He would pant with his tongue still sticking out of his mouth, and even through hazy eyes you loved seeing his demonic tongue and thinking about how it just drove you to climax.

Things would switch up again, and you'd sit him against the back of the bedframe. you'd have another quick discussion before seating yourself slowly on his length, which had been throbbing for any contact since the night started. The first few times, he'd do his best not to cum immediately. He hadn't been touched like this in a while, after all. You'd only begin to move once you made sure he was okay since his struggle was written all over his face.

The moment you began to keep a steady space, he would jut his hips upwards, becoming needy to feel this sensation he hadn't felt in over a decade. The first time didn't last long. It was sweet, and he would constantly moan out your name and babble on about how much he loves you. The entire time, you'd be praising him through every move until he was going too fast for you to get a sentence out.

He'd cum inside of you, another previously discussed topic. You essentially had to beg to convince him it was okay. You'd collapse onto his chest, a position he didnt see often. While the two of you always cuddled, you were so focused on making sure he was comfortable, Lucifer realized you didnt often get the chance to just relax on top of him. So after realizing that? Aftercare was amazing.

He'd let you sit with him inside you for a while, before pulling you off and immediately cleaning you up. Some nights, when he felt especially dominant, he would lap up his own cum from your incredibly sensitive cunt. He would swallow some of it, but was mainly pushing anything that dripped out back into your entrance.

After cleaning you up, he would wiggle his way back underneath you and pull you onto his chest, enjoying taking care of you the way you took care of him.

After the first night, lucifer would be much more confident. He'd have that healthy glow, but would be more assertive during meetings, more communicative and wouldnt shut others out as often. It really helped him realize how much you gave to him, and he was determined to give all that and more back to you.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin hotel smut #lucifer hazbin #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar x you #lucifer x reader smut #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer

[vintagepresley]

I don’t want to be this person. But I feel like that new Elvis confessions account on here is just a gateway for people to start drama and spew their hate for people in this fandom and how others choose to love Elvis or how they write about Elvis and to basically shove down our throats how to be an Elvis fan “the right way”.

I just saw one of their recent posts about basically the fandom not being the same and how people don’t care about him and how people used to talk about his music and movies. Now people in the fandom only care about writing smut about him and don’t even know his songs or movies. Then saying how calling him “big daddy” is disgusting.

Huh? What? I don’t know what part of the fandom this person is on but we are constantly talking about his music and movies. I feel like most of the people in this fandom have seen all of his movies. But also some can’t depending on where they live in the world so it could be harder for them to watch them. He’s got so much music to listen like you can’t be mad if EVERYONE hasn’t heard every single fucking song. There’s actually some people who just joined and are still learning. It’s not that serious. Stop acting like you weren’t once new to being an Elvis fan.

Why are we acting like people haven’t been writing so much smut stories about him since 2022? Before I even joined the fandom here I was literally reading soooo many smut stories about him around that time. I don’t think that’s changed. There’s so many different stories besides smut. If you don’t like smut guess what? DON’T READ IT BABE. Keep scrolling. There’s so much variety when it comes to Elvis fanfics. It’s not just smut.

Then onto the big daddy thing. That didn’t just become a thing. It’s been a thing for the past two years. How is it disgusting? Lmao. It’s never that serious and honestly no one is being disrespectful when they use that term. That man has big daddy energy. That is never a bad thing, lol.

I swear. People don’t know how to just enjoy things and not taking things so seriously and constantly complaining about literally everything. Why can’t people just enjoy things? I feel like I constantly speak up about this because I’m so tired of people telling people how they should love Elvis or how there’s a wrong and right way. I’m so tired of people making others feel like they don’t belong here. We all love and respect Elvis. We all love learning about him in every aspect of his life. So many of us do so much research and constantly read books on him because we DO see him more than just a “pretty face” more than just an “aesthetic”. He’s a huge part of our lives and we all in some way have a story about how he’s impacted us or what he’s done for us. Doesn’t mean we can’t joke about things or like make unhinged posts. Life doesn’t always have to be taken so seriously.

Lighten up. Elvis would be bothered by how uptight some of you are.

Thank you for coming to my Elvis ted talk. ☺️

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fandom #elvis fans #start being kinder to each other in this fandom

[justalittletotheleft]

i was so excited about my birthday diapers that i’ve been diapered for 3 days straight now!

i’ve never had much interest in going 24/7, but i just had so many household chores to do, that i figured it would be faster and easier just to pad up and stay productive.

this also means though, that i’ve been only cumming in diapers for 3 days, which has seemed to cause a little problem…

last night, i tried putting on big boy underwear after my shower. i was so excited to be able to like actually feel and play with my tdick without the diaper bulk, that i immediately started jerking off, which is already so depraved and embarrassing

i only got a few minutes in though before i got a little too excited, and ended up wetting my clean boxers (*´-｀*)

it was a little startling, but i’ve had this issue in the past when i started bedwetting training, so i just changed into a new pair of boxers and went on with my night.

until i maybe wet myself. again. (*/ω＼)

i was playing a pretty stressful video game, was a little high, and had a streamer playing one of my favorite horror games on my second monitor. i felt a pretty urgent twinge in my bladder, but it hadn’t been too long since my jerk off accident, so i just ignored it. i was getting overwhelmed in the game and just tried to lock in and focus so i could beat the level. but then the streamer tripped a jump scare that i wasn’t expecting…

so literally just sitting at my desk, i had my second accident of the night. i literally dropped everything and ran to the bathroom, pee dripping down my legs. by the time i’d made it to the potty, there wasn’t much left in me.

i felt more ashamed and embarrassed than i’ve ever felt. i had not one, but two genuine accidents in one night. i seriously had the potty training skills of a toddler.

panicking, i just put a diaper on to be safe and go ride out my high, making sure to turn off the scary game and put something more calm on.

i changed into a pull-up before bed, since i’d made a small pushie in the diaper i was wearing, and just hoped i’d wake up dry. instead, my bladder woke me up in the early morning, hurting and feeling more full than it’s ever felt. i knew i wouldn’t make it to the potty if i tried, so i just laid on my back and pottied in my pull-up (/ε＼*)

truly, nothing is more humbling than waking up in a cold soggy pull-up, that you were so sure was an unnecessary precaution last night…

i literally feel so helpless, one of my jobs is mainly virtual so i’ve been able to take meetings and hide my crinkles and the diaper bulge. but i have to go back to my in person job so and i’m so worried. i genuinely don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go outside in anything less than a pull-up right now. my bladder just seems to have relaxed so much, i don’t know how to get it to work again! ╥﹏╥

i’m ordering more high capacity diapers tonight, and will definitely be diapered the rest of tonight and maybe tomorrow if i keep having toilet troubles this bad. but what should i do long term? do i just give in and go 24/7 for the summer? i’d definitely have to re-potty train for the school year though, no way in hell i’m waddling to class in diapers! any advice? (>_<)

[fantastic-nonsense]

Hi! I've never done this before but I'm new to comics (started with WFA and Zatanna and the Ripper) and I've basically got most of my information from posts on tumblr and r/hobbydrama (including yours.) I think I have a general idea of what Jason Todd is like, but I believe a lot of people are unhappy with his new characterisation.

So, if you were the one in charge, how would you write him? Would you write him with a team or as a solo character? Would you have him use the All-Blades or a crowbar or his guns? Would you have him properly rejoin the batfam or not?

Thanks!

Hi! Welcome to the fandom! I hope you're enjoying your time here.

In general, I think DC (and the fandom) has spent too much time milking Jason's death for trauma porn. They have refused to allow him to find closure, move past that, and exist beyond his daddy issues drama with Bruce. When DC has allowed him to have stories outside of that, they were often written with little consideration for what should be done with Jason beyond making him "badass."

None of this has been conducive to creating any kind of satisfying and coherent narrative or character arc for Jason, especially when both writers and editorial seem more obsessed with stealing traits, relationships, and stories from other people to give to him (most prominently Dick, Selina, and Helena). My hottake is that DC should move beyond "Red Hood" as an identity for Jason entirely, because it drags his character down and keeps him inherently tied to the same problems that have kept his character stagnant for years.

However! I don't think he's unsalvagable. I simply think DC needs to put a decent writer on him and commit to a character direction for more than 2 years at a time. I'm unsure of what Shawn Martinbrough is currently doing with Jason in his The Hill arc, as I'm not reading it, but I've heard that there might be some forward momentum finally happening there?

Anyway, my personal conception of Jason's future (as lovingly brainstormed by me and my friends in our comics discord server) is effectively this: he becomes a street-level paranormal detective who solves cold murder cases by talking with the victims' ghosts and providing closure to restless spirits. Think Lockwood and Co. meets Pushing Daisies with a superhero twist; basically, a supernatural detective noir book.

There's a lot of concepts and lore drops tied into this idea, but basically it was born out of a discussion where I was talking about Jason's many connections with the supernatural and occult across all continuities and how it's kind of a mystery why DC hasn't just formally connected him to the mystical side of the DCU. So I was like "they should just reveal that Superboy-Prime’s reality punch resurrection left him LITERALLY undead, make the event where he finds this out also spark his ability to see and communicate with ghosts, and make him an occult detective. Let him close cold case murder files and put those spectres to rest."

Which is also a great premise for a Bat book and a great unfilled niche for a Batfamily member. Kate's supernatural stories are much more high concept and connected to her family drama. Damian's supernatural/occult connections are traditionally very heavily tied to his family history and the Lazarus Pits. Dick's semi-regular magic encounters are usually stuff he deals with alongside his teammates in the course of working with the Titans. None of the other Bats have enough regular encounters with the supernatural and magic side of the DCU for it to encroach on their shtick, and a Gotham-based supernatural book is well within DC's ability to publish and market given books like Gotham by Midnight.

In terms of how that direction affects all the other questions you asked...I think Jason's relationship with the rest of the Batfam should be complicated. I personally don't think "good/bad relationship with the Batfam" is a particularly useful way to look at it because I think there are people he should never see eye to eye with, people he realistically shouldn't and doesn't have a problem with, and people he should get along with just fine. I don't think everyone needs to or should be friends or enemies with him, but his morals and past actions will (and should!) complicate those relationships in interesting ways.

And re: what weapons I'd like to see him use...using the All-Blades would certainly factor into my proposed narrative direction, as that would lean into the supernatural connections, but I generally prefer the concept of Jason using knives as his preferred weapon over guns/a crowbar/etc. That way he can still be a marksman without using guns, and I think that fits more with his character trajectory as someone attempting to be less lethal but also has no problem roughing people up when he thinks they need to be.

#jason todd #jason todd meta #thank you! #also I'm so sorry for the delayed response. my mental capacity to respond to people has been pretty low recently 😭 #long post #ask #dc comics #batman #batfam

[sshadowritestoriess]

UH HI TELEPORTS BEHIND YOU.

would u be willing to write reader comforting cassidy. my mind is set on “i can fix him” mode rn i need to hold that man

HAHA certainly, I’ll give this a shot :]

Comforting Cassidy

Mind you, Cole Cassidy is far from being a dependent man. He enjoys his life and how far he’s come, likes what he’s got going. Gets a kick out of being a hero, really, even if that is a bit selfish

But that doesn’t mean things don’t get to him every now and again

A reputation can be a man’s greatest curse, and Cole has quite the ledger dragging behind him.

As much as he leans into the things he does now, figuring himself a better man— though a lot harder than robbing banks, he’d often say. But that just meant the work is worth it— the past never quite lets go, even if he did.

The Deadlock gang was just becoming more of a nuisance every time they happened to find him. He couldn’t help a smile for the nostalgia, but as time ebbs on it starts to get old

His involvement with Blackwatch wasn’t entirely his fault. At least, not in terms of all their wrongdoings. He just wanted to do right, but Reyes turned out to be quite the conflicting role model

And then Overwatch ended up disbanded after he’d already walked out. It’s what the world had wanted, apparently. Every news story preached about the fall of these “terrorists”, something he took to heart a little when his name kept getting used as one of the bad examples.

He knew he hadn’t been the best person. He couldn’t deny the things he did, but that’s why he had come to Overwatch— to try and make up for those things by enacting Justice for others.

So while he’d been doing a whole lot of trying for the last several years, he sure was getting a whole lot of shit for it. Still. Even when he was beginning to believe his good deeds were finally outweighing the bad.

So, yeah, it got to him sometimes. A recent headline, CRIMINAL MISTAKENLY EXPOSES JUNKER HEIST, ESCAPES POLICE SHOOTOUT — which was no accident.

He’d slipped a tip to the head chief when he’d run into the man at a bar, having intercepted a call between some other wanted felons. There was a literal recording of the conversation in the envelope he’d left— what part of that was “mistaken”?

When their troops didn’t arrive, Cassidy took it upon himself to hold them off until they finally realized he wasn’t bullshitting. Yet when help finally came, he was roped in with the bad guys, and he was shot at.

Adrenaline and frustration makes for one hell of a drug. Even through the fray, he didn’t stop taking down the junkers until he was positive the police could handle what was left of them. Then he fled.

He’d had to take off his hat and wrap it carefully into his serape, ducking behind a dumpster just around a building to tie his hair up— then glancing down to realize he’d been shot through his side— and slipped away from the scene through an alley. He held the bundle of red cloth between his arms like a football, covering where he’d been hit.

It was a lousy disguise, but the hat made for a pretty recognizable target when he’s being pursued. Hiding it lowered his chances of being approached, despite the soft clanking of peacekeeper in its holster.

So he’d managed to limp all the way back home, a temporary apartment just in the outskirts of the city. Your car was parked by the curb across the street— home early. Damn.

He came inside and you greeted him as normal, but noticed quickly the hard look in his eyes and the sweat on his brow. There was a scrape in his prosthetic, a dent in the armor of his chest, and a growing dark spot in the bundled serape.

Your worrying was always endearing, he just hates being the cause for your fret.

“I’m alright, pumpkin, just had a bit of a tussle-“ he’d try to tell you gently, a blatant lie that sank like a rock in his throat when you’d spotted the bullet wound.

You hurried him to lay on the couch, fetching some medical supplies you kept under the kitchen sink. Treating bullet wounds was a skill he’d had the misfortune to teach you, this wasn’t anywhere close to the first time he’d been shot since he met you and it absolutely wouldn’t be the last.

