#the image is from big bang theory

[theevilicecreamsoda]

#i fucking love fhis image #i quote it to myself when i am upset andni should really do it more #anyways big banh theory more like big butane theory #sheldon more like gas poisoning #sheldon more like methane or something #sheldon more like sulfide from big bang theory #i am staying up way too late my medicine is makong me so drowsy and tored but ohhhju cat on my lap and the images on mine phone #mecore tho sry #mecore #lobe is in the air? wrong! gas leak #thinking so much about this if i wasnt currently

[b0w-ties-are-cool]

Baby Fever (Eleventh Doctor x Fem!Reader) [SMUT]

Summary: You are doom-scrolling on the internet and there are baby images and videos everywhere. You might just convince your boyfriend... (; SFW FOUND HERE

Warning(s): Baby fever obvi, suggestive language another obvi, cunnilingus (sorta ig), piv sex, breeding kink, soft!dom!doctor, unprotected sex, is "alien sex" something I need to include in the warnings?

Word count: 1,142

You had convinced your boyfriend, the Doctor, to get an actual phone so that you could send him TikToks. After about a week of trying to convince him he finally gave in. It was soon after that your for you page got delightfully plagued with videos of babies. These videos poured fuel on your baby fever ember.

You started saving them to your favorites and sending them to your boyfriend. Your baby fever started to get so bad that you had dreams about you and the Doctor having a baby. At that point, you didn't know if you were daydreaming or nightdreaming.

Babies took over your TikTok, Pinterest, and Instagram. You made mental notes of baby names that you liked. You knew that their name would have to be unique. You particularly liked Sailor, Zamora, Atlas, and Kya.

You are currently lying on the couch in your three bedroom apartment in Chicago. It has a grey-brown aesthetic with a grey couch and brown wooden coffee. You had a Roku TV, you turned on The Big Bang Theory just to have background noise as you scrolled on Pinterest.

You and the Doctor are babysitting your sister's kids. Technically her and her kids lived with you, you just take care of them because she has a night job.

You had gotten the 2 year old twins, Logan and Landon, to bed. You had bunk beds with rails for them. And there was a crib in there as well for your sister's 9 month old, Bella. You had tasked the Doctor with putting Bella to bed.

You hear footsteps approach you, and you look up to see the Doctor standing behind you.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" He asks as he shows you his phone that is open to his TikTok messages with all the baby videos that you sent him.

"...No..." You say awkwardly, "They were on my FYP."

"Apparently on your Pinterest too," He states, looking at your phone screen and raising his eyebrows.

"And Instagram..." You mutter, your face is burning.

The Doctor chuckles, "Got a bad case of the baby fever?"

"Yeeessss!" You whine and drag out the pronunciation of the e and the s. You sit up and turn around to face the Doctor. "Impregnate me goddamnit!" You shout playfully.

The Doctor laughs while mouthing 'no' and shakes his head at your shenanigans.

"That could be my Christmas gift!" You grin up at him, biting your lip mischievously.

"Your Christmas gift?" The Doctor questions, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows at you. There is a hint of a smile that he is trying to hold back.

"Yes!" You exclaim, "Or right now." You stand up from your spot on the loveseat and walk up to him, knowing exactly what to say to convince him. "Breed me, Doctor," You whisper in his ear.

Before you knew it, you were in your bedroom. The Doctor kisses and leaves marks on your neck. Your hand rests on the back of his head, your fingers tangled in his hair.

The Doctor discards his tweed jacket to the floor and you push his suspenders down his arms. You pull at each other's clothes until all that is left is your undergarments.

The Doctor picks you up and lays you down on your bed. He pulls your underwear off and eyes your cunt. You whine in pleasure as he licks a stripe up your folds. He kisses your clit and leaves open-mouthed kisses up your body until he gets to the band of your bra. The Doctor removes your bra and leaves kisses and hickeys on your beasts.

He massages your breast with one hand while the other rubs circles around your clit. You gasp when he slips two fingers inside of you.

He moves his hand from your breast to your cheek, he leans down and passionately kisses you on the lips. Your hands find his hair again, tangling your fingers in it, just about his ears.

You gasp slightly when the Doctor pulls his fingers out. He licks them clean then goes back to kissing you. He kisses a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your collarbone.

He moves his hands down your body until he gets to your thighs. "Lift your hips, my love." He tells you, when you do, he places your extra pillow under them.

The Doctor pulls his underwear off, you eye his hard cock. He leans closer, you moan slightly when rubs himself against your folds. He leans his face to yours and presses his lips to yours. "You want me to fill you up?" He asks against your lips. "Stuff you full of my seed?"

"Yes, Doctor, please," You whine and moan desperately.

He adjusts your thighs so that your legs wrap around his waist. He thrusts into you, bottoming out. You throw your head back, moaning. The Doctor kisses your neck then moves your head back up to kiss your lips.

He thrusts in and out, fucking you slowly, while you make out. You wrap your arms around his neck then move them down his shoulders. A small knot starts to form in your core.

"Doctor," You moan against his lips. He moves his lips to your neck, sucking the skin.

You move your hand down between you and the Doctor. Desperate for the knot to grow faster, you rub quick circles on your clit.

The Doctor grabs your wrist and moves your hand away. "No need to do that, darling. Just say you wanted to go faster." He whispers against your ear. "Is that what you want?"

You nod in response.

"Use your words my dear." He tells you.

"Yes. Please, Doctor." You mutter.

He picks up his pace, thrusting into you quickly. As he continues, the knot becomes tighter and bigger. You moan his name repetitively like a prayer.

"I'm close," You moan. You tangle your fingers in his hair, lightly pulling it. The Doctor's breathing faulters and he lets out a moan.

The knot in your core snaps. You throw your head back. Your cunt tightens around his cock as your orgasm hits.

The Doctor moans, he thrusts a couple more times before he stops, fully inside of you. His own orgasm hits, cumming inside of you.

He stays fully sheathed inside of you for a few minutes. He breathes heavily against the crook of your neck.

When he catches his breath his pulls out of you. He looks at your cum-filled pussy and scoops up an overflow and stuffs it inside. He places a kiss on your cunt then lays down next to you.

You turn your head to look at him. "We were supposed to be babysitting..." You mutter with a laugh.

"Babysitting, baby making. They go hand in hand." The Doctor jokes with a smile.

#doctor who #eleventh doctor #eleventh doctor x reader #eleventh doctor x you #baby fever #eleventh doctor smut

[youremyheaven]

Cancer Girls: Baby Voice Edition

I've noticed a pattern with many female celebrities who are known for their "baby voice" and I thought I'd make a post about it. Since Mercury is what affects our voice and style of speech the most, I'll be looking at Mercury placements along with big 3.

Obviously not everyone on this list has a natural baby voice, in fact I'd say the majority of them speak in a very affected pseudo baby voice for which they've become known. I had previously observed how Cancer rashi women do this THE most but here are more examples.