He could do it himself, but you had more careful hands than he did.

You demanded to know what happened, and he gave you the rundown. He always made sure to reiterate these encounters as if he were telling an exciting story, glorifying his actions like he were some kind of superhero.

This often lessened your concerns, but you still didn’t like when he gets hurt. You weren’t going to try and convince him to stop, though— you knew he was likely going to remain on this road until something eventually gets in his way

And then you asked a question he most commonly lied about.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Thus his default response, “Course I am, darlin’. Why wouldn’t I be?”

A soft smile, and a kiss. But you always had your suspicions that he didn’t want to be open about what was really going on in his head.

Surface level, he really was okay. He didn’t need to talk about this things, what did it matter if he knew he’d never be deterred?

But a couple hours later, seeing that damned headline from the events of today, you actually caught his solemn sigh from where he sat at the edge of the bed, glaring into the screen of his phone that was far too bright this late into the evening.

You caught sight of the large capital letters and his troubled stare, but the screen went black and his gaze softened the moment your hand touched his back

“You’re allowed to be upset.” You told him, “You’ve got no reason to pretend around me.”

“Caught me, huh?” He offered half of a smile, but it was tired. He couldn’t meet your gaze anymore.

You pulled him to face you, embracing him as tightly as you could, and told him that he was a good man. He hugged you back, though far more gently than the way you tried to squeeze him

He would chuckle to you, “I know, I know,” then wait a couple moments before finally giving in, starting with a defeated, “…it’s just…”

He rambled a bit about his frustrations, and how conflicted he felt about himself at times. He knew he was doing the right thing, but what was most important was if he felt it was worth it— right? Was it worth it?

You would assure him that, yes, he’d done more than enough. He should do what makes him happiest— only to have him make a sappy joke about being with you in response.

“I’m serious.”

Another sigh, he sinks into your hold. “Yeah, yeah… I hear ya.” it was just hard not to deflect.

He felt your hand come up to his head suddenly, and you thread your fingers through his hair to pet him.

He melts. Comically, he pushes all his weight on you until you’re forced back onto your elbows, his face in your chest. He’s happy to hear your laugh

You both get into a more comfortable position, but you keep combing your hand through his hair. He has your waist trapped in his arms, sealed against him, and his eyes are closed.

“Y’always know what to say,” he murmurs eventually, “my lil’ corner of good in the world. How’d you manage that?”

“I know you. It’s not hard to guess.” You tell him, “And… you don’t owe me your thoughts Cole, but I hope you know I’m here for you. You can always talk to me, you know?”

He takes a while to finally nod against you, a grunt being a weak acknowledgment that he understood. “Jus’ hard, a bit. But I gotcha.” He presses a kiss into your jaw.

“We’ll get there.” You say patiently, and he grins.

He wasn’t a dependent man, but damn it all if he didn’t enjoy leaning into you like this sometimes. With you, he knew he’d do better for himself too.

#Cole Cassidy #overwatch #overwatch2 #cassidy x reader #cole cassidy x reader #reader insert #jesse mccree #mccree #fluff #comfort #cuddles #imagines #headcanons

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — JT COMPHER x reader (main); TYSON JOST x reader (side); COMPHER x JOST (brief) wc — 14k synopsis — what's a reunion without some groveling?

note — this takes place a few of years after part one, go out with a bang (post-college/college au — tyson and kate are now out-going seniors!) sorry not sorry for the length of this behemoth, i got carried away per usual <3 there are more parts to come, and i would absolutely love to hear any theories/predictions if yall have any!

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

cw — cameos on cameos on cameos, we're at a party so drinking and mention of dr*gs + yacking (no description), drinking games, sorority terms/processes, me getting too invested in multiple subplots and potential background ships, soft!service!dom!JT makes my peabrain go brrrrr, everybodies a bit masochistic because i, registered heathen, am masochistic, reader’s wearing a short skirt for plot reasons, slight compher x josty, oral (reader receiving 2x), unprotected piv (i know, i know, i know i need help), me letting my brat self take the kink reins, praise baby praise, angst AND IM NOT SORRY, + happy fluffy bits... possible cliffhanger??? 

Staring up at the Alpha Chi house is like stepping back in time. 

Like trying on an old pair of shoes you found while deep-cleaning your closet only to find their once-perfect fit gone. Growth is funny that way; you never realize just how far you’ve come until it pinches you.

You’ve outgrown this place, though not from a lack of love or any great tragedy. It occupies a different place in your mind, just as you’re a different person than you were three years ago. 

Your younger self would balk at this development, wouldn’t believe it’d one day feel too small. You can’t fault her for that near-sightedness. In college, your whole world existed on one street. You had everything you needed then between two stop signs.

But your world is bigger now, and your needs are different too. 

Still, it feels good to try on your past for the night. Even if it's a tad ill-fitting. 

The drive between your new life and your old one hadn’t been too bad, but that’s probably because you didn’t do much of said driving. JT got the engine going before you could even make a grab for the keys and, despite spending the last year in the literal trenches of clinical rotations and shelf exams, refused to switch at the halfway mark. Yet, your boyfriend is practically vibrating with excitement as you cross the all-too-familiar threshold hand-in-hand. 

“This is so weird,” JT remarks, his lips low to your ear. His musky cologne, warm and woody, does its best to soothe your nerves.

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

He didn’t need to elaborate further for you to understand because you were already thinking the very same thing. Watching students, the vast majority as unfamiliar to you as you are to them, milling around your old haunt stirs an odd, uncanny feeling akin to a surreal dream. You’re well-acquainted with the setting, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and you don’t think you’re all that different, but everything still feels foreign.

All the right pieces are there, and you’re sure you’ve put them in their proper places, but the image won’t behave.

You quickly realize the only thing that’s misplaced is you. Grief hangs from your back like a wet blanket. 

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

A burst of riotous laughter shakes much of the gloom from your system.

Gabe Landeskog barrels into your boyfriend like an overgrown puppy. Gray-blue eyes twinkling under the rainbow of LEDs, he embraces you both in a warm hug, not minding that the spontaneous act of affection has just cost him an entire Solo cup.

“Compher and the missus,” the blonde addresses you both with a wide grin and a big palm to a cheek each; he gives JT’s a quick pat but merely cups yours. 

His breath still smells of spearmint and something spicy, an imposing combination your eighteen-year-old self could never find comforting. Just another thing that's different now. If you could package the scent for all the little moments of nostalgia, you would. 

“I was starting to think we’d have to drag you from the city kicking and screaming, but alas! You've left the cozy, vanilla bubble of your own volition for a weekend of debauchery with your favorite degenerates.”

JT’s affectionate eye-roll is big and dramatic even in your periphery. The levity brings a smile to your face. It grows wider and wider, enduring until your cheeks burn. If anyone deserves some light-heartedness, it's your sleep-deprived, perpetually-stressed boyfriend.

“A night, Landy. We’ve got to be back by tomorrow night to relieve the dog sitter,” your boyfriend amends with a pat to Gabe’s flushed cheek, returning the favor. 

The older man groans like the overgrown boy he is and will always be. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible. All domestic and shit. With a fur-baby and everything. I bet it’s as well-trained as your firstborn.”

Your eyes follow the line drawn by Gabe’s strong chin past the entryway through to the room used for table-top drinking games.

Half-kneeling on the rickety table you helped customize a few years back is Tyson Jost, head tilted to the sky as he guzzles down the center cup. More beer spills down his chest than into his mouth, effectively turning his white tee sheer. The crowd is comprised mostly of giddy sorority girls who don't mind a bit. 

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

Once the plastic cup is empty, he crushes it in his palm before sinking the balled plastic into the basketball hoop on the adjacent wall. The converted dining room swells with hoots and hollers so quickly you would’ve thought Tyson emerged from some mythic quagmire, blood-soaked and victorious. But there are no winners in Rage Cage; everybody loses.

Tyson’s loopy grin falters when he registers you and JT on either side of Gabe.

You would like to say nothing’s changed between the three of you over the past couple of years. That you’re just as close as you’d been in college, that distance hadn’t done as much damage as it has.

You'd be lying if you did. 

You tried your best to keep him in the loop; you really did, but that didn’t end up mattering much.

JT hardly had time to socialize with you most of the time, and you’ve practically lived together since graduation. He, like you, tried, but at some point, his bandwidth could no longer accommodate Tyson’s sporadic texts and calls. Many of which came in the dead of night, when your boyfriend’s head was either buried in a textbook or in the pillow beside yours.

Whenever you could, you invited the forward to spend the weekend in the city with the two of you. You even went so far as to offer to put him up in a hotel between your and JT’s respective apartments, knowing your adult salary could stretch further than the Atomic tips he was splitting with Tyler. He always had something conflicting going on, and it didn't feel like your place to question the authenticity of his reasons, so you just kept extending the invitation, hoping things would align eventually.

After finally taking the leap and signing a lease together, you decorated the guest room with Tyson in mind. He’s yet to see it, still.

Your little Kate, on the other hand, needs a frequent flyer program.

A small part of you felt this shift was inevitable once JT went from best friend-slash-unrequited crush to full-blown, live-in boyfriend. Despite Tyson’s insistence on you finally hooking up and “putting everyone out of their misery,” his smile didn’t meet his eyes when JT broke the news that it wasn’t a one-night thing.

Maybe his “little crush” hadn’t been so little after all. 

If that’s the case, you can't blame him for avoiding your slice of grown-up love like the plague. It just would've been nice if he hadn't left you in the dark, wondering where and how you fucked up enough to get iced out.

Tyson responded to every third or so text of yours, so you mostly kept up with him and his life through Kate, who briefly dated him between ill-fated Gunnar stints, and social media. You weren’t sure how often he spoke to JT; after several attempts that ended with your boyfriend clammed up and irritated, you stopped asking.

Judging by how tense he is beside you right now, you have a pretty good guess.

“Yikes,” Gabe drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”

You remain carefully quiet, allowing your boyfriend to decide what, if anything, to share. This—whatever it is —feels like it's more so between them two than Tyson and yourself.

JT clears his throat so hard it cuts through the music blaring through the packed house—some remix you don’t remember learning the words to. “Trouble? Nah, Josty’d have to give us the time of day for that.” 

Gabe laughs, but you know JT isn’t trying to be funny. You can taste the undercurrent of bitter resentment. It’s impossible not to without an artificial buzz.

There’s no time to dwell because a flurry of red hair darts through the crowd dispersing out of the dining room and straight into your arms. A fresh, but faintly-candied scent tickles your nose as the cool metal of a bracelet digs into your neck. 

Kate.

“Fuckin finally!” The almost-grad squeals directly into your ear.

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

“Don’t look at me,” you say, beaming when she pulls back. “I wasn’t driving.”

Kate swats JT’s chest with her open palm. “And this is why we don’t let you drive anywhere, Grandpa.”

The playful jab makes your smile deepen. His driving made her tardy to a ZBZ charity gala one time over a year ago when she made the mistake of hitching a ride with you, and she’s probably brought it up a million times since. Kate pretends to hold a grudge, JT pretends to find it aggravating, and you get to sit back, enjoying the warm camaraderie overfilling your cup.

The pair have been friends almost as long as you've been friends with either of them, but since your graduation, they’ve settled into something more serious and more genuine. Where your connection to Tyson wilted outside the conveniences of college, your relationship with Kate matured and flourished. She’s more than just your chapter-appointed Little Sister to JT now, having become more of a true sister than anything else. Hence the juvenile teasing.

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

Your little snatches your hand in hers, tugging you away from JT, who feigns offense.

“And now I’m stealing your girlfriend in retribution for making me wait. Go do… whatever it is you two heathens used to do at parties. We have a pong title to defend.”

“Excellent idea, Madame President,” Gabe declares, hands roughly massaging the male ginger’s shoulders. He tosses a wink in Kate’s direction.

Before the other ginger can drag you away for good, your boyfriend catches your free wrist, pulling you back to him so his lips can find your ear. Breath hot, he drops his voice an octave, “President’s bathroom. One hour. Nod if you understand.”

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

As your respective keepers separate you, JT shoots you a wink of his own. Then, you lose him in the crowd.

Kate leads you through the sea of party-goers to the living room, her grip on you tight and comforting. Her thumb rubs small circles on the inside of your wrist as you approach the table, almost as if privy to your worry. Kate is incredibly perceptive; she can read someone’s mind without even looking at them. With you, her Spidey senses transcend county lines, so it’s no real surprise she deduced your current condition from no more than your erratic pulse thumping against her palm. 

When you reach the bustling folding table commandeered for the BP tournament, Kate does all the talking.

It’s not too hard to get on the bracket despite the late entry with two newly-minted Alpha Chi brothers manning the post. The absolute last thing they want to do is get on the bad side of the president of their sister chapter (Kate) and the girlfriend of a legendary former chapter president (you). The pairs for the current game are only a couple of throws in, so it’s going to be at least ten minutes before it's your turn.

“You, my dear, look thirsty,” Kate declares through a mischievous grin.

You let her pull you towards the kitchen across the hall but have more difficulty than you expect actually getting there. Every few steps, someone stops either you or Kate. Mostly the latter, but she’s quick to show you off to whoever’s trying to seize her attention. Apparently, Kate’s been building quite the mythos of your time on campus, and it’s very… dizzying, to say the least.

“Kit-Kat!”

Kate abandons the poor freshman boy shooting his shot (and missing fantastically) in favor of the feminine voice sliding into the conversation.

In the blue-ish hue washing over the small space, you’re having a hard time placing her, but she seems very keen on making your acquaintance.

“Blake Meyers,” the newcomer announces, extending her hand with a smile.

You take it, giving her your name and a matching expression in return. The flattened vowels are distinct and recognizable, as is the last name. 

“Meyers?” you ask, attempting to work it out.

“Ava’s younger sister,” Kate interjects. “And one of our best steals this past recruitment.”

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

You remember that feeling. What it was like to have an older member, especially someone as established and accomplished as an outgoing ZBZ president, go out of their way to make you feel special. You have zero doubt Blake will be walking on air for the foreseeable future, any of the common little doubts about whether or not she made the right choice vanishing.

“I was really hoping I’d get to meet you tonight,” the freshman tells you bashfully. “Kate gave the most beautiful speech about you and your legacy on Preference Night, and when she told me you might be coming with your boyfriend, I had to put a face to the name. And Jenny was the one who pref-ed me, so it seemed like—I don’t know, a non-negotiable?”

Jenny is one of the twins Kate took her junior year, and she couldn’t have picked better. It gave you peace of mind knowing your Kate would have good people around her once you couldn’t physically be there for her.

You won’t be surprised if Jenny takes Blake as her little. Kate pref-ed her, and before that, you pref-ed Kate. It’s basically a family tradition.

Not long after you thank Kate for her generous words and Blake for her kindness, Thomas, one of the new initiates in charge of the beer pong table, flags you down for your game. Not ready to end your conversation, invigorated by the breezy, jovial chatter your new life lacks, you tug Blake along with you.

Between exceptionally beautiful throws (if you do say so yourself), you learn more about Blake and her roommate and fellow ZBZ spring initiate, Emory. They pepper you with questions: about your first-year college experience, advice on getting the best room possible on the sophomore floor for mandatory live-in, whether or not you got anything particularly valuable in the various leadership positions you held, and what fraternities to steer clear of. You’re more than happy to answer them all. Kate sprinkles in comments and jokes occasionally, but she mostly defers to you so she can celebrate the end of a smooth second term as president.

Once Kate and you have successfully defended your title, you pass the torch to the future of your chapter. Blake and Emory make quick work of the first challengers and are close to a similar sweep with the second pair when your little remembers her earlier mission: refreshments.

This time, you both keep your heads ducked as you speed through the dancing bodies and make a beeline for the dinged-up lockers propped against the wall. You can’t help but smile when you see her reach for the lock—your old lock.

Every upperclassman (and a few select friends of the chapter, like Alpha Chi Sweethearts such as Kate and, once upon a time, yourself) is assigned a secure, personal locker in the oversized kitchen for quick access to personal items. During parties, they essentially become personal coolers. At your very last formal chapter meeting, you will-ed the hunk of metal down to Kate, along with the more sentimentally valuable items you wanted to leave behind with her.

“Wait, can you even drink?” Kate asks you from where she’s kneeling. Sarcasm scrunches her brows together.

“Hilarious,” you reply with a playful glare. “And before you loudly ask about the non-existent fetus like the devious bitch you love being, don’t. Unless you want to give JT an aneurysm."

Kate fishes out two slim, chilled cans as she grumbles about how boring you two have become in your “old age.” She shoves a ratty sweatshirt—an old favorite of Tyson’s—back into the small locker, quickly refastens the lock, and scrambles the dial. Then, she returns to her full height beside you.

“So, do you want to tell me what that wink from Gabe was about?” you ask, brow cocked.

“Do you want to tell me what your horndog of a boyfriend whispered in your ear?” Kate counters.

“Touché.”

Kate cracks open a Spindrift Spiked and slots it into your waiting palm. She taps the rim with her own, then sighs back against the cluttered kitchen island. She’s going to crack, you know it. Kate, even when she has a secret she wants to keep, never stays quiet for long. Especially not when you’re the one doing the asking.

“Okay, so, d’you remember how Tyson was, like, completely apathetic after we broke up right before Heaven & Hell last Halloween?”

You nod, recalling how irritated she was over FaceTime while you helped her pick a costume out of your box of hand-me-downs. You did your best not to laugh because Kate was clearly distressed, but it was kind of hard not to when she was buried in a heap of red and white feathers, wearing a too-small tutu dotted with rhinestones.

Kate takes a sip of the spiked strawberry lemonade before elaborating, “Well, I was understandably pissed—Don’t give me that look, okay? I know I broke up with him, but he shouldn’t have been that blasé that soon—so, I hatched a plan.”

You shake your head, laughing. Kate and her schemes.

“I wasn’t planning on taking Gabe as my date, but when I ran into him at Atomic the day before… I don’t know; I just couldn’t resist. I mean, Tyson worships the man. If anyone’s getting a reaction, it’s Landy. I had to.”

“And?” you prod. 

“And…” she stalls, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of pesky eavesdroppers, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. “…we might’ve done it in the backseat of his truck.”

“I’m scared to ask where.”

She buries her face in your shoulder. “The venue’s parking lot.”

Your eyes bulge so hard you, for a split-second, worry they’ll pop out of your head onto the sticky hardwood and land amongst the discarded cans.

“And I didn’t tell you because I was so scared you and JT would hate me,” Kate moans into your skin. She shifts to peer up at you, hesitant. “You don’t, right?”

“I don’t think I’m even capable of hating you, Katie-Kat, let alone for something as silly as banging a hot blonde,” you giggle, and she’s quick to join you. Lowering your voice, “Especially the hottest of hot blondes.”

“I’m so telling JT you said that,” she teases, pulling away.

You shrug and take your first sip. “Go ahead. He’ll agree.”

“And this is why you’re my favorite couple,” she says, bumping her hip against yours. “The worst part is Tyson didn’t even care about that either! At the post-game, when he saw my lipstick smeared all over Gabe’s neck, he high-fived him. Tyson fucking high-fived him for screwing me. His ex-girlfriend! How supremely demented is that?”

“I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t. I’m starting to think I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

Kate takes hold of your unoccupied hand and squeezes it three times.

“I’m guessing things haven’t gotten any better?”

You shake your head, eyes downcast like there’s something super interesting between the floorboards. “I know he’s busy, and we’re busy, but he’s acting like our friendship meant nothing.”

“Not to start a therapy session in the middle of a rager, but did you... did you ever actually talk about That Night? I know you said JT whispered, but how positive are you that Josty didn't hear him?"

A few months after That Night, your guilt was on the brink of hemorrhaging. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; you broke down in the middle of Talladega Nights. Fucking Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. All fat tears and snotty, incoherent spiraling, your chest heaved as JT rubbed your back. He was quiet, more concerned than confused, until you calmed down enough to explain what’d been weighing on your conscience. 

Then, your boyfriend looked clueless—because he was. JT didn’t remember his heat-of-the-moment pseudo-promise to taint Josty’s image of you.

After a scene or two, you broached the subject you’d both been avoiding since getting together. You wanted to apologize, and not that you needed JT’s permission, but you felt it wasn’t entirely your amends to make. He agreed but was adamantly opposed to operating on assumption alone. If Tyson was truly upset by the pillow talk he overheard, JT reasoned, he was old enough to be frank about it.

You found yourself agreeing, but also not? On the one hand, you could see this being an instance of your anxious mind making a mountain out of a molehill, finding fault where there’s none. But you knew Tyson, and you knew how sensitive he could be. 

Something shifted that night. You’d known then, too, even in the hazy afterglow. His despondency wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t uncommon for his dejected expression—his forced smile dipped in feigned nonchalance—to visit you in therapy sessions or in your nightmares.

But every time you typed and re-typed one remorseful novel after another, every time your gun-shy thumb hovered over his contact, every time you nearly drove out to your alma mater to track him down… You couldn’t get yourself to see it through. 

At first, it was the nerves, the fear of hearing his pain and seeing his anger. Then, it was your own temper, stoked by indignation, that rose with every sign of withdrawal. Now, it’s just plain, garden-variety sadness.

It was—is disappointing how cleanly he severed ties. There one day and gone the next, no blow-out fight or melancholic hear-to-heart. Tyson was there; he was within reach, but at the same time, not at all. The casual dismissal is worse than outright rejection; the door ajar but wholly uninviting.

"In the moment, I was certain he didn’t. Now? Fuck, the percentage drops every time I replay it in my head,” you murmur, remorse bogging down your confession. "I know you made a point not to bring it up when you were together, but did he ever, I don’t know, say anything?"

Kate shakes her head. "No, sorry. But it's not like we actually did much talking anyway."

You snort despite your woes.

“Alright, that’s enough doom and gloom for one night. How’s my nephew?” Kate asks, bright smile chasing the blues away with all its might.

It’s a distraction and a good one, too. She listens intently as you prattle on about the bi-weekly training sessions you’re starting next month to help with the leash pulling and the ridiculous pet parents you’ve met at the dog park near your apartment. She inquires about the fluffy lamb she brought over the last time she stayed with you—it lasted all of a day in his over-excited grip—then gushes over another variation she saw last week while getting litter for Salem, her diabolical tuxedo cat.

By the time Kate has your phone in her hand, swiping through the designated album and asking more questions than each picture really warranted, you’re feeling a bit better.

Noticing the clock, you stumble through a totally-not-suspicious excuse to venture upstairs—alone. Kate shoots you a knowing look but doesn’t give you a hard time. To be honest, she’s just glad you came tonight. Instead of a witty jab or half-hearted guilt trip, she slips a gold foil square into your unsuspecting palm and sends you on your way with a supportive swat to the rear.

Access to the second floor during parties is typically mediated by two to three gatekeepers, depending on the scale and projected rowdiness of each gathering. Three’s the magic number tonight: two up-and-coming juniors and an outgoing senior. They grant you passage with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.

“What? No riddle this time?” you tease over your shoulder.

The senior, an engineering major with a penchant for brain teasers, answers with a hoot. Cale Makar shakes his head, both amused and flattered you remembered his signature move. His puppy crush on you is an open secret. “I was given strict instructions to ‘keep the shenanigans’ to a minimum with you, Your Majesty.”

“JT?” you venture a guess, hand paused on the paint-chipped banister. He’s the only one who still sprinkles in the silly nickname these days.

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time the former chapter president enlisted Cale, his little, to assist in your and JT’s more salacious antics.

As soon as Gabe had the defenseman under his wing, he was putting him to work. Not that the younger blonde particularly minded, as his affinity for creative, slightly devious schemes rivaled that of Kate’s. It was Cale, you later found out, who ran interference during Semi Formal… while you were defiled on the balcony.

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

He counters with that lopsided “Get Out of Jail Free” grin. “What can I say? The man puts up a mean bribe.”

As if cued, Cale’s companions, who you now recognize as Alex Newhook and Bowen Byram, step into view. In Alex’s raised grip is a case of Labatt Blue, and in each of Bowen’s, a bottle of bottom-shelf cabernet. You doubt the trio would notice or mind the subpar quality, though. Between their happy heads, Cale fists a bottle of champagne you know he’ll misplace before he can polish it off.

“Jesus, how drunk is he?” you tease, the follow-up to an exaggerated gasp.

Sure, the quality’s shit, but their haul is far more valuable than your appraisal of their job; it’s a frat house, not Buckingham Palace.

“Not drunk enough to not see you here with us.” Cale’s voice tapers off, his pale eyes tracking someone stalking down the hall before nervously flicking up to the ceiling, “…and not up there with JTC.”

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

An anticipatory tingling erupts between your inner thighs just knowing he’s up there right now waiting for you. This is the part of your “homecoming” that excited you most and had been since the moment your boyfriend pinned the invite from the alumni association onto the fridge.

As blissfully domestic as your life together has become, it lacks the spontaneity your college life had been brimming with. Your sex life could never be categorized as mundane or clinical, but you’re finding it difficult to replicate the adrenaline rush stealing secret moments inherently provided.

Sometimes, in your more (admittedly) desperate moments, you’ve caught your fingers moving beneath the sheets to mindlessly chase the thrill of those fleeting intimacies, despite how awful the constant wondering and wallowing felt then or, maybe because of it, pain and pleasure are uniquely human indulgences sought in equal measure. When intertwined, they’ve been known to satiate masochistic cravings the way a sad movie or a sprawling, high-speed rollercoaster might.

However, this time, your risk-spurned euphoria will be at your own hand. The newfound agency—the ability to choose when, how, or if any risk is involved—has you darting up the stairs with a fire under your soles.

Before you round the corner and disappear down the hall, you make sure to call out, “Thank you for your service!” accompanied by a two-finger mock salute. You don’t stick around to catch their responses, though.

As you make your way down the dim corridor, you run smack into a very giggly Sarah Jones, just shy of your destination. Eyes distant and wide, she attempts to apologize for something—Something about sabotaging the Big-Little pairings your senior spring?—but it’s more bubbles than actual words. You nod along, still not quite sure what you’re accepting an apology for but too antsy to forge ahead to play detective. Your purposeful strides went unnoticed in her cloud of intoxication and nostalgia, but Erik Johnson, who’d been JT’s vice president, mercifully ushers his inebriated fiancé out of your path by the shoulders.

You offer him a faint smile of gratitude as they head in the opposite direction.

Over the music, you faintly hear Sarah begin chattering on about something unrelated, your reunion long forgotten already. You can’t help but chuckle a little on behalf of your younger self, who would’ve gawked at snobbish Sarah Jones drunk and voluntarily slumming it in a ramshackle house on Greek Row. And sporting a rock from a Degenerate on Ice (her nickname for your brother fraternity, not yours), too? That would’ve been the icing. But, the older, more mature, once-weekly-therapy iteration of yourself is happy she’s happy.

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

As you reach for the tarnished doorknob of the president’s suite, the rickety door flings open to reveal your boyfriend, all flushed cheeks and frenzied eyes.

JT pulls you inside, lips easily taking possession of yours, the heel of his lived-in/loved-on sneaker nudging the door shut. The hinges groan in protest to the rough treatment. Still fussy as ever. This house is a goddamn time capsule, you muse. Neither of you has the patience for benevolence. If it jams, it jams. That’s a future-self problem. Diligence now would only slow you down.

And would a prolonged stay on memory lane really be all that bad?

Your boyfriend cages you so close that when he manages more than panted praise between hot-and-heavy touches, the words barely fit in the gap between your mouths. “I was beginning to think you stood me up, sweetheart.”

The light-hearted accusation is semi-whispered, somewhat hoarse, in the way his voice always sounded when he came home from a long shift at the hospital downtown or post-game at the height of his collegiate career. JT isn’t a hard person to read—downright wolfish when he’s homing in on a target—but the low, raspy tone makes his intent glaring.

Your body thrums with anticipation.

“Never,” you croon back. A breathy moan sweetens your voice, courtesy of the calloused hand inching up the back of your bare thigh, bypassing the hem of your skirt with no effort or resistance. Arms looping around his neck, you make an inquiry: “Is there a reason we’re in your old bedroom instead of, I don’t know, the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite you insisted we spring for?”