Marilyn Monroe

The OG Ingenue who was known for her breathy baby voice. She has Rohini Sun & Mercury along with Ashlesha Rising

2. Pamela Anderson

She has Ardra Sun, Punarvasu Mercury and Mrigashira Rising

3. Paris Hilton

She has a Pushya Moon and is known for her fake baby voice which her mother claimed she learned from her.

4. Drew Barrymore

She is Punarvasu moon & Mrigashira Rising

Many have noted that a lot of famous Punarvasus have a slightly ditzy way of speaking/demeanour. Almost all Mrigashiras have a very hyper, enthusiastic, kind of frantic and restless way of being and talking. They actually embody "golden retriever energy". I think the combination of these two nakshatras results in Drew's childlike enthusiasm and kind of frantic manic way of speaking and behaving. A lot of people think she's weird 😭but it's just her nature, even Pamela Anderson who shares similar placements has a similar demeanour.

5. Wonyoung

She has Punarvasu Venus conjunct Saturn (both of them are exactly conjunct so idk which one would be her amatyakaraka) and she has received a lot of flak for her "fake baby voice" 😭 Her real voice is naturally deeper and more mature but honestly Wonyoung is such a good example of a Jupiter dominant woman; they are obsessed with presenting themselves a certain way and are very "image conscious", this truly extends to everything from clothes, style, etiquette, speech, voice, absolutely everything. They know exactly what behaviours will elicit what responses.

6. Halsey

She is Punarvasu Moon (atmakaraka) & Mars along with Swati Mercury & Rising

She's known for singing in cursive 😭 but also just has a very sugary high pitched speaking voice. If you observe her even she has a very expressive, animated way of speaking, she's not quite ditzy but she's still almost childlike in her demeanour from time to time.

7. Ariana Grande

She is Ardra Sun & Punarvasu Mercury and she rose to fame for playing a ditzy airhead on Nickelodeon. She in fact spent many years speaking like Cat Valentine off screen as well until she underwent an image revamp in the mid 2010s and adopted a blaccent.

This video shows how when she was younger not only did she have a fake baby voice, she also had a very different slightly ditzy demeanour.

8. Shehnaaz Gill

She is an Indian reality star turned influencer who is known for her baby voice and exaggerated cutesy mannerisms. She is Pushya Moon.

(the interview is mostly in Hindi but you can observe her mannerisms and way of speaking)

9. Melissa Rauch

She has Punarvasu Mercury (amatyakaraka) and played Bernadette on Big Bang Theory where she spoke in a distinctive high pitched voice whereas in real life, her voice is entirely different.

10. Kristen Bell

She has Punarvasu Sun & Mercury. She literally voiced Princess Ana in Frozen. Watch any interview of hers and you will see how expressive she is when she talks, she uses her hands a lot, her face is so animated and its so Punarvasu like🥰

(Tumblr does not allow me to embed more than 10 videos per post so I'll just be linking the rest)

11. Jennifer Garner

She's Mrigashira Moon (atmakaraka), UBP Mercury, Rohini Stellium (Venus, Mars & Saturn)

She's a very good example of a typical Mrigashira. She always speaks like a very sweet, enthusiastic kid; very expressive, very animated.

Here's a link to her interview.

12. Mandy Moore

She's Revati Sun (atmakaraka) , Pushya Moon, Mrigashira Rising

She voiced Rapunzel in Tangled and imo Rapunzel is Tangled is a veryyyy good example of Mrigashira behaviour in many ways but especially with her mannerisms and manic pixie like behaviour which makes sense since she was voiced by a Mrig actress.

Here's a link to Mandy speaking

Here's a link to Rapunzel in Tangled

13. Jenny Slate

She is UBP Sun & Moon and Punarvasu rising

Her sense of humour and how she delivers jokes is a good mix of UBP and Punarvasu

Here's a link to a stand up bit

I've noticed that many Pisces rashi folks (UBP & Revati) are very expressive storytellers and have a very specific style of delivery (Salma Hayek, UBP Moon is a good example and so is Rihanna, Revati Moon).

Jenny has the dryness/deadpanned delivery of UBP mixed with the expressive frantic style of Punarvasu

14. Anna Kendrick

She is Ashlesha Sun (atmakaraka) & Mercury (amatyakaraka)

She has that typical Cancer girl sense of humour and speaking style

Here's a link

15. Mindy Kaling

She is Ardra Sun & Moon, Rohini Rising with Punarvasu Mercury

She rose to fame playing Kelly Kapoor who is a very typical Cancer gal tbh, replete with the slightly ditzy, hyper & manic style and mannerisms and squeaky excited voice.

Here's a link to her being Kelly

Here's a link of her as Mindy Lahiri on The Mindy Project

`16. Leslie Mann

She is UBP Sun, Revati Mercury and Pushya Ketu

Here's a link to an interview but Leslie is such a good example of this ditzy, kind of naive way of speaking. Her mannerisms and the way she delivers is so Pisces girlie of her.

17. Lana del Rey

She is Ardra Sun, Ashlesha Moon & Punarvasu Mercury

Lana is a good example of an introvert Cancer gal. People often think they're kind of weird and kookie and they have a chaotic kind of manic pixie way of speaking and behaving that it throws people off.

Here's a link, her speaking voice sounds very young and soft.

18.Rose Byrne

Pushya Sun & Moon, Ashlesha mercury

She's usually more composed and elegant but when she's more comfortable you see that Cancer girl charm come out. One thing all these women have in common is how they like to act out their stories and be very expressive with their face and body; their sense of humour is very silly and slapstick.

Here's a link

19. Emma Bunton aka Baby Spice

she is Pushya Sun, Mercury and Venus

(isnt it sweet that someone whose alter ego is literally called Baby Spice is a Cancer stellium 🥺)

Here's a link but Baby Spice is also a good example of a less manic but still very cutesy Cancer girl

Many Cancer girls have a tendency to "act cutesy" or "babyish" but also more often than not they are just very in touch with their inner child and kind of goofy and silly.

20. Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen

They're Mrigashira Sun, Punarvasu Mercury & Ashlesha Rising

If you've watched Full House or any of their movies, you can see the ditzy girly girl behaviour of Punarvasu come out but irl they're more introverted and a little awkward, sort of like Lana and seem funny in a shy way.

Claire Nakti had observed in her Swati video about how Swatis and Punarvasus share certain similarities, I've seen this extend to their behaviour and mannerisms as well. Jennifer Tilly, Mila Kunis (both Swati Moon) and Emma Stone (Swati Sun) all have a very similar energetic girly, sweet and humble but kind of kooky and silly style of speaking and story telling.