Tufts of faint copper tickle your cheek. Your boyfriend lands a kiss on your crowd-warmed forearm. Then, much to your displeasure, he steps out of the tight embrace.

“Y’know, I remembered something earlier when I was downstairs,” JT supplies in an apparent non-answer.

He guides you, as understanding rises in your mental periphery, through the barely-lit space toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom between this room and the next. Then, he flicks on the secondary light, the dimmer of the two, before tugging you over yet another threshold. His fingers twitch at his sides, lascivious.

You stare back at him expectantly, vision tunneling as you wait, wait, wait.

The latch might as well have been a starting pistol; the subtle click ringing in your eardrums like the sonic crack of a live round; his breath a plume of smoke from a charged muzzle well beyond its flash point. Pent-up, needy tension burns hot and burns brighter. Residue from the night prior aflame; you, a moth seduced.

JT drives forward. Stalking, like a cat on a bird, until he’s pinned you to the door. His dash was easy, made short and hasty by the starting block eagerness in your dilated eyes.

Mouth descending on your sensitive neck, hips grinding his want into your squirming form, harsh belt buckle nudging just right with each sharp rut.

“There’s still one thing left on my college bucket list.”

He sinks the candor in with his incisors. Not hard enough to break the skin, but that was never his intention. The sting is a reminder. Of your shared past, of his unwavering desire—of who is in charge.

Message received. Loud and clear.

JT leans away to admire his handiwork. One big hand poised at your jaw, and the other braced beside your head, keeping your shyness from blocking the perfect view; you’ve never been able to hide from him and never will.

His curious thumb deviates from the original objective to caress the skin, now splotched violet and angry. Softly, at first, like he’s committing the damage to memory. Then, emboldened by a sudden piercing hiss forcing itself from your throat, JT pushes down on the tender spot. The cruel, unexpected pressure pulls pitiful bleating cries from your undulating chest.

This is no longer an expedition to gather intel; it’s a primal instinct.

For a few moments, he just holds you like this. A cloistered existence made worthwhile by him occasionally digging deeper into the column of your throat, the pressure taking on a raptorial quality. Your boyfriend wears his herald grin at a rakish angle. It unfurls with refined delicacy, an effective diversion for his next endeavor. Breathe like a precision instrument; the sharp phantom-edge fans across the sucked-raw skin with unhurried ease.

There isn’t enough alcohol in your system to dull the twinge — and you’re glad for it. It’d be a crime to dilute a burn this good, this all-consuming. You crumble between him and the door, your world only this big. His name tumbles out with a pulled-candy moan, completely devoid of dignity.

JT’s chest rumbles beneath your clammy palms. “You gonna be a good girl and help me tie up loose ends?”

His strawberry-blonde crown dips to nuzzle your cheek. Hot tongue tracing an experimental line, JT groaning as it does. The muscle trawls for tears you didn’t realize you shed, humming through the pursuit. The low-pitched moan sends a chill straight down your spine right to your toes.

The hand gripping your jaw lowers so his fingers are able to coil themselves around somewhere more advantageous — your neck. Your eyelids flutter, woozy. His firm squeeze, just enough to make everything spin and keep you still, has become blissfully familiar over time, but your breath still hitches like it’s the first.

“Hm, sweetheart? Don’t be rude. I asked you a question.”

Your lips part, a barbed retort to his condescension on your tongue, but all you can push out is the strangled yelp of a wounded animal.

The hand by your temple no longer rests against the door. In the fog, it snuck up under your skirt; JT never meant to get an answer out of you; he just likes to watch you squirm. Likes to have something to reprimand you for.

His nimble fingers dance over the thin, sodden material pulled taut over your heat. Less touching, more hovering. Small, lazy movements that betray how well he can play your body. They float above the tingling bundle of nerves, further movement pending, contingent upon your obedience.

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

“Focus for me, pretty baby. Tell me what I want to hear. Come on, let me make things easy for you. I can feel how badly you want to — and you aren’t in a position to be difficult, are you?”

You give in, and though the words you babble are largely unintelligible, JT’s ultimately satisfied.

“Such a good listener I’ve got myself. But you’re always to eager to please, aren’t you? You might throw stones from behind that tough girl act, but it’s just that: an act. I have a puddle in my hand to prove it.”

His frankness sears your face.

You’ve acquired a tolerance for his raunchy silver tongue through months of close proximity, but the mechanism is shoddy at best. Stalls and misfires galore. Against all odds (said “odds” being his fingertips toying with the edges of fabric between your thighs), you summon up a tawdry retort from the growing arsenal. “Don’t l-let it go to waste, Compher.”

It's not your best work, but much better than the slurred gurgle that preceded it.

He loves how you manage to be any sort of cheeky with him, even with your head swimming, stuttering and all.

“I don’t think it matters, sweetheart. I know there’s no shortage. Plenty more where it came from.”

With your knee, you nudge his hard-on and supply some honey-tongued snark of your own. “Is that your ego, or are you just excited to see me?”

Your boyfriend chokes out short-lived mirth. Then, with an accompanying smile, his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Amused, but by the sting of the remark’s undeniable truth, not your cleverness. The protrusion moves just below his bottom lip as he swipes the muscle over his teeth, a half-second sardonic gesture. It calls attention to your impudence without dignifying it with a verbal reply.

His brow lifts to negate any confusion, feigned or otherwise. “Are you going to keep being a brat, or are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

“Nothing to say now?” JT taunts. “Funny how that works.”

Fuckin’ wisenheimer. His voice is so haughty you have to bite your lip to keep your foot out of your mouth, unwilling to jeopardize your impending pleasure for short-term gratification.

Your boyfriend’s smugness—and your subsequent annoyance—becomes irrelevant when your panties are roughly pushed to the side, and his thick finger slips past your taut entrance. Tip to knuckle in one succinct trust; your startled gasp drowns out the noise rising up through the floorboards.

Hips bucking forward—you just can’t help yourself—you're in search of some friction to marry with the blinding stretch. He’s made the tensile opening accommodate far more in length and thickness, but not like this. Rarely does he create space where there is barely any, having forgone tenderness. Slowly widening a gap with gentle pressure, not demanding room like it’s already his to occupy.

Your surprise drips down his hand.

The bliss—the relief, is palpable. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, and the gravity of the situation felt for the first time.

Before, you didn’t see any substance in a tipsy frat bathroom hook-up. The older you got, the more pointless it seemed, especially with an established, long-term partner. The novelty wasn’t lost on you, of course, but that’s all you’d written it off as.

Countless collegiate nights were spent imagining one like this one. A moment where your inescapable feelings for him would be matched outright. When the pressure of his stifled emotions would build too fast to keep them from boiling over, too mighty in stature. Suddenly overcome by unrequited feelings of his own, unable to uphold all the ridiculous unspoken platonic conventions with the same authority he commands now.

This is important. For your past and present selves. The significance of this overdone, soapy teen drama scenario cannot be overlooked because it underscores the progress you’ve made together. Years of dancing around one another, the unconventional catalyst and nontraditional timeline, every hushed conversation in the wee hours before responsibilities wake, the sleepless nights and the snooze-filled afternoons—this ostensibly clichéd moment is an amalgamation of it all.

One thought rises above the frenzied rest: Was this here all along?

Is this what was waiting on the other side of the aimless pining and the confusion and the hurt?

The journey might’ve been fucking hell, but the view from here is pretty damn heavenly.

Overwhelmed by your epiphany and his dexterous motions, you moan into his skin far louder than your pride would’ve otherwise allowed outside your shared apartment.

His arrogant laughter grates before it really registers. Venom secretes from your salivary glands when it does, but the melted retribution never makes it past your lips. His second finger robs it of the opportunity, and the third sends all thoughts out your ears. The light circles over your clit cloud your vision, nails digging into his jersey-clad back—I’m feeling nostalgic, he’d said. In more ways than one, apparently.

“S’good—wanted this for so long, Compher—k-kept wishing it was you that night, not Miles.”

JT seethes at the admission, curling his fingers until your knees buckle and you’re entirely reliant on him to keep you off the floor. Even as your mind slips further and further away, your hips manage to move in time with his hand. Meeting each stroke with equal hustle and vigor, a clear end goal on the horizon.

Then his thumb drops away, his hand coming to a halt, and he steps back. 

Away.

Frustration pushes the amassed tears waiting in the wings down your cheeks. Emotion runs down your face; a heavy spill indeed.

“I don’t ever want to hear another man’s name outta your mouth when it’s my fingers buried in your pussy.” His jealousy is well-polished. Manicure-smooth, like he’s been maintaining its luster in preparation for this very occasion. "—'specially not the motherfucker that made sure I heard all your pretty sounds through the walls.”

You’d grin if you weren’t so miserable.

That’d been your intention. It wasn’t anything Miles had or did that made him different from the rest of the chapter (who all, at one point or another, tried their luck with JTC’s hot best friend), just simply when he decided to shoot his shot. The only reason you’d been out in the first place was because you reached your breaking point, no longer able to stomach what you felt for JT, and you made sure Miles knew this before you let him call an Uber.

Despite playing for the same team, the pair shared a touch-and-go rivalry. You never knew if the intensity would result in a sweeping victory or an in-house, all-out brawl. If they ever saw eye to eye, you’d of never known. Miles needed no convincing to push JT’s buttons.

There was some heavy petting, nothing more. The only time Miles saw you undress was to change into the pajamas he lent you before knocking out on his futon, leaving you to take the bed. But JT didn’t know that. If sitting in their chapter house’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning didn’t raise suspicion, the non-Compher borrowed t-shirt and ruffled hair certainly did.

Back then, he refused to ask. Even though you could see how badly he wanted to pry. Miles didn’t have anything he worth sharing, so JT was left to fill in the blanks.

You’d tell him the truth later, but right now, you wanted to see what milking his assumptions could get you.

“Did you like what you heard?”

His jaw ticks. Your hips push against his with a knowing simper.

You lean forward, closing the space he forced, lips barely brushing his ear, “Did you get off on it? Fuck your hand picturing yourself in his place… wishing it was my pussy instead?”

You hear the thud before you feel your head against the door or his hand back around your throat, his fingers deep between your walls again. The everywhere-throb makes you laugh. Giggle, really.

He squeezes until you’re no longer capable of mockery. His pace hastens, leveling out only once your thighs have started shaking around his wrist, knees cutting off his circulation elbow-down. Somehow, he keeps going despite the icy tingle. His determination overrides physical discomfort, knowing how close you’re getting. Feeling it in the distinct fluttering around his digits, seeing it in your trembling, swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so full of shit.” His mouth twitches at your throaty moan. A defiant hint of levity circles his pupils; he never stays riled up for long when it’s you yanking his chain. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him then, messy and crude, love-drunk. He tastes like your chapstick and gin, with a biting citric aftertaste —Grapefruit, maybe?—and you suck it in like you haven’t had a drop of water in days. And, in turn, he drinks down every choked sob and nonsensical half-thought you babble, every drop shooting straight to his loins.

He drives into you with fervor, humming as his tongue slips against yours, iron bulge omnipresent. The hand around your neck loosens but never leaves its post, thumb stroking your pulse point. I know everything about you, his movements whisper. Over and over, in and out. He, just as much as you, gets lost in the repetition.

“Don’t want him, never wanted him. Jus’ you—Always you.” It comes out slurred, mushy like your head, like your heart.

JT’s cock isn’t immune to affirmation and twitches through his too-tight jeans. Groaning, “Go on, sweetheart. Scream my name. I want every single person in this house to know exactly who’s fucking you this good.”

You do just that, writhing on his hand, eventually burying your face into his warm neck when it gets to be too much. He continues fucking you, and you continue crying for him, the pathetic little whimpers muffled now by his body.

JT guides you through the rest of your orgasm, as he always does. He watches your face carefully on the comedown, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort. When he finds none, he cradles your shaking form against his solid chest, the hand that, only moments ago, tore you apart, soothing you back down to earth. Once you’ve settled, he walks you back and away from the door.

A startled yelp falls from your lips when you feel the chilly edge of the countertop. You pull away from your boyfriend, brows furrowing with confusion.

His hand taps the outside of your thigh. "Up."

You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open, let alone stringing thoughts together, so the command is met with inaction. Impatient as ever, JT wordlessly hoists you where he wants you and sinks down to his knees, big hands cupping yours.

“What’re you doing?” Strained, barely above a whisper.

He stares up at you with dopey, lovestruck eyes. “Come on, Compher. You can gimmie another one, can’t you?”

You aren’t an idiot. Often sleep deprived beyond belief and, more often than not, fucked-out on JT’s… Well, anything—but definitely not an idiot. You knew exactly what that loaded gun of a pet name implied the moment he used it. It first slipped out during a frantic supply closet rendezvous midway through your company’s holiday party, then a few more times in the months after.

It hasn’t lost its sparkle. It does make you more and more impatient each time he flashes it, though.

Fuckin’ tease.

Your fingers burrow in his hair, tugging from the root until his eyelids flutter prettily. “As long as you let me return the favor after—need to taste you so bad.”

“Deal,” he mumbles into your skin a half-second later.

His hands push your already-short skirt up, bunching it atop your hips and out of the way. Your boyfriend takes the time to remove the fabric barrier this time, and you don’t miss the way he tries to slip them into his back pocket without you noticing. Likely because it’d normally be a tease-able offense.

But not tonight, not right now.

Instead, you let a shiver speak for itself. The risqué gesture reminds you of the pair he used as a pocket square when his parents took you two to a celebratory dinner following his white coat ceremony. The rumble of his chuckle tells you his mind went there, too.

JT leans in, big eyes never moving from yours, his warm exhale fanning over your swollen folds. The tooth-marked bruise forming on the side of your throat pricks in tandem response. The action, a repeat of your boyfriend’s earlier antics, naturally yields similar enough results. He catches on, inching forward to—

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

“Occupied!” your boyfriend barks, hands paused but gripping you tightly. He looks like he’s on the verge of exploding.

A full, lilting sound barrels into the door—too-good-to-be-true laughter. His breathy timbre is an unsteady balance of cocksure and skittish; a preference for one side or the other is blurred by the wood in its way. “It’s me, dickhead.”

Then, the curtain is lifted. A pocket of silence ushers in a stillness that cracks like a bolt from the blue.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel right now. You most definitely suffered a concussion somewhere in all JT’s reprimanding; you’re hallucinating right now. That, or the singular seltzer in your system magically turned psychotropic after consumption.

Waiting in the threshold is Tyson Jost. A quarter-drunk fifth of Jack in one hand and that goofy, irrepressible smile plastered on his face. Almost frozen in time—good-humored, untouched. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Suave, and standing there like he hasn’t ignored you for months on end, like your and JT’s absence in his life wasn’t felt the way the Tyson-sized void in yours was.

Idle and morose, his eyes are the only defectors to his blasé demeanor. Timid and downturned, akin to a kicked puppy, they beg you and your boyfriend to assuage his guilt. An olive branch, a white flag in the wind. Amid their vulnerability, they still manage to cut into you in a way that feels too intimate, too honest—too much.

The worst part of this charged maelstrom is knowing Tyson isn’t capable of being cruel on purpose, then or now. It's bittersweet.

Careless or callous, it hurts all the same. It’s difficult to sift through the muck and decide which feelings should guide your actions when there’s no easy place to lay blame.

A gnarly, muddy morass of emotion climbs out of your gut and fills your throat, threatening to make an appearance each time you dare to exhale. You’re nervous and confused, elated and optimistic, angry and reproachful. The burn of betrayal rushes up your neck and across the bridge of your nose, but all the words you’ve stockpiled for this rainy day stick to your tongue like tar. Dark, thick, and flammable—your silence is probably for the best.

Bronze eyes, somber beneath the fan of flaxen lashes, adopt a strange aloofness that doesn’t suit his face. Lacquered just so as to protect the gooey softness beneath, the finish does nothing to obstruct or disguise his desirous longing or a brand of blues you’ve never seen in him before.

The intensity of your braided gazes is sanguine at best, duplicitous at worst, but disorienting all the same.

Anxiously, you chew on time; you’re trying your best not to swallow minutes and hours in big gulps. Your attempts to savor their confounding guilty-pleasure flavor are as futile as hoping the animosity would dissipate on its own. Or wishing the distance was just a nightmare you were on the verge of waking up from.

JT’s pulse races against your skin. He’s just as affected, just better at hiding it.

“Took you long enough,” is what JT says in greeting from the floor, dry words flung over his shoulder to curb the growing tension. Blithesome and biting and far more hospitable than you imagined.

All you can do is blink, slack-jawed; there are pieces you’re missing.

JT chuckles at your expression. He pecks your inner thigh to regain your attention. “Fuck now, talk later. Sound good?”

His words crack any and all inhibitions. Like opening the door to a cage, his reassurance grants your mind and heart the permission to succumb to the wave of emotions—lust overtaking the pack with ease.

Eyes still stuck on the ghost in the doorway, you nod your head in agreement. It’s as if you’re afraid your voice might rupture the bubble.

“Figured you’d be a little parched, baby.” Tyson, voice becoming jocular as ever, wags the bottle as he shuts the door behind himself. His tone might be light-hearted, but his gaze is anything but. Starved is the only way you can think to aptly describe the shadow. “And we can’t have that, now can we?”

You barely register JT vacating the prime real estate to accommodate his best friend, and subconsciously, you scoot closer to the edge. You knew you missed him, but you underestimated how needy you’d become if he ever stood before you again.

Both men notice.

Grinning, Tyson takes hold of your jaw. His hand emits a small tremor of unease, hesitant where JT had been demanding. The accidental brush of his fingertips over your boyfriend’s trailed claim rattles free a melancholic whimper. Your eyes glaze over, watering as your neck cranes up at him. He gently tilts your face to the side to assess the damage. You can feel his eyes raking over the marred skin, a sensation akin to your boyfriend’s weaponized breath. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

In reference to the Neanderthal surveying you over his shoulder, Tyson sniggers. “Filthy bastard.”

Charming as ever.

“She deserved it.” JT’s nonchalant shrug is more dismissive than his verbal nod.

Wicked eyes twinkle. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

You pinch his side, offended. Nevertheless, you purr at the certitude dripping from his husky vibrato.

He yelps and bats your hand away. “Got you good, didn’t he?”

You nod.

The baby talk-adjacent voice is demeaning, but with your only shield burning a hole in your boyfriend’s back pocket, lying about the effect it's having would be pointless.

Propriety is becoming increasingly moot, as this conversation circling around you carves space for new possibilities.

“Poor thing,” Josty hums, his thumb coasting back and forth over your jaw. His breath is smokey-sweet, honeyed. “M'gonna make it all better. Open up, baby.”

It’s something straight out of an early aughts raunchy teen comedy, the way he holds your mouth open to pour whiskey straight down, doing so without the lip ever touching either one of yours. The thin stream drags slightly as it goes down, but you’d never know watching the pillowy spirit disappear into you. You’re too eager to impress them both to give in and react—to the burn in your throat or the circumstances of this affair. You guzzle the oaky vanilla-clove flavor, smiling dumbly at the toasted aftertaste, all too happy to take anything and everything you’re given.

Still, either by virtue of Tyson’s lingering tipsiness or your inattention, some of the amber liquid escapes over your bottom lip, dribbling over your chin and down in between your cleavage. There isn’t enough time to consider wiping it off; Josty’s mouth is sucking you clean before the bottle even hits the counter beside you.

“Would be a shame…” Tyson starts, briefly interrupting himself with a succession of wet, open-mouthed pecks he’s decided to spoil your décolletage with, “…to let it go to waste.”

JT’s begrudged scoff cuts through the trance. “Jesus, kid. Where’d you learn that? What the fuck have you been doing? Or should I be asking ‘who' you've been doing?"

Tyson flinches at the coarse overtone the questions carry. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of reaction only you’re close enough to feel. He just laughs into your neck rather than humoring JT or feeding into whatever he’s implying.

You’re too woozy to toss in your two cents in favor of either side.

Cold countertop lapping up your wetness, the burning palm cupping your face to aid the pursuit of sugary lips, the memory of his tongue gliding over your sticky skin—your boyfriend a few paces away, watching. That’s more potent than any liquor, mixed or straight. It doesn’t take long for you to pull away, in a there-but-not state of mind, to slouch against Tyson’s chest. Head heavy, warmed and spinning.

Happy.

“Somethin’ special, aren’t you?” Tyson muses as he kneads the tender spot where your hairline meets your neck. You peck his forearm.

“As sweet as this reunion’s been, you came up here for a reason. Get to it; we don’t have all night. I imagine La Tornade will be wanting his bathroom back eventually.”

You whimper at the sharp edge of his voice, even though you weren’t the intended target.

JT’s dark drawl was laden with protective affection for you, his devotion hardened by a hue of discontent reminiscent of a paternal chide. An outsider looking in might not see beyond the mediator-in-shining-armor ruse, mistakenly pruning away JT’s thorny pain and rotted grief, but you know better. The situation and him. While genuine, his defense of your bruised feelings is a trojan horse for his own. He’s conveying his rage how he can: under the guise of selflessness.

Tyson gulps, eyes downcasted, then nods. He understands as well as you do. When he finally looks up, the shadow’s fallen over his face once more, cloud drooped low overhead.

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

This makes him laugh, his mood brightening a tad. “If anyone should be scared, it’s me.”

In your periphery, you catch JT urging him to continue with a stiff glare.

“I-I’ve been such an ass. I—I just care so damn much. About you. About Compher, and our friendship. When you graduated, m-my whole world changed. Like someone gutted my life, scooped out all the good, comfortable stuff and left me with the shell. I felt like I lost my people. Like I was left behind. And then I had to watch you two get closer than ever—without me. It fucking sucked, and I didn’t cope well. Didn’t cope at all, really. Kate’ll tell you, she took the brunt of my tailspin.”

You can’t help but snort despite the thick emotion welling up behind your eyes. The boys smile, too. Things look up.

Tyson takes your hand in a tight squeeze; his pulse jumps into your palm. “But that’s no excuse for what I did—didn’t do. How I treated you. You were trying so hard, and all I did was punish you for it. For constantly reminding me you guys are there and not here. For moving on with your life like you’re supposed to.”

He claims JT’s old spot knelt between your parted knees. “And I’m sorry. So deeply sorry, baby. Please let me make it up to you—let me apologize properly.”

Tears of his own shine up at you from his flushed cheeks. Gently, you take his face in your hands, rubbing away the spilled emotion with the soft pads of your thumbs.

A silent pardon.

The walls throw back the echo of his low, audible content—of relief.

“Is this okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, dwindling to a hush as the question tapers off.

Too determined to quiet his audible fear of rejection—and to have his mouth on you as fast as humanly possible—to bother with words, you nod immediately.

“With how much she’s been dripping onto the counter since you walked in, what do you think?” JT interjects, mood vastly improved.

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

The younger forward chuckles, hands massaging up and down your sensitive thighs, gripping them as if holding himself back from lunging too soon.

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. Didn’t want to embarrass her.” He winks up at you, confidence rising to the surface once more. You have to fight to maintain eye contact; he’s that stupidly attractive. “ —was try t’be a gentleman.”

You’re a flurry of butterflies, a whimpering mess.

Tyson wants to tease your body; it’s in his nature. But he won’t. Namely, because he can’t. No matter how good some old-fashioned edging would eventually make you feel, he’s already on JT’s shit list as is.

Besides, he’s only been fiending for a taste since you introduced yourself to him. And there's no time like the present...

Your guttural scream—an appropriate, albeit mortifying reaction to his baby pink lips enveloping your swollen clit—pumps his chest full with pride. Tongue flat, he charts the length of your heat with a gentleness you hadn’t thought your collective excitement would allow for. His hands coast over your legs, syncing with his mouth, until he physically cannot wait any longer. One final pass, one so agonizingly slow your greedy hips thoughtlessly vie for more of anything, brings his wistful, fidgeting digits to rest at the apex of your thighs.

“Pause.”

JT’s clipped command is a bucket of ice water.

Your vocal annoyance is matched by Tyson’s, but you both know how delicate a game you’re playing.

With his thumb still lazily swirling to your clit, Tyson’s inquisitive head begins to turn around. Before he gets anywhere worthwhile, it’s swiftly spun back into place by your boyfriend’s firm hand.

You can’t even convey how hot you find JT’s fingers casually twisting in his friend’s curly mop—just the way you love; all you manage is a warbled, mostly airy cry. Your distressed state worsens watching the show unfold between your lax, parted knees: reluctant, fluttery lashes over neon cheeks; a rosy, glistening bottom lip sacrificed to cage mousy whimpers, his ragged breathing betraying all effort toward feigning indifference to JT’s self-assured manhandling.

Your boyfriend snickers at your expression, a fish lingering open-mouthed for a surface sip, an ill-attempt to supplement a natural mode gone inadequate. No matter how much oxygen your widened jaw draws in, it never feels sufficient. A bottomless pit, a balloon with a fatal puncture wound. Gone before your depleted brain could make use of it.

“Have to make sure he does it right, don’t I, sweetheart?” JT’s voice is smooth and low, charring by the second; he’s enjoying the view as much as you are.

Tyson rolls his tawny eyes. Half-hearted annoyance. “Controlling much?”

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

And the growl JT hurls back, a low-pitched rumble permeating the tight space with little effort on his part, is just plain mean.

His attitude could not be more arrogant. The cavalier persona makes you shiver, and Tyson’s breath hitch. Humming, your boyfriend tugs on his curls until the two’s eyes are locked. Inescapable. The brunette gasps as he tries desperately to hold his eyes open, waiting with bated breath.

JT licks his lips, triumphant. “Open her up for me, will ya?” Mischief catches in the light as quickly as it falls into your boyfriend’s lap. His grip tightens, and Tyson whimpers like a naughty puppy caught red-handed. “Don’t screw around, ‘kay? She needs all the help her tight pussy can get, and we don’t have all night.”

Panting, his nod is the only affirmative he can muster up. And the only one his limited range of motion will allow for. Smug and pleased enough, JT all but throws his friend into your fire, his nose bumping where you’re most sensitive. 

You actually yelp.

Holding your torrid gaze, Tyson dips his marriage and middle into you. You groan out what you meant to be his name—But who knows? And who fucking cares?—unable to control yourself while he’s finally touching you like this. Finally back.

Tyson finger-fucks you at an even pace, steadily pushing you up the hill. His satisfaction is tangible when he pulls out and away, so very delighted by your wonton hiss of annoyance. Even more so when the volume hikes up in response to the slippery pads of his fingers circling your clit. Your lewd whines harmonize with your audible arousal as he works it back into your fragile skin, playing with your wetness, utterly fascinated.

“What d’ya think, baby? Think you’re wet enough to take another finger?” JT’s tone is as cocky as his stupid rhetorical question. He, however, made no move to conceal his growing impatience.

“Mhmm,” you murmur, head like a rubber ball hitting the pavement. Still, you remember your manners. “Please—c-can I? Can I have another?”

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

JT’s reverent eyes stay with you, but his words pour down over the eager man on the floor as he coaxes you halfway to heaven. “You heard her, kid. Give the lady what she deserves.”

Kid—Tyson hates when people call him that, but he especially loathes JT's usage. There’s barely an age difference, but with the way everyone acts, it might as well be decades. It seems like no matter what he does to prove himself, he’s still the baby. Every additional candle is like an annual slap in the face, a mockery that won’t end.

He can feel anger and frustration curdling low in his stomach just thinking about all the attempts that fell flat, and he decides to put the grumbling to good use. The vibration is red-hot and deliberate against your responsive, slick center, irritation like lighter fluid.

He gives you more than just three fingers. He splays all three—wide. Even as they stroke your soft inner walls, Tyson keeps you stretched so as to leave no slack. Your boyfriend wants you open? Tyson will fucking tear you apart, happily. (Yes, spite is a factor.)

Highly sensitive and spread to the limit, you ascend far quicker than usual. Fisting a bushel of golden-brown curls, nails digging rapt half-moons, you guide his willing face to the necessary places to see yourself through. Every slight adjustment has your entire body jerking haphazardly as it struggles to process the rocketing shockwaves.