#sidereal astrology #astrology notes #vedic astro notes #astrology observations #nakshatras #vedic astrology #astro notes #astro observations #astrology #astroblr #Youtube

[worstcharacterpoll]

FINAL ROUND: Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory) vs. Ross Geller (Friends)

[Image description: Artwork of a showdown between Sheldon and Ross, depicted in two comic-style panels where they are drawn from the shoulders up and staring at each other. They are dramatically lit with a yellow and red background and action lines focused on the center. There is overlaid text reading "Sheldon vs. Ross" in the middle, and "worst character poll" on the top. End ID.]

#polls #worst character poll #sheldon cooper #the big bang theory #ross geller #friends #art turned out a bit uncanny but honestly i love it #it doesnt look like my usual art and was a neat style experiment #was listening to 'the crimes of mort' drawing this andi think it affected me

[queerasfact]

In 1968 the play The Boys in the Band was one of the first prominent pieces of American media to not just feature, but centre the stories of queer men.

It was initially difficult for write Mart Crowley to find a cast for the play, with Laurence Luckinbill (who would play Hank) warned that taking the role would end his career. But the production was such a success that it was adapted into a film in 1970. Now post-Stonewall, however, the lack of political angle to the film fell flat, and it wasn't a bit success.

The play was revived eventually for a Broadway production in 2018, with a cast of openly gay actors including Star Trek’s Zachary Quinto and Big Bang Theory’s Jim Parsons. The success of the revival led to a Netflix film adaptation with the same cast.

The Netflix version brought the story back into the public eye in an time when there are perhaps enough queer stories that there is perhaps more room for a small-scale, deeply personal story that offers a snapshot of another time, and drew from Crowley’s own life.

Learn more

[Images: 1970 and 2020 Boys in the Band posters]

#the boys in the band #boys in the band #queer history #queer film #queer plays #gay history #gay movies #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbt history #zachary quinto #jim parsons

[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💌

⬸ back to the catalog

⬸back to the main blog

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2024 @holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

#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

[wormsin]

at what point did dick’s fatass become a meme, was there a specific issue that drew his ass huge that tipped the iceberg?

ok, I love that at least one person out there thinks that I am an authority on this topic.

no, there was not one issue that drew his ass so incredibly that it suddenly became iconic. over the years, Dick grew up from being a platonic boy hero to a sexual adult, then sex isol, then bearer of an (at times) voluptuous ass. this video has a good recap!

(sidebar—I need to make a correction to the video, which is a bit of misinformation I see floating around all the time, which is the idea that Devon Grayson did not admit or know that what she wrote in Nightwing #93 was sexual assault. she just didn't call it rape at the time, but said it was nonconsensual, and depicted it as sexually traumatizing for Dick. 2004)

ANYWAY,

I would say his fat ass became a meme recently. and. gonna be honest with you. except for a few depictions, it is not that big of an ass. he is way too skinny to have a truly fat ass. It's still nice! but let's not kid ourselves.

last year, the Harley Quinn tv show changed Dick's model to have a larger ass for an important plot point. which is how we got... the ass casket. cassket.

2022, Harley Quinn: The Animated Series: The Eat. Bang! Kill. Tour #3.

Nicola Scott's tribute cover, 2019. this kind of went viral and likely solidified the fanon-turned-canon that Dick has a great ass.

in Grayson #6, 2015, Midnighter recognized Dick by his ass.

ah, gay rights have come so far.

I won't get into the whole history of Dick Grayson being sexualized in general because that is a huge, huge topic. he's been sexualized since the NTT at least, and superheroes in general are a site of body image politic, bla bla. so I'm sticking to his butt in particular.

around this time, some DC writers and artists are purposefully trying to make Dick's ass prominent on the page. or at least Simone is. "I am writing it, of course there’s Nightwing ass!" Gail Simone, 2014, referring to Nighting/Oracle convergence. did the comic deliver on the ass? sadly no.

a little earlier, Nightwing (2011) #40, from 2013, has a some notable art. I've seen lots of people reference it as some kind of "female gaze" thing, which. I get what that's trying to say but you can't just invert the theory of the male gaze. sorry.

so I think it was the mid 2010s where this idea that he has a great ass starts to influence canon writers and artists, which reached a boiling point 2019 and 20s. now, artists had drawn Dick in a sexual manner before, and had drawn him with a gorgeous ass. I think it's both fan culture and some work of inspired artists that got us to this point of having a canon history of Nightwing Ass. its also important to note that in the later 2010's, the idealized body included a fat ass, which was really not the case in, say, the 90s.

if anyone has earlier issues or instances of Dick Grayson ass-centrism, please send it my way. I've only read like. a quarter of all of Dick Grayson's appearances lol.

#dick grayson #nightwing #ask worm #meta #batman meta

[botnasty]

Part One: I Heard A Theory

Roommate!Bucky Barnes X F!Reader

Summary: Bucky heard an interesting theory about cum…

Words: 1,4K words

Warnings: SMUT, mention of oral F, ORAL (M), slight praise and degradation kink, slight daddy kink (like I just mention daddy once at the end lol)

Note: All mistakes are mine and please tell me if I’m missing any warnings. And also don’t be shy, if anyone wants to become mutual, just come into my inbox :)

Not proofread

Part Two

Series Masterlist

You groaned as you banged your head against the desk. The vibration making your open laptop shake and a few pencils falling to the carpet of your bedroom. It was exam week and you were exhausted. All you’ve been doing for the past day is wake up, study and eat. A very problematic routine, but it had to be done if you wanted to raise your grades.

You looked up to your laptop, your chin rested on the wood, as you looked at, what felt, hundreds of tabs open. Your laptop was so hot and loud from the overuse, you were pretty sure it was gonna explode if you used it for another second.

Just like your brain.

It was so fried you felt like you were getting dumber by the second.

A knock on the door is what makes you lean back into your chair. You turned around and smiled when you saw your roommate and best friend Bucky Barnes. He had been your best friend since middle school, so it was very fitting to move in with him when you both went to college. While you were studying medicine, he was in the art world. His dream is to become a tattoo artist, which is why his left arm is covered in tattoos.

“Hey, toots, haven't seen you in a while!” The man exclaimed as he went straight for your bed and layed on in.

“Hey, Buck, yeah sure make yourself at home.” You sarcastically said to him as you went back to your textbook.

“Well, if we are being honest here, this is technically my home, toots.”

You waved your hand at him. “Yeah, yeah.”

You jumped when you saw the pencils that felt down poking at you. Bucky had picked them for you with a big smile. “Thank you.” You grabbed them from his hands and went to your book.

As you tried to read, you couldn’t help but glance at Bucky who was still laying down on your duvet, his phone in his hand. His other hand lay on his lap, very very close to his crotch. Bucky was one hell of a man, a man you had a severe attraction to, you couldn’t lie to yourself, but never would you jeopardize your friendship.

Not until he does the first move.

You groaned as you went back to your textbook, now annoyed at the fact you were getting turned on at this moment. Your mind was flashing your image of you two, in bed, very much naked. Pictures of his big hands on your skin, his long finger inside your cunt and his tongue circling around your clit.