JT’s hand retreats—only slightly—to make way for yours, to give you more leverage to fuck yourself through it. Less than a foot away, your boyfriend’s chest heaves in time with yours, his eyes pits of lust you dive into with clumsy enthusiasm.

During one particular, delicious pass, the tip of Tyson’s tongue catches your strained entrance, and when you unexpectedly gush against his mouth in response, he begins lapping over and around your carnal connection.

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

The denouement of your climax is nothing short of glorious, as rude of a sentence interruptor as it was. Half-mewls and purred praise rain down from your loosened lips, eyes screwed shut.

Tyson melts over the way you take control of your orgasm, so unabashed and authoritative. You go after what you want; he respects that majorly. And getting to feel and taste what makes you tick doesn’t hurt either.

Neither do you and your pretty, throbbing walls cutting off blood flow while your boyfriend tugs his hair from behind.

“Just like that, keep fucking her through it. Did so good—doin’ so good for us.”

JT’s praise sends the brunette’s unoccupied hand right to his bulge.

This is the best he’s felt in months.

There’s the mythical balance of bliss-to-tension to key up his senses, shooting white-hot tingles of want from his head to his feet and flaming between his ribs, affection for you. You forgive him, JT forgives him, and, most importantly, he forgives himself.

He feels buoyant with his face coated in your climax, so much so that it runs down from his chin to his neck, staining the collar of his beer-soaked tee; he hopes you might return his favor later.

Josty’s guilty hand is knocked away by a firm toe.

“Y’haven’t earned it, bud,” his mentor chides.

The delinquent appendage flops lamely at his side for a split second, then lifts beside his nose to join its partner at your slick core. As if remembering there’s work to be done, a goal to attain. Beneath this new asset, your achy, spent clit pulses, egging him on with every thump, thump, thump.

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

He thinks about it. Fuck, does he think about it—you can see the tape winding in his eyes.

JT can read Tyson’s mind through his skull, apparently. “Don’t even think about it, kid. Her last one’s mine, but you’re more than welcome to watch from right here.” —Your boyfriend points to the remaining space between the sinks, knowing it’ll be close quarters for you both— “Just remember: I only said watch. This is groveling, not a treat.”

And Tyson does. Without question or complaint, he’s just fine sitting next to you, sitting pretty.

He’s always been the perfect teammate. Always willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the role. The only difference is he no longer wants his anxiety to be the sole motivator behind said selflessness.

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

Immediately, your attention fractures. Split between messy brown curls and lust-blown pupils and your own disheveled appearance: smudged makeup, knotted hair, mauled neck, and spit-stained, bruised lips. Thank fuck you’re graduated and gone. Otherwise, you’d never live this down—Kate might treat you to a taste of would-be campus humiliation later if she’s feeling particularly charitable, though.

Your boyfriend’s grip is heavy on your hips. Happy to have you back. You feel one hand coast over your lower back and down to grope your ass as if trying to keep you in the palm of his hand. White-knuckle hold withstanding, JT presses his chest flush to your backside and uses his free hand to yank every remaining hindrance to your navel.

He wants you on display.

Your gasp is rivaled only by Tyson’s pitiful whimper and twitching, touch-happy fingers.

The ginger’s chuckle is molten and deep, mouth barely a breath from your ear, his eyes pinning Tyson still.

Your mind rewound back to when he made this proposition, wondering how the hell you got from there to here.

“Bend over, sweetheart. Arch that back nice and pretty so we can show Josty what a good girl he’s been missing out on—what a filthy thing you’ve turned into.”

As soon as you’ve done just that, your boyfriend drives home. It’s fast and dirty; primal. He knows there’s no need, but JT marks his territory anyway.

You watch Josty’s mouth part like he’s about to ask you something. Staring through his eyes as if ducking into his pesky daydreams and up-too-late musings, all specifics watery and indistinct.

Ultimately, you wind up disappointed by silence. But, with the slow return of your boyfriend’s bare cock between your soft inner walls, it dawns on you; JT had used a condom last time. Even made Tyson retrieve it for him. The depth of your relationship is sinking in; that’s what you’re now watching. He’s mulling over the information, caught somewhere between wanting to swallow his guilt one go and choking on his own assumptions.

JT follows your charged concern, performs a similar triage, and then gives you a concise nod through the fogged-up mirror.

I’ll handle it.

At that, your walls noticeably ease, and he shudders, groaning as even more of him sinks deeper to occupy the newfound space. He gets a few strokes out before Josty slots his body between your palms to lean in. Here, he does something that collapses the simple but effective status quo. 

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

“Such a fucking mess, baby. Don’t know how Compher gets anything done with you there, sweet and ripe for the taking.”

The two halves of Tyson’s demeanor are antithetical, and infuriatingly so, a saccharine smile split open by filth. It paints a sordid picture that must stand for itself, as you find it impossible to pluck out of thin air any coherent thoughts.

Be that as it may, your friend did not set out for a reply. At least not one other than the befuddled stuttering you’re doing.

A familiar palm shoots to your raw neck—tender, inside and out—lightning quick. You're yanked up before you can blink. JT mercilessly nips at the gaps in between his tight grip, hips pushed just as firm against the swell of your backside.

Still, he furthers their madcap banter. “I dunno either, Josty. And, believe me, the little vixen sure as hell doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I think she’s tryna milk me dry for good.”

If Tyson Jost were ever going to cream his pants—post-pubescence, it would be now.

Like, right fucking now.

The proclamation of your third orgasm is wondrous. Proud. Grateful. One of your hands flies back to catch the nape of JT’s neck to steady yourself as he continues pistoning in and out of you. Tyson's generous touch stays, too.

Your back arches this go around, head rolling against your boyfriend's shoulder before slipping back down towards the counter, free palm absorbing the impact of the abrupt sway. Too much, too much—it’s all too much for your tender muscles and soupy brain to handle. You surrender to the plethora of sensations, each more overwhelming than the last—half-collapsed back against into your boyfriend, half-crumbled forward into his best friend’s damp, tented lap.

“Not gonna last, sweetheart—y’feel too damn good, s’tight and warm, always strangling my cock—know you’re close, too. Gonna give me what you promised, Compher? Please, pretty girl—need to feel your perfect pussy squeezin’ me dry.”

It's refractory; your world goes from washed-out to vivid and back, over and over, as though impatiently flipping between channels.

You’re a tangle of sticky limbs and physical reverie, blanketed by a warm afterglow and cleared air. Body scaffolded by muscular forms on either side, your mind gives your body permission to slacken at last. JT’s arm winds around your midsection when it becomes clear the all-consuming exhaustion is giving way to the relaxation that eluded you for so many months. Tyson massages your arms, your hands still cemented to his knees. Your head drops to his shoulder, too heavy for your bruised neck.

For a long while, no one says a thing. Not intentionally or for fear of disturbing the peace; there’s simply no need. No words exist to shoulder that much weight, none able to capture precisely what emotions swirl between you. Silence says enough—silence says it all.

Banging cuts through your sex-drunk stupor. Again. The abrupt sounds function like metaphorical smelling salts, restoring consciousness and rousing decorum laid dormant. Your mutual, unadulterated bliss circles the drain in the absence of a psychological plug, ripped free, half-baked.

JT reluctantly leaves you empty and dripping, tucks himself away, and cracks open the door—only as wide as is necessary. Behind his imposing physique, you remain hunched over Tyson, waiting for your boyfriend to make the problem go away; you’re too tired to take any initiative.

Golden hair and familiar grey-blue eyes fill the gap, shining in your periphery. Barely a sliver, that’s how much of this your boyfriend’s willing to share with the world. You like that, and judging by his lopsided grin, so does Tyson.

“Paging Mrs. Compher!” Gabe hollers over JT’s head. “Clean up on aisle ‘Kate.’”

Just hearing her name puts you back in action. Damn you, maternal instincts.

You scramble to right twisted fabric and smeared makeup to a soundtrack of expletives. It’s pointless, though, because nothing settles how it should. No amount of smoothing, brushing, or tucking seems to help. Hazy vision and the legs of a newborn fawn don’t exactly lend themselves to effective primping.

And it’s not like you’ve got a hickey-remover magic wand stashed in your purse, either. 

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

Tyson does a piss-poor job muffling his laughter, which lands him a crisp swat to the chest.

As you stumble over, you catch the end of your boyfriend’s irritation. “—and you’re sure there isn’t anyone else to hold her hair back? Why can’t you do it?”

The gears in Gabe’s skull clank so loud you can hear them over the audible chaos seeping into your haven—he’s intoxicated, not stupid.

“CupKate wants her mommy.” The blonde winks at you over JT’s shoulder. His tongue gives a knowing click of approval at Tyson’s equally disheveled state. “And what do you care, Compher? Smells like you three already made your express trip to Pound-town, USA. How was it? I hear the weather’s hot and steamy this time of year.”

“Real mature, Landy, real mature,” JT scoffs.

The sound just revs him up. “Says the fucker who’s locked in a frat house bathroom with his girlfriend and his best friend. One of whom, might I add, looks like they got mauled by a hormonal freshman after a high school dance.”

“Can you two go measure your dicks, I don’t know, anywhere but in the way? I have a child to tend to.” 

You almost have to laugh. At the situation and at the words coming out of your mouth. At Kate, sick to her stomach like a kid who ate too many sweets on a holiday. 

Years have passed, but you’re all still the same.

“Me-yeoh!” Gabe sing-songs while miming what you assume are claws scratching at nothing.

Again, his drink is the sole casualty of his jubilation. A golden wave sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. The spray makes JT’s jaw tick.

The former winger offers a sheepish grin in repentance. “Whoops?”

Your boyfriend steals a glance to check that you’re decent, then side-steps out of your way with an exasperated sigh. His dilated gaze flits over your ruffled appearance, shamelessly drinking in the state of your throat but tripping over the questions dancing in your eyes.

He juts his head in Landy’s direction with a sardonic eye-roll. “Go on. Save your damsel, Mother Hen. I’ll fill you in on in the Uber back to the hotel.”

“Meet you out front?” You ask, and he nods.

You dart back to Tyson, plant a chaste peck on his flushed cheek, and then repeat the gesture with JT and his peeved lips. It’s faint, but they instantly soften for you.

Before they know it, you’re slipping out the door. Gabe gets an affectionate pat on the shoulder as you squeeze by him before you disappear in the direction of the Girls Only bathroom; no significant differences, only marginally cleaner and occasionally stocked with helpful accouterment—chivalry isn’t dead!

Lingering in the wake of your departure, Gabe sways like an inflatable man on the curb of a car dealership. A smirk twists his lips. “Nicely done, boys. Nicely done. Can’t say I thought we’d see the day—or that either of you had it in ya—but I feel like a proud father.” He wipes a phantom tear, the final straw. “Makes you wish you listened to Daddy Landy sooner, huh? Think of all the lost ti—”

JT slams the door in his face. Through the wood, Gabe cackles.

The two men slip back into sync as they wordlessly scrape themselves back together with the time and privacy you were not afforded. 

As JT yanks his jeans back into place, his belt clanking around like a bell’s hourly chime, a black velvet box tumbles to the floor, and Tyson’s stomach along with it.

The air shouldn’t, but it turns on a dime. Their progress is seemingly more fragile than expected.

“If—uh, wow.” A crunchy, anxious bark of a laugh cuts his thought in half.

JT doesn’t interrupt; he holds space for the blossoming discomfort.

Tyson rubs the tense knots along the back of his neck as his eyes drill into the floor. “If I’d known this would be our swan song, I would’ve tried to enjoy it more. I don’t know—savored it, I guess?”

“This,” JT says, scooping up the dud he hopes isn’t hanging fire. “— is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”

Before they got into it in the garage, before they’d been forcibly separated by Erik and Nate. Before they, punch-drunk and drunk-drunk, teetered between tears and anger in the shadowy, too-quiet backyard.

They spun in circles until they had nowhere to move but on. To make amends, to stumble through chary half-apologies that mean more than they say.

JT’s alleviation was short-lived; his calm trepidation squashed before it could fly. Tyson now understands why.

Tyson balks. “Me?”

Your boyfriend sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge. He’s bidding time. Digging for the right words but knowing there are none.

“I love her—and I know you do, too. I’m not upset; she makes it hard not to fall for her.”

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

JT continues, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. Without making sure you’d be okay. Eventually. The last thing I wanted was for you to be blindsided or to feel even more left out.”

Tyson can’t help but snort at the sheer absurdity. “Left out… God, how pathetic am I? Getting all butt-hurt over a relationship that isn’t even mine.”

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

Josty winces. He doesn’t argue because he has zero ground to stand on.

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

“I didn't—don’t want to take her from you. You have to know that, Compher.” The hurt’s been hammered from his voice. Left behind is softened sincerity.

JT’s smile is just as downy. “I do, and you’d be wasting time by trying.”

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

You love JT Compher so openly and ardently it might as well be a neon sign plastered to your forehead. He’s always been it for you. There’s never been any competition, Tyson Jost included.

“Thank god we got this ironed out before the wedding,” the older forward chuckles as he leans back against the counter.

They’re side-by-side, as they should be.

“Why’s that?”

JT digs into his other pocket and pushes something into the palm of his best friend, whose cheeks flame tout de suite in response. With a bump of his shoulder, your boyfriend tacks on, “Something to remember tonight by.”

Tyson shoves the memento into his own pocket, then raises a quizzical brow.

Your boyfriend grins.

“The best man pining over the bride while giving the groom the cold shoulder would make for an awkward wedding, don’t you think?”

⤑ to my inbox💌

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#in conversation: go out with a bang #in conversation: swan song #in conversation: sharing is caring #sharing is caring verse #jt compher x reader #jt compher smut #jt compher fanfiction #jt compher x reader x tyson jost #jt compher x y/n #jt compher x you #tyson jost x reader #tyson jost smut #tyson jost fanfiction #tyson jost x jt compher #hockey romance #hockey smut #nhl smut #hockey rpf #nhl rpf #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagines #nhl fic #hockey fic #nhl players x reader #*ೃ༄ by holy pucks

[duchess-kyuupid]

~The Duchess' Thoughts and Drabbles Pt. 1~ Ft. Malleus

In order to get back into the spirit of writing (as I've had a bad case of writer's block for the past few months), I felt like I should just write some informal drabbles and short scenarios for the time being instead of my usual semi-long-form-formal writing. After all, I've heard of the best ways to cure writers block is to just... write. So here goes!