Your head banged once again against your desk at the flashes. Your clit was now throbbing and you needed for Bucky to get out so you could take care of it.

You heard rustling being you and a hand patting your head. “You okay in that head of yours.” Bucky laughed. “You should probably take a break before you become dumber instead of smarter.”

“This is probably the best idea you’ve ever gotten, ever.” You mumbled in your book. “I do feel stupid.”

“Well, you know. I read somewhere that if you drink cum from a smart person, you become smarter.” He suddenly said, biting the inside of his cheek, as if he was waiting for your reaction.

Your head rose up and you turned around to look at the man. “The fuck is you talking about?” Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

Bucky raised his hand up, like a sign of defeat, and looked at you with an innocent gaze. “Just saying what I read.”

You glare at him. Him and his perverseness will be the death of you. “Oh, and what is the name of your source? Is it trustworthy?” You tell him nonchalantly, slightly amused by this conversation and aroused at the same time.

“Well…” He bopped his head as he continued. “I would say, I’m pretty trustworthy.”

This made you laugh.

You shook your head. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. What am I gonna do with you?”

“Suck me off?” He innocently said.

You shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, when on the inside your heart was jumping around. “Sure.” You got up your chair and got on your knees in front of his closed legs.

Bucky seemed to be in a daze, completely caught out guard. “What?”

“Open your leg, baby. I’m gonna suck your cock.” You tap his thick thighs and part them. As you pulled down a little his grey sweatpants could swear you heard him say ‘fuck me’ under his breath. You licked your lips when you saw the outline of his cock under his sweatpants. He must not be wearing boxers which made your cunt squeeze and gush with wetness.

When you fully pulled them down, you gasped when you saw his cock slap against his stomach. He was so long and girthy, you were scared he wasn’t gonna fit in your mouth, but when you saw the pulsing vein on the side of his cock, you couldn’t help but lick your lips before placing a kiss on it.

You grabbed the base and pulled his cock closer to your mouth as you kissed it all over. On the base first and licking your way up to the tips. You smirked when you felt him twitch in your hand. “Fuck, toots. Such a fucking tease.” Bucky whimpered as he threw his head back. His hand goes to the base of your neck, gripping it with such force to keep you there.

You licked your lips when you saw pre-cum oozed out of the tip. You couldn’t wait to taste. You wrapped your lips around the tip and french kissed it, your tongue licking the cum. You moaned around his cock, when you finally got a taste of him.

“Please, stop teasing. Please.” Bucky was now begging you, but never did he push down your head so you would swallow more. He was going at your pace and you appreciate him more for that.

You could hear him beg in his breath and that was what made you snap. You opened your jaw more and swallowed him down the tip of his cock touching the back of your throat. You gagged a little before bopping your head up and down, this time with the help of Bucky. He had now placed both of his hands on your head and was pushing your head up and down his cock, all while he was moaning and grunting.

“So fucking good, baby. So warm and wet.” He praised you and you could feel your juice running down your thighs. You were so turned on by his cock and his praise that you couldn’t help but bring one of your hands down to your cunt. You pulled your panties to the side and started rubbing circles around your clit.

You looked up at Bucky and you saw his eyes darken when he saw what you were doing. “You fucking whore. Is sucking my dick that much of a turn on. My good fucking whore.” You eyes widen. He pulled your arm up and put your gush-covered fingers inside of his mouth. You were sure you could’ve been able to cum just by that and the sound he made when he tasted you.

You whined when Bucky pulled your head up, his cock sliding out of your mouth. “Open your mouth and close your eyes, baby.” He grabbed his cock and rubbed it up and down. He was glistening with your saliva. “Fuck, it’s coming, toots. Hope your ready.”

“Give it to me, daddy.” And you opened your mouth. He let out a loud moan at what you called him and rubbed faster. You shivered when you felt his cum landing inside of your mouth, on your cheeks and eyelid.

You heard him laugh as you swallowed his load. “So, do you feel smarter?”

You swiped the cum that landed on your cheek with your finger and sucked on them loudly. A whine escaped Bucky’s mouth. “Well, I do feel more relaxed than before that’s for sure.”

He brought you closer to him and kissed your lips. “Well, wanna know what else I heard.”

“What?” You said mindlessly, your eyes focused on his lips, almost pleading him to kiss you once again.

“I read that there is a better chance to get smarter: if you let someone cum inside of you. Wanna test that theory?”

Thank you for reading and feel free to repost or comment what you think :)

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #smut #bucky barnes one shot #sebastian #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan characters #marvel #marvel smut #roommate!bucky #roommate!bucky x reader #roommate!bucky barnes #roommate!au #best friend!bucky #best friend!bucky barnes #best friend!bucky x reader

[hayatheauthor]

How To Build A Realistic Magic System

Whether you’re a five year old watching Disney movies or an adult reading fantasy books, everyone loves magic. It is the heart of fantasy and the favourite trope of many authors. A good magic system should be both visually appealing and work to enhance the mood of a story. But it can be hard to make your own realistic world of magic with so many different types of magic at our disposal. 

Unsure how to build a realistic magic system? Here are six things you should consider when creating your magic world! 

1. Establish A Type Of Magic 

Authors and other creators have spent centuries establishing hundreds of different types of magic. There’s folklore, witches, magical creatures, demons, mythology and so much more. It’s good to create your unique brand of magic when world building, but there are basic facts you need to establish before you jump into your book. 

For example, in my WIP The Traitor’s Throne magic only exists in the realm of mages, however, it can be used or stored in every living being from that realm (including trees). The reason it doesn’t exist in the other realms (or the human realm, to be specific) is that there is literally magic in the air of this realm, something that the human realm lacks.  

Your readers don’t have to know all of this background information, but it’s important for you to have a clear image of your magic system before you jump into your book. 

 Here are some questions you should ask yourself when establishing your type of magic: 

How do your characters get their magic (genetics, draw it from others, etc.)? 

What does your magic look like? Can people see it? If not, why? 

Do spells, curses, and charms exist? What about potions? 

Can magic be stored in manmade objects? Why or why not? 

Is your magic akin to a witch’s or a mage’s? 

Does your magic fade with time? 

Does your magic exist in animals? What about plants? 

Do you need help with how to properly pace your world building facts while writing? Check out my previous blog post today!

2. Create Limitations 

Nothing can exist without laws. Not even magic. 

Limitations exist to make your writing seem more realistic, but they also help you create adequate boundaries and rules for your book. This can look like a set of laws followed by a society of wizards or a rule book humans need to follow when they summon and use demon magic. 

Aladdin couldn’t ask the Genie to kill people or make someone fall in love with him, Harry Potter couldn’t create limitless food for him to eat during the summers, and Percy Jackson couldn’t control the water in a human’s body. 

Tell us the dos and don’ts of your world. Establish boundaries. Create a fantasy world that feels like it could be real and maybe even exist alongside our world. 

If you are a fantasy author writing a book about a character who accesses magic through another being (a human summoning a demon, etc.) then consider creating some limitations for the summons. Maybe the human can only summon the demon once every week, maybe they can’t ask the demon to interfere with another person’s death (bring someone back to life or kill someone). 

Unsure what magical limitations to implement in your WIP? Comment down below for some personal advice! 

3. The History Of Your Magic

Everything starts somewhere. Humanity didn’t exist during the big bang theory, fire didn’t exist until humans were made. Everything has a past, so what’s your magic’s history? 

Did it always exist in the society your character lives in? Did someone just wake up one day with newfound powers? When was your magic founded? How do your characters know how to use magic? What timeline are they in? What does their fashion, architecture or mode of travel look like? 

These might not seem like important questions right now, but you could find yourself wasting precious writing time in the future mulling over how your characters get light during the nighttime. (Lanterns? Candles? Magic balls of light?)

Do you need to create a list of all the monarchs who ruled over your world throughout the past five hundred years? Of course not! But would it be helpful to know who the first monarch was and why they possessed the power and influence needed to govern your world? Yes! 

Creating a concrete history can also help you when writing dialogue for your book. Make corny history jokes or comparisons, have your character’s mother dramatically talk about how her child is like a recluse from the dark ages. 

4. How Does Your Magic Affect Your World 

One of the most important things to establish when creating a magic system is how it affects your world. Do mythical creatures exist because of the magic? What about another world? Or another species? 

You need to create a concrete setting for your book to take place in, and establish how the living beings of your world are affected by this setting. Do the trees have black trunks in your world of demons? Do pixies exist in your world of elves? 

Creating a fantasy world is only the first step, you also need to establish how this world affects the species and characters in your world. 

5. Don’t Forget The Humans! 

One of the reasons books like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson got so popular is because they gave us an excuse to believe magic was real. Maybe magic really exists but we’re just muggles who can’t see Hogwarts. Maybe the Greek gods were real all along but we can’t interact with them because we aren’t demigods. 

Give your readers that childlike sense of hope that makes them believe in magic. Make them think they might be able to meet your characters one day, if only they discovered a door to your magic school or stumbled upon a demigod in action. 

This can be easy for fantasy authors writing about a human who accidentally ends up in a fantasy world, but if you’re an author writing about non-human characters (like me) then here are some ways you can establish the presence of humans in your book: 

Humans exist, but they live in another realm/world or don’t know how to access your character’s world (the gate to the underworld in PJO). 

Humans can access your world, but the area your character lives in is surrounded by a natural body (an ocean, a forest, etc.) that humans always get lost in. Or maybe they forget their memories when they travel in it. 

Humans don’t exist, but they did centuries ago. Your character’s species had a big war against humans and they killed them all. (Or maybe they just thought they did).  

Do you need help with how to properly pace your world building facts while writing? Check out my previous blog post today!

6. Sanderson’s Laws For Magic 

Still unclear on how to establish a proper magic system? Consider looking into Sanderson’s Laws for Magic. 

If you’re a fantasy author you’ve probably already stumbled upon some variation of his laws during your worldbuilding research, but I would advise looking at Sanderson’s blog and reading his original rundown of what the laws are all about. 

In their simplest forms, Sanderson’s laws of magic are: 

Law One: An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic. 

Law Two: Limitations > Powers. 

Law Three: Expand what you already have before you add something new. 

I hope this blog on how to build a magic system will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment your favourite writing tools to help your fellow authors prosper. 

Want to learn more about me and my writing journey? Visit my social media pages under the handle @hayatheauthor where I post content about my wip The Traitor’s Throne and life as a teenage author. 

#haya's book blog #haya blogs #writing community #writing tools #creative writing #writing advice #writing help #writing tips #writing resources #writing tips and tricks #writing motivation #author tumblr #author tips #author advice #author community #author life #amwriting #writersofinstagram #book blog #book tips #book review #writing with magic

[mariacallous]

Group chats, including at least one of mine, can’t get enough. #KateGate—loosely, a collection of theories around the whereabouts and well-being of Kate Middleton, the Princess of Wales—presently seems to be occupying more brain cells than oxygen.

Gossip has been flying ever since January, when Middleton took a step back from public life for abdominal surgery. For a while it was just mindless chatter, but then Middleton posted a photo on social media, purportedly taken by her husband, Prince William, that news agencies determined had been manipulated. Then, speculation—that she’d Gone Girl’d, that the royal family was hiding something—turned fully conspiratorial, and turned the conspiracies into a cultural moment. (See also: crossover memes showing Middleton at the weird Willy Wonka experience in Glasgow.)

It is as though, two decades later, the British royal family is just now learning about the Streisand effect. Back in 2003, Barbara Streisand sued a photographer for releasing a picture of her home that few people had seen. But the suit itself, which Streisand ultimately lost, led far more people to the photo than probably would have otherwise seen it, and now there’s a whole effect named after this incident. The royals released an altered photo and now it’s part of a “-gate”: #KateGate. By trying to relay that everything is fine, the photo lured even more people into questioning what was happening with Middleton.

Bottom line: If you’re, say, a member of the monarchy, and you don’t want them thinking your “abdominal surgery” is code for getting a Brazilian butt lift, your best bet, in 2024, is transparency. Anyone with an internet connection now has the kind of bullshit detectorsthat Area 51 believers could’ve only dreamed of—or they act like they do—and they’re going to figure you out.

Granted, they may not find the “right” answer or the “truth,” but they will know when someone is trying to pull a fast one. Thirty years ago, Buckingham Palace may have been able to throw snoopers off, but the internet of 2024 will investigate like no other. We got Taylor Swift conspiracies and QAnon. People wonder if most images are AI-generated for at least a second. Going onto X (formerly Twitter) now feels like stumbling into the writers room of a CSI spinoff—everyone thinks they’re a forensics expert. If anybody, including Middleton, thought no one would notice a doctored photo on Instagram, they were sorely mistaken.

On Monday, TMZ and The Sun released a video showing the Princess of Wales out shopping with Prince William. She was seemingly alive and well. The Sun said it was releasing images of their stroll “in a bid to bring an end to what the Palace has called the ‘madness of social media.’” It did nothing of the sort. Interest in Middleton peaked the next day on Google Trends. #katemiddleton and #whereiskate now have millions of mentions across social media platforms. The madness has not calmed.

People pay attention to the British royal family for the same reason they pay attention to Game of Thrones or House of the Dragon: They love mess. Monday’s grainy footage just made the mess worse. TikTok is full of breakdown videos attempting to debunk the images. Others just wondered aloud if they’d been fully sucked in.

“This was fun for a while, and now I am genuinely at a loss,” one TikTok user posted. “I don’t know if this is how you feel when you actually lose the plot in a conspiracy theory and like five years from now everyone’s like, ‘That’s the moment when we lost them,’ or if we’re like actually watching an insane cover-up take place.”