Imagine Malleus with a s/o who likes to arm wrestle.

[Gn!Reader, romantic Malleus x reader but can be read platonic, jealousy, fluff]

You have to teach him how the game works at first, but he's happy to indulge in your human interests if you ask to arm wrestle with him (agreeing to your condition that no magic is allowed during your match) and at first, you can't even get his arm to budge.

Like, you're trying so hard to get his arm the other way just a little bit, your face going red from the effort of trying to move something with the strength of a dragon.

And well, Malleus thought that the look on your face was just simply adorable, so he tried to mimic the way your arm was shaking to make it seem like he was also struggling against you. Even though he's objectively quite a terrible actor, it fooled you nonetheless, and he slowly allowed your arm to take over his.

You don't notice the satisfied look on his face as he grants you this opportunity, you were just so unbelievably happy when you had actually won. You started dancing around the room in your excitement, and all Malleus could think about was that 'losing' the game was absolutely worth it if he got to see you this side of you.

And he'd continue to indulge you in your arm wrestling games, so he continued to let you win. Of course, this winning streak against literally the strongest mage in possibly all of Twisted Wonderland made your ego inflate like a balloon. So much so that you had dared to challenge Jack to an arm wrestling match. In which he won by an almost embarrassingly large landslide.

Malleus thinks nothing of this at first- you were just playing around with your fellow man much in the same way that the smaller fae might play together in Briar Valley. But over time, he continued to catch wind that you were going to Jack and demanding rematches on a near daily basis, all of which ended up with you losing almost immediately.

Now, Malleus has a lot of patience. But it was starting to run thin with the way that you were spending a considerable amount of time away from him just to go to another man to play a silly little game. Now why in the world would you prioritize hanging out with Jack more than him? He once asked you this question (not exactly with those words), to which you replied that, "Well I mean, I know that I can win against you any time, so I'm widening my horizons and facing difficult challenges! I haven't been able to beat him yet, but when I do, I'll find a new rival to beat!" So in other words, you'd keep coming to back to Malleus instead of Jack if he just won every arm wrestling competition against you? Easy.

And so for the first time, he asks for a rematch, to which you gracefully accepted, confident that you'd easily be able to win against the opponent you've beaten 37 to 0. Unfortunately for you, Malleus was quite serious about winning this time. And every other time that you asked for consecutive rematches.

"You aren't using any magic, right? That's cheating," you claim. He shakes his head and reaffirms that he has never used magic to win against you. "This must be the first time you've had to face against the true strength of a dragon, dear, " He states with a smug smirk on his face. You, with your now severely deflated ego, sigh and officially declare your loss, coming to terms with the fact that Malleus was only going easy on you for those previous 37 times. Now you're faced with an embarrassing ratio of 37 wins to 115 loses.

With that same smugness on his face, he smiles at you and asks innocently, "Now, am I going to be your new challenge to face against from now on?"

Dejected, you sigh to yourself, "I don't think it's possible to win against you when you've got that much raw strength... At least with Jack it actually seems somewhat plausible," and you finish your reply with a small little pout.

Okay, and now you've just straight up confused Malleus at this point. Why were you humans just so weird? He thought at first that the problem was the he didn't give you enough challenge, and now he's too much of one? What do you even like about these challenges where you fail so miserably until you get a even a single victory? What's so entertaining about that? Malleus even gets mildy upset when he comes to the realization that Jack's been quite cruel to you in the sense that he never lets you win, even though he knows quite well that there was little you could do to get yourself to be able to physically overpower someone like Jack (or even Ruggie, to be honest).

Doesn't he know that your little victory dance is the single most cutest thing in this world? That your smile could singlehandedly cure any ailment? That the look of pure joy on your face after a victory hard-earned could even stop world wars? How could Jack be so cruel as to deny you any semblance of that happiness that solves world hunger and prevents global warming? What a foolish beastman, to not be able to recognize such things, Malleus thinks.

#twst imagines #twst x reader #twst headcanons #disney twst #duchess kyuupid #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #twst malleus #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #jealous malleus #gn!reader #reader insert #reader x character #x reader #twst drabble

[megabuild]

so you like transfem etho right? how do you think she figured it out?

did pause call her a girl once and etho decided she liked it or was there more thought involved

i don't think she ever "figured it out" in the way most people would but that's mainly because i see etho as having a very weird upbringing. she was very lonely as a child and didn't really start meeting people from wider society who treated her like a human but also would inflict gender roles on her until mindcrack when she was like... mid 20s. and yeah there definitely was a bit of teasing there but i don't think it really awakened anything in her more just confused her. if you pushed him about a bit and called him a girl insultingly he'd be like ? No I'm not. Because he has lived so far detached from society he can't even conceptualise the idea of feminity being a "weakness" yet #feminist but also he was raised to play very particular roles and wear very particular masks and girl is not and never has been one of them, he is a Guy, theres no questioning that.

But then yeah of course there is because she leaves mindcrack on pretty bad terms and spends some short time alone before she gets pulled onto hermitcraft and while she's sitting alone she does eventually realise oh, people can do that, people can change. And that fucking terrifies her, so much, because she already has horrible identity issues and doesn't really fully understand it so to her it's an all or nothing 100% change of self, and that's sort of awesome in a way but also really scary because that means rejecting literally everything about herself both past and present and she goes AHHHH FUCK and puts that back in the box and then xisuma recruits her like at the end of iron man when they were setting up the avengers movie. And she goes to hermitcraft and doesn't think about any of that for a really long time despite the never ending horrors happening all the time.

In my head he sort of. Doesn't Get Over It but he comes to terms with all the weird shit that happened to him when he was younger re: 404 and the LP between HC 5 and 7 like he was away on a soul searching mission. And then HC7 has its own fresh nightmares as he comes to terms with HC5 because that was a can of worms itself but this time the difference is that he has friends around him who gets it and can help him. And this is roundabout the time she starts to think about it more because she gets quite close to grian post-mycelium resistance and grian is a trans girl who takes estrogen and everything which is like, everything etho was terrified of, and they have some very clumsy and candid conversations where grian is definitely Not the best person to talk to because she's like well you're fucking stupid. But after talking to her and maybe cleo a bit too though idk if they would have been close enough at that point and bdubs too because while he doesn't know anything about this he knows a lot about etho, she eventually realises wow this doesn't have to be a new mask or a massive upheaval this is just something i can try out on the side if i like it. And so she does! Originally just with her absolute closest friends using she/her sometimes (she ends up using he/she alternately, because she doesn't really have any problem with he/him) and while she never formally Comes Out because that's not her style it spreads until most people use it.

Etho is very much a character of certainty imo, he likes rigid ideas when it comes to himself so he knows what to live up to, so i think not making her label her gender (or sexuality except that's. A different can of worms albeit a slightly less complicated one) is a bit of a character growth thing as much as it is a personal decision. Learning he can not constantly stress over the finer details or try to live up to what others decide he should be whether that's a man or a woman or something else entirely and just accepting that she's herself, and that's her own choice, is a Big Thing for her. though i don't know if she recognises that .

#anon #asks #sorry for the ramble i think about her sooo much so hard #i have no idea if she would take e i think surgery is off the table she has too much bad experience but also isn't that bothered #she might take it for a short while and then stop.. im not sure. its a fantasy world also so .

[thefirstknife]

Hi Bel,

I keep seeing comments about people complaining about the quality of destiny’s writing and story in the last few weeks. I haven’t really engaged with destiny since season of defiance, what’s currently gotten everyone so riled up? I thought that people were enjoying Season of the Deep/Witch in terms of narrative, why is Season of the Wish causing people to deride the destiny writing staff again?

I don't know!

Deep and Witch have been absolute bangers in every aspect to me. I've been enjoying all interactions and lore tabs we've received. A lot of them are stuff that we've never had before, a lot of reunions and closures, a lot of development and interactions between characters who you wouldn't really think would have much in common.

Sloane's return and healing from what she's been through has been fantastic, Drifter opening up with her to help her because he also got help from others was fantastic, Sloane reuniting with Aisha and Shayura brought me to tears (Shayura's descent into madness was triggered by immense trauma of Sloane staying on Titan and Titan disappearing), everything with Sloane and Zavala...

Witch was just incredible in every single way; the focus on Eris, the amount of Eris and Ikora content!!!!! Everything about Xivu and Savathun and their interactions together!! Eris finally fulfilling her goal she promised Savathun YEARS ago, getting that closure.

Wish so far has been equally great to me. All the new stuff about Ahamkara is amazing, finally giving us proof for long-standing speculation about Ahamkara and how they aren't universally evil creatures and expanding on them as a species. I love all interactions we've had so far; finally we have Petra back, Mara's singleminded focus on figuring out how to defeat the Witness and her continuous work to improve as a person, ALL SJUR MENTIONS!!!!! I won't talk about the "leak" because we have no context for it so I will wait for the full story to be revealed before I can pass judgment; something that I think should be a lesson to learn from this entire year. Maybe wait for the story to finish before judging the story.

Literally everything this past year that involves Osiris, but especially this season now that he's back in his element with the Vex. And of course every little detail we get of him and Saint. Osiris honestly shaped this year for me with everything that he's done to uncover the biggest mysteries. I think a big reason is that a lot of people just don't like Osiris, which I consider a massive skill issue.

Other than that, I don't know what are the issues people have besides just not being interested in any of these storylines and attributing it to a nebulous "bad writing" claim. I also genuinely believe that way too many people get wrapped up too much in fandom, imagine storylines they want to see and then get disappointed when the actual story doesn't go there. Almost like people forget that this isn't their story and these aren't their characters. A lot of it is also fandom completely warping characters into not what they actually are and then feeling like the canon story is the one that's wrong.

Whatever is the reason, I guess everyone is entitled to their perspective of the story and everyone is free to explore the story in different ways through fanfics and AUs and whatever. I do that too!

But I would definitely ask people to be normal with how they engage in criticism, especially in the current state of affairs. Writers are developers; they experience a ton of harassment and negativity from the community and also from inside the company. And they are online: they can see what we're saying. It's been documented that community commentary has been used to harass writers:

Imprint this into your brain and never forget what these people had to go through. Let's not forget also the way people treated Seth Dickinson on social media when he was active with Destiny fans. "Fans" were actively arguing with him about his own work (telling him that HE is wrong) and were utterly disgusting towards him when he tried explaining what he wrote. His works are now hailed as the best writing in Destiny and people want him back. If I were him, I wouldn't want to come back ngl, not with how he was treated and not with how fans are still treating writers (and hey, Seth wrote LF Collector's Edition! So he was back, technically, this year!). Let's not forget that a lot of writers are members of various marginalised groups. And I'd definitely not want to go back with zero support from leadership.

Which is also an important aspect for all developers, including writers: sometimes they have orders they may not like, but can't argue against. They do the best they can with what they're given, the time they have and directions they receive. And with that in mind, I am enjoying everything we've gotten this year, obviously with some specific complaints about things I didn't particularly enjoy (like the universally mid reception of Defiance; I've spoken about my gripes with it before, a big one being the shafting of Suraya who should've at least been mentioned in a lore tab).

I can tell that there is passion in their work, even if maybe they would prefer to do more with it, but can't. Maybe even if they want to take different routes, but can't. But from what we got, I can feel that they care about this world and these characters. I can tell that someone lovingly wrote about Sloane and her friendships with two grieving women. I can tell that they deeply cared about Sloane's friendship with Zavala and that they loved showing us Saint and Drifter caring about a fellow trauma survivor.

I can tell that the writers are immensely careful and loving towards Eris; everything she went through was crafted with love and passion from both writers and her VA. Eris' story is such a fundamental aspect of Destiny and I can tell that this was important to the writing team and that they gave her everything they could to do justice to her character and her arc and her healing and her release from the cycle she was trapped in for so long.

I can tell that there are writers who care a lot about Osiris and Saint and their relationship. I can tell that someone cared a lot about expanding on Ahamkara and giving them more personalities. I can tell that someone cared DEEPLY about Sjur and Mara and that her repeated mentions are the passionate work of writers who want us to remember her.

I could go on. And I know that not everyone sees it this way, which is fine; we all have different ways of perceiving stories. I enjoy discussing things we in the fandom disagree on and I enjoy hearing different perspectives! Unfortunately, this has recently become rarer and rarer. And for the love of god, please try and treat writers with some respect, especially now, especially those who are still working and doing their best with the shitty situation they're in. None of the cries of "poor devs" ring true to me unless the same is given to writers, instead of treating them like punching bags.

#destiny 2 #long post #for the record: yeah i also have some gripes with some writing decisions. it's normal #but i feel like those are things that i can learn to accept or let go or even have my mind changed with a different perspective #or by just accepting that the writing team was limited in some way and that this was the best they could do #it happens to every story at some point #and yeah capitalism is the death of art. destiny's story would be better from start to finish if it weren't a shooter mmo #but that ship has sailed a long time ago. like. in 2014. #it's honestly a miracle that we got even a fraction of the stuff we got considering the target audience of fps mmos #and it's fine if this just isn't good enough to some. happens #but i think we can move on without being shitty about devs yeah? #in all likelihood writers may even agree that some of the stuff they had to write isn't the best or isn't what they wanted #calling them bad writers over circumstances we don't understand is just shitty #just like it's shitty to do it to any other dev over bugs in the game or badly implemented features or whatever #none of these people are sitting at their desks maliciously laughing while deliberately creating 'bad' things #and this is especially bothering me for writers because of how atrocious people are to artists of all kinds #almost like writers had to strike this year to be respected and treated as people that matter

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

Felony saying that everyone in the universe can access the force if they tried hard enough makes me want to deck him in his fugly face

He’s ruining all established canon in real time. Speed running the absolute destruction of continuity of the SW universe and people are still rooting for him and his blorbo self inserts like there’s no tomorrow. Literally the whole reason I no longer engage in Ashoka content is because he massacred my girl and made her so one dimensional that my Mary Sue self insert fanfics OCs I wrote when I was 14 looks well developed compared to the absolute bland “girlboss kick ass take names” personality Ashoka has right now.

There were so many opportunities for him to explore the absolute potential of angst and conflict within Ashoka in this new series, to give her character a believable story of grief loss and growth yet he threw it all away because he wanted his OC to be the specialist girl that ever lived. This series could’ve been used to explore Ashokas conflicting feelings regarding the Anakin that taught her and was a mentor to her whilst trying to connect it to the monster that killed her family and hunted her culture into almost extinction and tried to kill her, a person he confessed to love as a sister, on Malachor. It could’ve been a good send off to a great character, to have her face that the Skyguy she put on a pedestal in her mind was in actuality the worst sort of scum and have her try to come to terms that just because she can forgive him for being the genocidal maniac he was and still hold love in her heart for who he used to be and also understand why the Jedi, her family, wasn’t the reason for their own downfall.

But alas. We got another series of “the Jedi caused their own downfall!!! Anakin did nothing wrong ever and him killing all my family and everyone I’ve ever known is so not his fault!!! It’s definitely the fault of the unbending stuck in the past council!!!”. Instead of a series that could’ve made Ashoka’s “departure” (literally never going to happen with felony at the helm, he’s going to find a way to make her immortal and then show up 200 years in the future to be the protagonist of another light v dark fight since she’s his special SI) from the series tie in nicely thematically and canonically with every other Star Wars media we have, he decided that the best way to have this series go down is 1) everyone is force sensitive if they tried hard enough ig and 2) the Jedi were bad!!! Their protocols don’t work! They were mean to my little meow meow Anakin Skywalker the greatest Jedi of all times™️ therefore he got to kill them all!!!!

Got a bit off topic but I’m still so mad that he had this chance to make Ashoka truly experience growth like the first 5 seasons of TCW yet he decided maintaining the badass rebel without a cause aesthetics for her was more important then good story telling.

Honestly though, my main problem with this series is that he decided that apparently everyone in the universe can be force sensitive if they “just tried hard enough”. Like your Midichlorian Count no longer matters since even if you were Force-Null you can still be special!!!!

This takes away any and all urgency in the Jedi Fallen Order games. It makes Cals journey absolutely redundant. It throws away all the tragedy contained in having inquisitors being force sensitive kids kidnapped from their parents and tortured till they give into the dark side. If all beings are able to use the force in his universe then there are no consequences to the inquisitors not finding the Holocron that holds the names to all force sensitive children in the universe. There would be no need to them to chase Cal and the Mantis Crew throughout the universe to obtain what they have. They could’ve just went down to any random level in Coruscant and take homeless Force-Null kids and train them.

Even better! It makes the entirety of the KOTOR games redundant!!!! Oh and I guess the hidden path is also redundant since everyone can be force sensitive and no one truly needs more saving from the empire over others :/ totally not like these kids that were saved by the path would’ve been taken and tortured into inquisitors, definitely not since EVERYONE is force sensitive nowadays or is it just the ones Ashoka trains herself because she’s the “living embodiment of the daughter uwu she’s so special and unique look how well she can train a non force sensitive to be force sensitive!!!”

Everyone in the Star Wars universe has Midichlorian’s in their blood. That is a fact. It is also an established fact that the amount each person has is different and is not determined nor dependent on lineage. Force-Nulls typically range in the 1000-3000 count and you need 7000 to be force sensitive and higher to be accepted into the order. (The order isn’t the end all be all of force cultures, Rouge One shows that Jedha’s force culture isn’t restricted to only force sensitives as the Guardian’s were never specified to be only a religious order of force sensitives. And high canon doesn’t depict many other force cultures but we know that there are many force cultures in the universe that co-exist with the Jedi with which the Jedi weren’t in opposition towards; literally not even the witches of Dathomir were oppositions anywhere outside of the battle fields.) You don’t need to be force sensitive to be part of a force culture (Jedha literally has pilgrims who come far and wide to make a pilgrimage to the holy site and not all of them were force sensitive), Sabine could’ve very easily been taught the tenets of the Jedi without retconning her to be force sensitive or making everyone in the universe force sensitive.

No where in either the EU or High Canon did anyone ever say that you have to be force sensitive to be a badass or to make a difference. Hera did not hold the title of the best pilot in the universe just for some rat of a man to come and say that Anakin was the best because *muh force sensitivity!!!!* Some of the most heroic and most influential (good or bad) people in the franchise are Force-Null! And that’s great! It means that the force doesn’t make anyone better than anyone else! It’s a quirk of the universe! To retcon that everyone can and is force sensitive if they tried hard enough is literally cheapening everything the franchise stands for. Andor did not literally give us an entire story about how Force-Nulls in the Galaxy makes just as much of a difference as force sensitives for felony to come out and say that “you know what??? Midichlorian’s are a scam! You get a force sensitivity! You get a force sensitivity! Everyone gets a force sensitivity!!!!”

Sabine was great as she was in rebels, why cheapen it with “oh she’s actually force sensitive all this time!!!” When we could’ve stuck with badass Force-Null Mandalorian can kick your ass five ways to Sunday with her paint bombs and blasters you force wielding asshole!!! Like why even do that felony. Do you want people to hate her??? Nvm ofc you do, you need Ashoka to be the best in every way possible even if it means ruining every other beloved character in this franchise👍

#Star Wars salt #star wars #ashoka series #Ashoka Tano critical #anti anakin skywalker #anti Dave Filoni #fuck you felony I want to punch you in your rat face #Ashoka series critical #the Midichlorian count should mean something felony!!!!! #why are you making Ashoka a Mary sue😭 literally give her a personality that isn’t kickass take names please I beg #sw salt #I hate it here #jedi positive

[cdbabymp3]

yap sesh with jules time

tldr ; new slushy vlog debrief and being extremely sad on a sunday night

y'all i hate myself for it but tell me why that brief 0.3 second clip of hamzah vaping in the new vlog got me acting up rn....that big ass cloud of smoke flying past his pretty face LIKE BOY COME OVER AND SHOTGUN THAT BLUEBERRY VAPE INTO MY MOUTH !! anyway. also having weird confusing feelings about martin bc why was his face card lowkey giving in this vid.... never been attracted to him but i see edits and im like .... hold on ..... 🤔... yes he was giving ozempic spiderman FINE WHATEVER but he's got a little something to him idk. mandy knows what's up. maybe im insane or maybe there are some martin biases out there who are nodding their heads while reading this. maybe i'll make a low effort edit of him and it will convince you guys. maybe it won't. who knows! in other news, need to be hamzah's trip sitter while he's on shrooms bc he's so cute and clueless. and y'all saw the way he kept closing his eyes and taking deep breaths ... yeah need asap thanks 🩷 the way he didn't know who he was dressed up as was KILLING ME bc how do u not know when you ordered the damn costume??? my anime nerd ass was cringing at him calling himself literally 4 wrong character names. silly boy it's okay i still love him. AND MARTIN WITH THE TIMBS GOODBYE 😭 THE WAY THEY LOOKED BRAND NEW TOO I WAS CRYING. i know his ass ordered those off the amazon storefront.

on a personal note 🧌 i'm having friend issues rn and this is the only place i can't rant abt it without someone using my words against me 🤗 currently in an awkward text standstill with my friend of 10 years and i'm genuinely so lost on what to do. the friendship has gotten so toxic to the point where i fear how she takes my tone bc im worried she'll confront me. like no joke im afraid of her so i always give in and take the blame for everything. it's time to move on ik but i hate confrontation (especially over text) and im so bad at ending friendships. idk i just feel so bad bc this is the 5th friendship thats fallen through and im starting to think im just not cut out for long-term friendships?? i always get in these situations where i make myself small so that the friend can stay happy being in control which is so fucked up and i'm tiredddddd of it omfg. but yeah all of this shit is making me lose hope in having friends in general like maybe this is it for me. im being dramatic i need to end this post wow.

#yap sesh w jules ^o^ #hamzahthefantastic #hamzahthefantastic x reader #slushy noobz

[aureentuluva70]

I'm not sure if this has been talked about before, but I'm gonna talk about it regardless because it has completely blown my mind. I first discovered it on a reddit post, which you can read here.

In the book The History of the Hobbit, John Rateliff suggests that the Wilderlands of The Hobbit is actually the Beleriand of Tolkien's early mythology as it was written during the 1930's, only taking place ages after the War of the Jewels, since the later ages and maps of middleearth hadn't been created by Tolkien yet. Keep in mind that at this point in Tolkien's writings, the breaking of Thangorodrim was nowhere near as bad as it would later turn out to be. Beleriand never sank into the sea, but it was still drastically changed.

Here are two maps drawn by Tolkien during the 1930's, one of Beleriand and the other of the Wilderlands found in the Hobbit:

In terms of similarities, one of the first things I noticed(and one of the most obvious) was the river Sirion and the Great River of the Wilderlands. The name Sirion literally translates to 'Great River'.

In the middle of the path of said river is the Carrock, which is where the Eagles set Bilbo and Company down after saving them, and the way it is described in the Hobbit reminds me a lot of this illustration Tolkien made of Tol-Sirion:

"But cropping out of the ground, right in the path of the stream which looped itself about it, was a great rock, almost a hill of stone, like a last outpost of the distant mountains, or a huge piece cast miles into the plain by some giant among giants."

-The Hobbit, Queer Lodgings.

AND it is also uses very similar wording to how the Lay of Leithian describes Tol-Sirion(Tolkien was working on the Leithian around the same time he was writing The Hobbit):

'An isled hill there stood alone/ amid the valley, like a stone/rolled from the distant mountains vast/when giants in tumult hurtled past'

-Lay of Leithian.

There's also the mention of "a little cave, (a wholesome one with a pebbly floor) at the foot of the steps" which the person in the reddit post suggests could be the remains of the very same dungeon where Finrod, Beren, and their companions were imprisoned by Sauron after their disguises were stripped away. The same place where all but one of them were slowly devoured one by one. The same place where Finrod died.

Above it at the top of the Carrock would be where Finrod was buried, and the "Ford of huge flat stones [that] led to the grass-land beyond the stream" could be the remains of the broken bridge that was destroyed by Luthien: "the hill trembled; the citadel/crumbled and all its towers fell/the rocks yawned and the bridge broke/and Sirion spurned in sudden smoke."

The "two Mirkwoods" is also a big one. I always found it odd that there were two completely different forests sharing the same name, but at the time Tolkien wrote it, they weren't seperate at all, but the exact same forest, just changed and grown over thousands of years in between the events of the Silmarillion and The Hobbit. The same forest that Sauron fled to after the fall of Tol-in-Guarhoth. The same one Beleg found Gwindor in after his escape from Angband.

If they really were intended to be the same forest at the time Tolkien wrote it, it also answers the question I had earlier regarding this part in the Leithian when Sauron flees Tol-in-Guarhoth:

A new stronghold? We never hear anything about this in the Silmarillion, of Sauron building a new stronghold in Taur-nu-fuin, and it puzzled me when I first read it. But that's when I realized that this "new throne and darker stronghold" was talking about none other than the fortress of Dol Guldur itself, Sauron's stronghold within Mirkwood.

(Not lying, I was pretty proud of myself for figuring that one out)

Oh, and the Lonely Mountain? While it doesnt appear on the 1930's Beleriand map, it would likely be Maedhros's fortress of Himring itself, or at least the mountain it was built on top of, as Himring is located east of Taur-nu-fuin just about in the same place where Erebor is located. Just the thought of the Dwarves' home being within the very mountain that once had Maedhros's citadel atop it has my brain going wild. (Oh, and the fact that the arkenstone was found within the ancient hills of what was once Himring, fortress of the elf lord who threw himself into a fiery chasm with a silmaril? Coincidence? I think NOT)

There are plenty of other similar locations between the two maps, and judging by them both Eriador would be Hithlum/Aryador, with the Misty Mountains being the Mountains of Shadow. The Withered Heath would be the Anfauglith, the Eagle Eyrie would be the Crissaegrim, and the Iron Hills are what's left of Nogrod and Belegost. I've even heard that Mavwin/Morwen's house could be the roots of Rivendell.

Overall, it's so, so cool and it has my mind running wild. It really makes me see The Hobbit in a whole new light. We all talk about the amazing stories that came out of the Hobbit aka Lord of the Rings, but seeing where the stories of the Hobbit came from just adds a whole other level of depth to it all. This is why I love Tolkien's works so much. It's all so incredibly deep and rich and it just gets better and richer the deeper you go, and there's so much of it. It's one of those things that you just rarely get tired of, and even if you do, you're bound to come back to it later and I love it.

#Tolkien #Silmarillion #Hobbit #Lay of Leithian #Beleriand #Wilderlands #Lotr #Erebor #Taur-nu-fuin #Mirkwood #Lonely Mountain #Sirion #Finrod #Beren #Luthien #Maedhros #Sauron #Tol-Sirion #Tol-in-Guarhoth

[taylortruther]

That ask about her moving on too quickly is soooo funny to me because the same thing happened to my sister, in 2019 she ended a long term relationship (the guy even had a ring for her and everything but never proposed), quickly got back with a long lost love from 10 years prior and kept saying "this time it works and it's great" just to break up a month later, somewhere around that time she met a new guy, they got engaged a year later (2020), got married (2021) and now have a beautiful baby girl (2024). It might be quick but if it works it works!!! Her husband is great btw he's literally like a brother to me, he's so good to my sister and our family adores him. Time is fake people!!!

i think it's hard to understand this kind of situation if you're young and haven't observed this common pattern. it didn't make sense to me for a while either, that you could go through a ltr, break up, then somehow "know better" almost instantly the next time.

also, the fandom thinks taylor is a dummy about love because she's been in multiple ~failed~ relationships, or because she doesn't like being single. the number of relationships she's had is totally normal, and woe upon these anons who might find themselves there and hear someone call them bad at love lmao. secondly, sure, her desire for love has blinded her in the past to situations she should've left sooner or completely avoided--she's said it herself multiple times. that's just the path she had to go down. the only thing we can assume is she's learned and recognizes a good situation when she sees it now. why assume otherwise?