Following the release of the shopping video and images, “friends of the royals” told The Daily Beast that Middleton would resume her public duties with a “big bang” on March 31, Easter Sunday. On Wednesday, The Cut, which previously wrote that the Middleton affair was a “crisis,” reported that Buckingham Palace was looking for a communications assistant. (Mind you, this is Buckingham, not Kensington, but same operation.) Queen Elizabeth II used to say the royal family must be seen to be believed. That may not be true much longer.

[hamsteriffic]

Miraculous Fandom Stats

Cloudy with a chance of Miraculous

As mentioned in my previous post, the ML fanfics on Ao3 can reflect changing opinions and theories. I wanted to look at this in a more qualitative manner using Ao3 tags, starting with The Miraculous Big Bang (methodology below the cut).

The Miraculous Big Bang is a fandom event that has been running for several years where people collaborate to write fanfics and draw fanart. These collections provide a good snapshot of fanfics written at a particular point in time.

🖤 Word Clouds

The Miraculous Big Bang was run in 2017, 2021, 2022, 2023, which covers a period of six years from Season 1 to Season 5 (see below the cut for more details on the methods).*

2017: There were a lot of tags that mentioned Season 2 spoilers, which suggests that these fics are based off mostly Season 1 content. This collection of fics had a lot of Historical AUs (Sample size: 32) [1].

2021: By now, Luka Couffaine and Kagami Tsurugi feature prominently in the tags for Miraculous Big Bang 2021 (Sample Size: 43 fics) [2].

2022: There are a lot of darker undertones in this word cloud (Sample size: 34 fics).

2023: Noticeable jump in fics labelled for Sentimonsters as well as LGQBTI+ tags (Sample size: 37 fics) [4]

🖤 In summary

Judging from the 2023 big bang, fics were written in the six months prior to posting, so this would cover a pretty sizeable timeframe. For example, Season 2 was aired between December 2017 and November 2018; and introduced rival love interests Luka Couffaine and Kagami Tsurugi.

Luka Couffaine was tagged an average of 10 and Kagami Tsurugi 7.7 times across 2021, 2022 and 2023.

Interestingly, Lila Rossi was introduced in s01e26 (Volpina) and was tagged 8 times in 2023, excluding other tags such as Lila lies, Lila manipulation, Evil Lila Rossi; while tags for Chloe Redemption remained constant (3 fics each in 2017, 2021, 2022, 2023).

* credit to @miraculousbigbang and clairelutra who ran the initial ML Big Bang in 2017, and @mlbigbang who ran the subsequent 2021, 2022 and 2023 Big Bang events.

📈 This Data is a snapshot of the posted fics on Ao3 on

🖤 Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to @miabrown007 and @ryanidious for their help in providing me with information for the mlbigbang 2017!

🖤 Methodology

Sample Collection

Looking at all this quantitative data is fine, but I want to go a bit deeper (but not too deep, I don’t have time to read every single fic). A good way to get an idea on the content of a fic is through the Ao3 tagging system.

I need a way to look through the tags used over time, but this seems like too a mammoth task in Ao3 (more detail on that below the cut).

The good news is that Ao3 has a feature within collections that does that for me!

My instant thought went to the Miraculous Big Bang. It’s perfect because it is an unbiased collection (e.g. if it was a birthday gift or personal collection of recs, the fics would be tailored to the person’s tastes and preferences).

Word Clouds

Word clouds are an interesting tool to quickly look at recurring words. However, major criticisms of this method is that you can lose the context the words are used in. This is a good article to describe considerations when using a word cloud [5]. However, the nature of Ao3 tags is that the context is either inherent or are merely keywords.

Data Cleaning

Now unfortunately this word cloud needed some cleaning to remove commonly used tags. When I first did this all I got was a big image with the words Miraculous, Adrien Agreste, Ladybug, Chat Noir and Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and Miraculous Big Bang which I think you can see is not very informative.

Removed Keywords: Adrien Agreste, Adrienette, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Ladybug, Chat Noir, Miraculous, Miraculous Big Bang

When these were removed, I put the tags into a free word cloud generator such as https://www.freewordcloudgenerator.com/generatewordcloud.

There is no natural language processing so I have hyphenated common phrases. Ao3's word cloud has already combined the common keywords and enlarged them, so I had to manually check how many times they appear to add them back. It's not exact but it works.

References

[1] Miraculous Big Bang 2017: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/miraculousbang2k17

[2] Miraculous Big Bang 2021: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MLBB_2021

[3] Miraculous Big Bang 2022: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MLBB_2022

[4] Miraculous Big Bang 2023: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MLBB_2023

[5] https://www.betterevaluation.org/methods-approaches/methods/word-cloud

#miraculous fanworks #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fandom #hamster stats #Fandom stats #ao3 stats #mlbigbang #mlbigbang 2023 #mlbigbang 2022 #mlbigbang 2021 #luka couffaine #kagami tsuguri #lila rossi

[shigayokagayama]

"oh hm i think this chapter might end up being really long based on what i have outlined" i said 12k words ago.

thanks everyone for reading! going to be cutting a bunch of stupid doodles i did with annotations under the cut

handful of doodles i did when i was still just conceptualizing this + hadnt figured out their designs + hadnt figured out how to draw people

speaks for itself

old doodles from a slightly different version of chapter 40 before i realized making terumob a pre established couple BEFORE this moment would make it stronger. they still kind of work but are slightly less funny than they were in the version where this was the moment teru confessed.

drew this shortly after finishing chapter 18, which i wrote WAY out of order from everything else. i think i started it around when i started chapter 5 and finished it around when i was working on chapter 10

toichiro said npc + chapter 27

the first time i saw this post i went "smtwo teru and takenaka" and at some point i just started referring to takenaka as "puzzlemaster". teru and takenakas dynamic was one of my favorite things to write because like. if you build your entire persona off building a false image of yourself youre not gonna be a big fan of someone who can immediately see past that

saw this post and couldnt stop thinking of chapter 35

ok now in the realm of "doodles that started as jokes in dms" me and @teruthecreator were talking about that video where jerma fucks up pancakes in nancy drew and the idea of teru giving toichiro an absolutely dogshit unreadable pancake recipe while hes at claw that he fucks up and burns the building down

ok so this is the beginning of what came to be known as the "double date dimension" or "dinner date dimension". i shared a screencap of me adding the line about ritsu suggesting that he and shou have a double date with whoever asked mob out and the Knowers (a groupchat i started with two of my friends i made as mentally ill as me about this fic) went "this would be the most uncomfortable dinner ever can you imagine" and just kept expanding it until it sort of turned into a sitcom universe version of smtwo. dont be surprised if you see this fanfiction at some point in the future

more from the double date dimension where mob invites ritsu to a halloween party without telling him its a claw company halloween party. teru and mob go in matching costumes as the flying dead pig and the pigeon whos eyes the movie is told from (i snuck in a reference to this bc its too funny to me). takenaka goes as "book accurate frankenstein" because hes too lazy to make a costume. mob gets unbelievably wasted on jungle juice because no one told him the punch was spiked.

another from the double date dimension where they host a white elephant and teru buys a really nice gift specifically for mob and tries to get mob to steal it but mob doesnt really understand the aim of the game and ends up with a boxset of the big bang theory (dubbed) and teru gets so overcome with despair he develops a fever and is unable to speak or move from his spot on the couch as mob puts on big bang theory for him (this is based on a true story)

#mp100 #mob psycho 100 #ageswap

[b0w-ties-are-cool]

Baby Fever (Eleventh Doctor x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You are doom-scrolling on the internet and there are baby images and videos everywhere. You might just convince your boyfriend. NSFW FOUND HERE

Warning(s): no use of y/n, baby fever obvi, some suggestive language but I cut all the smut out of this one

Word count: 562

You had convinced your boyfriend, the Doctor, to get an actual phone so that you could send him TikToks. After about a week of trying to convince him he finally gave in. It was soon after that your for you page got delightfully plagued with videos of babies. These videos poured fuel on your baby fever ember.

You started saving them to your favorites and sending them to your boyfriend. Your baby fever started to get so bad that you had dreams about you and the Doctor having a baby. At that point, you didn't know if you were daydreaming or nightdreaming.

Babies took over your TikTok, Pinterest, and Instagram. You made mental notes of baby names that you liked. You knew that their name would have to be unique. You particularly liked Sailor, Zamora, Atlas, and Kya.

You are currently lying on the couch in your three bedroom apartment in Chicago. It has a grey-brown aesthetic with a grey couch and brown wooden coffee. You had a Roku TV, you turned on The Big Bang Theory just to have background noise as you scrolled on Pinterest.

You and the Doctor are babysitting your sister's kids. Technically her and her kids lived with you, you just take care of them because she has a night job.

You had gotten the 2 year old twins, Logan and Landon, to bed. You had bunk beds with rails for them. And there was a crib in there as well for your sister's 9 month old, Bella. You had tasked the Doctor with putting Bella to bed.

You hear footsteps approach you, and you look up to see the Doctor standing behind you.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" He asks as he shows you his phone that is open to his TikTok messages with all the baby videos that you sent him.

"...No..." You say awkwardly, "They were on my FYP."

"Apparently on your Pinterest too," He states, looking at your phone screen and raising his eyebrows.

"And Instagram..." You mutter, your face is burning.

The Doctor chuckles, "Got a bad case of the baby fever?"

"Yeeessss!" You whine and drag out the pronunciation of the e and the s. You sit up and turn around to face the Doctor. "Impregnate me goddamnit!" You shout playfully.

The Doctor laughs while mouthing 'no' and shakes his head at your shenanigans.

"That could be my Christmas gift!" You grin up at him, biting your lip mischievously.

"Your Christmas gift?" The Doctor questions, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows at you. There is a hint of a smile that he is trying to hold back.

"Yes!" You exclaim, "Or right now." You stand up from your spot on the loveseat and walk up to him, knowing exactly what to say to convince him. "Breed me, Doctor," You whisper in his ear.

Before you knew it, you were in your bedroom. The Doctor kisses and leaves marks on your neck. Your hand rests on the back of his head, your fingers tangled in his hair.

~~~time skip~~~

He places a kiss on your forehead then lays down next to you.

You turn your head to look at him. "We were supposed to be babysitting..." You mutter with a laugh.

"Babysitting, baby making. They go hand in hand." The Doctor jokes with a smile.

#doctor who #eleventh doctor #eleventh doctor x reader #baby fever #eleventh doctor x you

[anonymouspuzzler]

every day I put Kamal into situations for fun, because I am a monster.

(full transcript slash detailed image description under cut!)

Panel 1 shows Kamal, wearing a blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, in line at the grocery store holding a deli ticket. There is a purple-skinned, sharp-nosed woman standing in front of him, with a dirty-brown ponytail and swooping bangs, maroon sweater, tan purse on her left shoulder and a grey grocery basket on her right arm. Putunia is to Kamal's left, pulling on his arm, while he looks back at her with mild annoyance and the woman glances over her shoulder at them both. Putunia (shouting): KAMAL KAMAL KAMAL KAMAL KAMAAAAL KAMAL Kamal: what Putunia (still shouting): THIS IS BORING I WANNA GO PICK OUT A SODA INSTEAD OF STANDING IN BORING LINE Kamal: We have soda. You know what we don't have? Deli turkey.

In panel 2, the woman looks back at Kamal with an amused smile, while Kamal looks back at her in confusion. Putunia, still holding Kamal's arm with both hands, sticks her tongue out at him petulantly with a "bleh!!" sound effect. Woman: Oh, my. Your daughter calls you by your name...? Kamal: my what

Panels 3 through 5 contain a long chain of connected, segmented Kamal rambling as he gets progressively more anxious - in panel 3, he is looking back at Putunia with shocked realization; in panel 4, he is fanning himself with one hand with a nervous smile; in panel 5, he has both hands palm-to-palm in front of his face, avoiding eye contact with a tight humorless grin. Kamal: OH. oHhHhH no no no no no. nope. no that is. EXTREMELY not the case. like. at all, with this. I mean I should probably specify that legally I am her guardian this is not a random child I have. which. maybe doesn't sound like a big distinction. just. [text getting smaller] sorry the idea of producing a child from my actual human body is just a nightmare even in theory. [text even smaller] which I'm realizing maybe sounds awful to you given I assume you are a parent which is why you started this whole conversation oh god

Panel 6 cuts back to the three in line, with the woman looking taken aback by the rambling and Kamal looking incredibly anxious, with arms tight at his side and a smile that more resembles a grimace. Habit, wearing a pink sweater-vest over a light blue button-up, walks up behind him holding up a grey grocery basket full of various vegetables, smiling with sparkles around his head. Putunia has turned around to shout at Habit, fists in the air. Habit (in misspelled Habitspeak): Kamaaal look at all the veggies that were on sale (smiley face) Putunia (shouting): YOU AND YOUR VEGETABLES BEGONE, GREEN MENACE!!!

Panel 7 cuts in closer, showing the woman, Kamal and Habit from roughly the shoulders-up. The woman still looks taken aback, Kamal's anxious grimace threatens to consume his entire face, and Habit is still smiling placidly, placing a hand on top of Kamal's head. Woman: Why does she call your husband a menace... Kamal: AGAIN, NOT, OUR SITUATION, Habit (in misspelled Habitspeak): Yes, Kamal and I live in, "sin" Kamal (shouting, cut off by the edge of the page): BORIS

#smile for me #kamal bora #boris habit #putunia mollar #habismal #anonymous puzzler art #i genuinely still think Habit saying with that face 'kamal and i live in sin' is one of the funniest thing i've ever done #like that joke is for me alone #sometimes you just gotta draw something because it makes You Alone laugh. that's how i operate at least

[worstcharacterpoll]

Thanks for playing! Here's the summary (long post incoming)

[Image description: A 32-entry tournament bracket in black and red titled "Tumblr's most hated." It is a visual representation of the summary described below. Notably, Ross as the "winner" is wearing a Burger King paper crown, and Walter White and Mort as revival contestants have steel chairs edited in next to them. End ID]

First round summary with bracket links (see the individual posts for vote counts, percentages, and comments):

Vriska Serket (Homestuck) vs. Pearl (Steven Universe); Vriska won

Rex (Victorious) vs. Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty); Rick won

Ansem the Wise (Kingdom Hearts) vs. Gul Dukat (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine); Ansem TW won

Kylo Ren (Star Wars) vs. Kokichi Ouma (Danganronpa); Kylo won

Scrappy Doo (Scooby-Doo) vs. Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory); Sheldon won

Pierre (Stardew Valley) vs. Mort (Madagascar); Pierre won

Seraphine (League of Legends) vs. Heimskr (Skyrim); Heimskr won

Jurgen Leitner (The Magnus Archives) vs. Andre Glacier (Miraculous Ladybug); Andre won

Walter White (Breaking Bad) vs. Light Yagami (Death Note); Light won

Buck Cluck (Chicken Little) vs. Ross Geller (Friends); Ross won

Bramblestar (Warriors) vs. Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic); Bramblestar won

Goro Akechi (Persona 5) vs. Pariston Hill (Hunter x Hunter); Pariston won

Katsuki Bakugo (My Hero Academia) vs. Berdly (Deltarune); Katsuki won

Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel) vs. The Impostor (Among Us); Angel won

Olaf (Frozen) vs. Hooty (The Owl House); Olaf won

Zenos viator Galvus (Final Fantasy XIV) vs. Tony Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe); Tony won

In the second round, I brought back Walter and Mort because they lost by slim margins in the first round. Here's the summary:

Vriska Serket (Homestuck) vs. Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty); Rick won

Ansem the Wise (Kingdom Hearts) vs. Kylo Ren (Star Wars); Kylo won

Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory) vs. Pierre (Stardew Valley); Sheldon won

Heimskr (Skyrim) vs. Andre Glacier (Miraculous Ladybug) vs. Walter White (Breaking Bad); Andre won

Light Yagami (Death Note) vs. Ross Geller (Friends); Ross won

Bramblestar (Warriors) vs. Pariston Hill (Hunter x Hunter) vs. Mort (Madagascar); Mort won

Katsuki Bakugo (My Hero Academia) vs. Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel); Angel won

Olaf (Frozen) vs. Tony Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe); Tony won

Round 3 was when I got marked as spam and shadowbanned (I know it wasn't actually a "shadowban," but that's the term) so there were less votes overall in this round. But I don't think redoing the round would have altered the results, and they still got over 1k votes each.

Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty) vs. Kylo Ren (Star Wars); Kylo won

Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory) vs. Andre Glacier (Miraculous Ladybug); Sheldon won

Ross Geller (Friends) vs. Mort (Madagascar); Ross won

Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel) vs. Tony Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe); Tony won

In the semifinals we were down to four live-action white dudes which I find kind of sums up what kind of character people on tumblr hate on its own. These were a week long because I was still shadowbanned but I think I got my blog restored partway through this round.

Kylo Ren (Star Wars) vs. Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory); Sheldon won

Ross Geller (Friends) vs. Tony Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe); Ross won

And then there were two, and I did my best to create art for the finals so please check it out in the link.

Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory) vs. Ross Geller (Friends)

Ross won. It wasn't even that close. So as promised, he was publicly executed. In Skyrim. Because what else would it be.

Personally I never watched Friends so Ross sweeping was not what I expected lol. There were some characters I put on opposite ends of the bracket because I thought the finals would be Vriska vs. Bakugo or Kylo vs. Tony or something like that. But it turns out people really hate annoying sitcom dudes, at least from the sample size that voted in this poll.

I'm doing another tournament soon and I'm currently taking nominations so please check out @youngersiblingstournament if you're interested :) thanks for playing!

#worst character poll

[mysticstronomy]

BIG BANG DOES NOT EXPLAIN COSMIC CREATION??

Blog#279

Wednesday, March 15th, 2023

Welcome back,

Images taken by the James Webb Space Telescope show galaxies forming early in cosmic history, and they have been making plenty of news. Pictures of mature galaxies in a baby Universe shocked many cosmologists because they defy established theories about galaxy formation and cosmic history.

Unfortunately, some media outlets have taken these images out of their context, reporting that they disprove the Big Bang itself. This could not be further from the truth, but the hubbub gives us a good opportunity to explain what the Big Bang Theory is actually about. There are plenty of surprises in the story.

We are often told that the Big Bang is a theory of cosmic creation — that it tells us how the Universe was created out of nothing and went on to evolve into all the galaxies, stars, and planets. The problem with that characterization is that only the second part of it is true. Yes, what we call the Big Bang is a theory of cosmic evolution. But the Inflationary Universe standard model that guides cosmology says nothing about cosmic origins. The birth of space, time, matter, and energy is simply not there.

A little history will help us understand why.

The Big Bang’s first theoretical incarnation originated with Georges Lemaître, a shy Catholic priest and physicist. Lemaître had made a name for himself by showing that Einstein’s general relativity could easily account for Edwin Hubble’s famous finding that the Universe was expanding. Having caught the cosmology bug (there were very few scientists working in the field back then) Lemaître went further, proposing an idea he called the primeval atom.

Even then, Lemaître understood a problem that still haunts cosmological accounts of the Universe’s origin. It is an issue called Kant’s First Antinomy. Two centuries before Lemaître, the philosopher Immanuel Kant asked how the Universe could be explained through a deterministic cause when it must be the very thing that embraces all causes. Since the Universe encompasses all things and, therefore, all causes, what can exist outside of it to set the Universe in motion?

Lemaître got around this by using the new science of quantum mechanics. In his description, all matter and energy were initially in the form of a giant cosmic atom. Lemaître knew that quantum mechanics had already shown radioactive atoms can decay at any time without an actual cause. (Large groups of such atoms do decay along strict, statistically measurable times.)

So, Lemaître reasoned, the primeval atom jumped over the problem of Kant’s First Antinomy by decaying spontaneously.

The products of that decay then decayed into further decay products that decayed as well, finally leaving us with all the particles we see today.

Of course, this is not the way cosmology tells the story now. But Lemaître already knew that his formulation did not really solve the First Antinomy, because it did not explain where the primeval atom came from.

Originally published on bigthink.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, March 18th, 2023)

"DARK ENERGY COULD LEAD TO A SECOND BIG BANG??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #spacecraft #universe #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography