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princeasimdiya12 · 1 month

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Bucchigiri Utena Parallel-Wannabe Heroes and the Illusion of Fairy Tales

Apart from the NNL segments, I've also had some thoughts on the Bucchigiri storyline and it's parallels to the themes of Revolutionary Girl Utena. And this time my focus as been on Matakara, who has often been hailed as being the true protagonist and hero of the story because of his honorable, kind-hearted and proactive qualities. Much like Utena herself.

And like Utena, the two share a somber backstory where they held on to fairy tale beliefs to help them overcome their hardships and grow into the heroic figures they wish to be. But what they don't know is that they naively followed these tales without realizing the misinterpretations of those beliefs that have been passed down for generations and would soon become victims of the fairy tale figures that once inspired them.

But before I can delve into that story, we need to talk about this story.

Note: This post will contain MAJOR SPOILERS from the Revolutionary Girl Utena anime. If you still haven't watched it and want to be unspoiled, then please refrain from reading this until you've seen it. If that doesn't bother you, then go on ahead. Also, I would strongly recommend speaking with a friend or a reliable user about the dark and trigger-worthy content featured in Utena before watching. It's a great show but it does get DARK.

Also, there's another user who's planning on making an analysis post comparing Matakara and Anthy Himemiya so keep an eye out for that if you're interested in more Bucchigiri-Utena parallels.

Part 1: Origins of an Orphan

To start, Matakara's backstory and his idolization of Arajin has multiple similarities to Utena's backstory. For the purpose of this section, I'll be using the version that was shown to us in Episode 1 and not the true version.

"Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a little princess and she was very sad. For her mother and father have died."

The first piece of info that Utena gives us is that she was an orphan and was in despair because of her parents' deaths. Though Matakara's own parents haven't been brought up nor has it been explained what became of them, it's clear that he lost them at an early age. And while he did have his older brother and his presumed relatives to watch over him, this did very little in helping Matakara overcome his grief or escape the shadows that haunted him since he was little.

"Before the princess appeared a traveling prince riding upon a white horse. He had a regal bearing and a kind smile. The prince wrapped the princess in a rose-scented embrace and gently wiped the tears from her eyes."

While lacking the regal bearing and white horse, Arajin was the traveling prince who came into Matakara's life and inspired hope and light within him. As shown in their flashbacks, he was always a friendly and cheerful boy who radiated confidence and spirit. A true hero that Matakara could look up to and help him overcome his sorrow.

"Little one, he said, growing up alone in such deep sorrow, never lose that strength and nobility. Even when you are a young lady. I give you this to remember this day, we will meet again. This ring will lead you to me one day."

The crux of Matakara and Arajin's friendship was their desire to train and grow into becoming true Honki people. Warriors with strong hearts and did not flee from battle. Arajin genuinely saw that Matakara had that potential and encouraged him to train alongside him.

And what's more noteworthy is that the two are given a token to immortalize the moment. Utena is given a rose ring to remember the prince and her own nobility while Matakara is given a friendship stone to remember their bond as future Honki People. Even as their fated princes leave, the two heroes carry those precious tokens well into their adolescence years, never forgetting their mission of becoming the people they want to be.

It could also be argued that Mitsukuni, his older brother, could qualify as the prince in this scenario as he inspired him to stay strong in the face of adversity. Such as in Episode 8 where he explained the creed of the Honki and how he inspired his little brother to be brave like them. He even brings up their creed to Matakara just before he's hauled away to the big house.

"Perhaps the ring the prince gave her was an engagement ring. This was all well and good but so impressed was she by him that that the princess vowed to become a prince herself one day."

So the cherished prince rides off into the world leaving Utena alone, much like Arajin and even Mitsukuni would leave Matakara alone because of their respective issues. But rather then succumbing to despair, the two heroes resolved to maintain the noble spirit that those heroic figures saw in them. Utena went on to become a prince herself while Matakara would become someone worthy of being a Honki person. Though Matakara struggled more on his journey given how he threw himself into bloody battles while being alone, he would eventually be adopted into the Minato Kai Gang and become closer on his path to becoming a Honki person.

And just before we can go straight to Utena's story in the present, the fairy tale closes with a question to the viewer.

"But was that really such a good idea?"

For first time viewers, it's easy to interpret this question about Utena, a girl, becoming a prince since it defies traditional gender roles and what is expected in classic fairy tales. But as the RGU story progresses, we see that the concern comes not from a girl becoming a prince but more on the problems that come with being one.

Two in particular stand out. The first is that men who become princes usually use those roles for the sake of superiority and having control over women. They lack the nobility a true prince should have and relish in the title because of it's power and privileges. The second problem, and the one that this analysis post will focus on, is how princes who live up to those roles are exploited by the people they try to protect.

Part 2: The Truth That is Twisted by Time

All fairy tales, legends, myths and stories which have been passed from one generation to the next. And as the years go by, those stories are often subject to adaptations based on the preferences of the storyteller or how society uses those tales to explain their respective beliefs. A common criticism is how most fairy tales have more imaginative elements in play and avoid the grittier elements that the tale originally used (Ex. Cinderella got her dresses from a tree instead of a fairy godmother and her stepsisters chopped off parts of their feet to get the slipper to fit, Aladdin used African slaves as part of his prince con).

And we see those changes in adaptations in the fairy tales Utena showcased that omit or warp the truth to the ones who hear of them.

Such as in Utena's origins, we're told that it was only a prince who inspired her to become one so she can reunite with him one day. But the truth was that her decision was because she met Anthy who was suffering from the hatred of humanity. And the only way to rescue her was to turn into a prince whom she could believe in.

We also see a new adaptation in the backstory of Anthy and Akio which is now known to the world as The Tale of the Rose. The world remembers their story involving a powerful and perfect prince who was stolen from them by his sister who turned into a wicked witch out of jealousy. But the truth was that Anthy sealed him away not out of spite but out of love and concern as her brother was being exploited and over exhausted by a massive, unsatisfied world who overly-depended on him.

So as Utena demonstrates, the fairy tales we start out learning about aren't exactly as true as their origins demonstrate. They often omit or do away with the more tragic and gray aspects of the characters in those stories. This is all well and good, but what does that say about the Honki People?

Right in Episode 1, we're told that they're courageous and valiant fighters who train nonstop and pour their heart and soul into battle. Despite being brushed off as a simple old story in the present day, their legends and battles prove worthy enough of recognition. They have a temple in their honor, Arajin and Mataraka trained to become like them, and even the city is named after them. The narrative does a decent job in explaining the concept of the Honki People, but what about the people that inspired those legends?

As we see in Episode 9, we learn that Senya and Ichiya actually started out as ordinary humans who dedicated their lives to training and fighting one another, hoping to become a true Honki Person. It's stated that Ichiya was training himself to be a Honki Person so the legend was already around when the two of them were only boys growing up in a Middle Eastern town. And fitting the Aladdin parallels, Senya started out as a simple street rat with no family or home to call his own. And after meeting someone as cool, powerful and inspiring as Ichiya, he decided to spend his life alongside someone he could call his friend.

A rather somber element is that while the whole world grew up learning and embracing the Legend of the Honki, none of them actually knew who those Honki People were or what their past lives were like. Would it even matter to them how they started as humble street urchins with no family or home to call their own? They knew what they turned into, but they never stop to think about who these legends started out as or what their backstories or even their names are.

But what's more tragic is what became of Ichiya, the one who inspired Senya. Though we still don't know the exact details for what Senya did that tarnished their friendship, it ultimately impacted his best friend for the worst, corrupting his heart and letting him be filled with hatred and contempt. He no longer valued friendship like he did when he was human and views it as a weakness that must be purged. Perhaps becoming a true Honki Person wasn't all it's cracked up to be given how they're bound to pistols and made to serve whoever finds him for thousands of years.

It's akin to the Rose Prince who's powers were sealed away by Anthy in a desperate act of love leaving him unable to save the world like he used to. Only because of his powerless state did the Prince lose his heart and became a cruel, manipulative and spiteful monster who longed to reclaim what once belonged to him. He would even resort to inflicting every form of abuse imaginable onto his sister as "punishment" for what she did to him. (And yes I do mean every form so please keep that in mind if you haven't seen Utena yet!)

The hero who was glorified and admired in their respective tales loses their nobility in real life, allowing themselves to be corrupted and be filled with new desires of revenge and power. Transforming into the opposite of what they represented in the generations that told their stories. Simply put, they become a villain.

A villain who is...

Part 3: The Virtuous Victim Turned Vile Villain

Bucchigiri and Revolutionary Girl Utena are shows that share the themes of fairy tales while deconstructing and subverting tropes associated with them. One of which that the two share is playing on the idea of a heroic or fairy tale archetype (the genie and the prince) becoming the villain of their respective shows. It's even more ironic that the true heroes of those series would start out being inspired by adaptations of them that portrayed them in a positive light only for to fall prey to their schemes when they meet them in real life. Bucchigiri has Ichiya, a true Honki Person that Matakara heavily looked up to, and Utena has Akio, the Fallen Prince Dios who led the sad princess on the path to becoming a noble prince.

Each of them started out as the ideal fairy tale figure that helped the heroes when they were only children who confronted sadness and loneliness at a young age. But now that they're older and are meeting with them, they end up falling victims to the fairy tales they initially admired and tried to become. And neither of them realize that they're being used as it happens.

Ichiya's goal is ultimately to merge with Matakara to take over his body and exact his revenge on Senya. As to what Ichiya's motives are after taking his revenge aren't clear, but what is clear is that Matakara will lose himself after being completely possessed. And because Matakara is suffering through his feelings of loneliness and his childhood friend's true nature, he doesn't even notice how Ichiya is manipulating him to improve the merge rate.

Akio's goal has been to groom Utena into producing a noble heart that can help him reclaim his original powers, even leading her in an intimate relationship to further manipulate her. Should he succeed, then he'll discard Utena and move with his life as Prince Dios once again. If not, then he'll discard her and find another person to groom. And Utena doesn't realize this as she's led to believe that he's the prince who once saved her from despair and she'll get the happily ever after she believed will make her content.

The scary part about this, is that they're not the first victims to fall prey to their wicked schemes.

Though it hasn't been confirmed on Ichiya's side, it's heavily implied that he's bonded with other people who found his magic pistol before taking full possession of them. Given how he's lived for thousands of years and initially resided in a public Honki temple, there's no way he would have not been found by some unlucky sap. His common knowledge of possession would suggest he's done this before and has seen the unfortunate results of the person he takes control of, which he mentions to Akutaro.

As for Akio, he also has lived for thousands of years and organized constant Rose Duels in the vain hope of choosing one lucky winner to steal their heart so he can break. Using his sister as a prize to be one, there have been countless tournaments held with the hopes of finding the right target that can help him regain his powers from the Rose Gate.

Alas, neither villain was successful with their attempts given that they've turned their sights on the new generation of heroes to continue their cursed wishes that have lasted for centuries.

And speaking of wishes, remember how I brought up in Part 2 how fairy tales were much darker compared to the more enchanting stories we grew up with?

Well thanks to a peculiar finding by @mahoromouse, I came to realize something about Ichiya and possibly Honki people in general. They're not even genies, they're djinn.

Contrary to the Western media's adaptation of genies as whimsical, playful, wish granting spirits who are voiced by beloved comedians, djinn were actually neutral spirits who were born from fire and were able to wander the Earth like humans do. That said, there are some djinn who grow stronger when interacting with negative emotions found in a human being. It's even said that they can inspire greater levels of negative emotions in a human that they target. Much like how Ichiya is cultivating Mataraka's anger towards Arajin and his fears of the shadows that haunt him.

And how fitting it is that from the moment Senya was introduced to us, Arajin and the audience interpreted him as a genie. Especially given that Senya even offers him a wish while proclaiming that "Honki" can also be spelled to make "Majin" 魔ま人 which in Japanese means "demon person" or "magical person". But have we actually seen Senya grant Arajin's wish of losing his virginity? While he does help the boy in getting stronger and boosting his image as a man, that doesn't mean it's gotten him very close to losing his virginity (thank goodness). And it can be inferred that Ichiya never granted Akutaro's wish despite having stayed by his side during his reign as the NG Emperor.

Given how the Western's portrayal of genies have been popularized and glamorized for years, we have easily forgotten the true origins of genies or djinn and the grittier aspects associated with their backstories.

Conclusions

The theme that the two shows share is how a child who was in a dark moment in their life was inspired by a fairy tale to help them find the light. And so touched were they by the heroes in the stories that they decided to become just like them. But as their respective shows demonstrated, that wasn't a very good idea. The Prince and the Honki Person they once admired turned out to be monsters who resolved to exploit them and reclaim something that was lost to them many years ago. And because they grew up with the romanticized and ideal versions of their idols, they never realized the truth about them which was lost in time mixed with ongoing adaptations that omitted their pasts making them more acceptable to the world.

As for whether Matakara will be saved from Ichiya's corruption while still gaining a heart that does not flee, I cannot say. But as it stands, it looks like Arajin will need to be the one to come in and save the boy he once inspired and who still holds dearly in his heart. And just like I mentioned in my last NNL segment, maybe their friendship won't be the same anymore despite defeating Ichiya. Maybe Matakara will still harbor negative feelings to his friend for how he was mistreated and abandoned for so many years. But much like how Utena ended on a hopeful ending, I believe the same thing can happen in Bucchigiri.

And those are my thoughts on the matter. It's been a great while since I wrote an analysis post this big so thank you if you committed to reading all of this. So what do you think of these themes? If you agree or disagree with anything I've written, please feel free to reblog and/or comment with your own ideas. Thank you and may you have a great day/night!

#bucchigiri #bucchigiri?!#revolutionary girl utena #rgu spoilers #matakara asamine #utena tenjou #arajin tomoshibi #mitsukuni asamine #ichiya #senya #akio ohtori #anthy himemiya #fairy tales #analysis #eddy's post #loving these parallels #anime #long post

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002yb · 8 months

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jason revival au where he comes back but he’s amnesiac and talia still helps him and all that but somehow through all of this he ends up applying to be bruce wayne’s new secretary under a different last name and bruce is like “jason?!” while jason is like “uh…do i know you?”

Bruce only goes to the interview because HR badgers him about it relentlessly. While all the candidates are qualified (and all have been vetted to control for further liability with baseless scandal), they insist they want someone Bruce has some natural rapport with - some base level chemistry that will ensure a good fit and reduce potential turnover.

And Bruce could care less, honestly. He runs his own calendar and delegates to a team of trusted individuals to handle the day-to-day tasks that would bog his day down otherwise. The company wants to give him a babysitter is what's happening. Someone to keep an eye on him and ensure he does the unavoidable work he often puts off in favor of other nightly ventures.

Bruce isn't sure what he expects when he takes that last meeting. He's seen all manner of people in the past weeks as he's met with final candidates, refusing them one after another because they lacked the backbone or malleability he needed.

The final candidate of the current batch knocks on the door and Bruce waves them in without raising his gaze from his phone. It's rude of him, but he has more pressing matters to worry about. Some case. Or some family drama.

All it takes is the sound of their voice and Bruce's heart stutters in his chest. Because he knows it - not so much the sound (because gone is the high lilt of childhood and the squeak that came with his voice breaking), but the cadence, the way each word falls from that tongue:

'Evening, boss.'

Bruce looks up and sees a ghost. He sees the son whose body he held - lifeless. He sees the child he buried. A fallen soldier, a lost friend, someone so impossibly dear whom Bruce mourned.

And he can't find his own voice. He can't trust his eyes. Bruce can't move a muscle; his breath catches and he knows something is wrong. Fear toxin or something meta. Help him.

From Jason's perspective, he sees Wayne Enterprises CEO go worryingly pale. It's like he's haunted, only Jason doesn't know why. Trouble in WE paradise? A too long work day without having taken care of himself?

It would be part of his responsibilities to look after Mr. Wayne, but job responsibilities are the furthest thing from Jason's mind when he pushes forward to look after Bruce. Tentatively approaching and offering him water, making sure he's okay and 'should I call someone for you, boss? we can do the interview another time if you're not well?'

And Bruce shakes himself, because no. No, please stay.

The interview continues. It's strangely personal. Nothing very professional about it no matter how Jason tries to steer things that direction. He figures maybe Mr. Wayne is just grounding himself after whatever episode he had. Jason humors it as best he can.

Bruce really does look sick though. Let Jason call him a ride or something - Bruce clearly needs rest.

And Bruce panics because no, no. It's just -- he hasn't eaten yet. Low blood sugar. Come with him? They can continue the interview over a meal.

Just Bruce vying for anything to stay with Jason longer. So that he doesn't have to be apart from him as he tries to figure out how.

If it's a hallucination or some mind trick -- let him have it. Please, please.

And yeah. They actually order in and eat at Bruce's desk. They're all Jason's forgotten favorites and Jason is none the wiser. His smile is as brilliant as Bruce remembers though and he finds peace in it.

Because it would be strange to hire this boy after such an informal interview though, Bruce lobs a few relevant questions Jason's way. One of which is one that presses on him: why WE? He's curious if some part of Jason's subconscious remembered him in this way? It's clear his boy has amnesia, but there must be something that drew him here of all places.

Maybe there is, but Jason can't up and say that (yet). It's not any less true that Jason is drawn to the charitable side of Wayne Enterprises - the Martha Wayne Foundation. Bruce does a lot for Gotham. He's helped out a lot of communities that really need it and Jason openly admits he has the ulterior motive of wanting to see Bruce well and able to continue that good work in charitable giving. And yeah, maybe it's all a tax write off, but Bruce makes the active decision to remain headquartered in Gotham. It provides work and stimulates their economy. Those funds go into all those projects in the hurting communities of Gotham. More jobs for them that are good and honest and give them an opportunity to break a vicious cycle and --

Jason rambling in a way about all the nuances to WE and the impact of all the choices Bruce makes with the Foundation and any excess giving he does that he hadn't before, but it's still so Jason. So kind and compassionate and beautiful.

Bruce extends the job offer on the condition that Jason start the next day. Were Jason to call that bluff, Bruce would have folded. He would have given Jason anything he wanted. A different start time, a sign on bonus regardless of if it's not customary for the position or not; extra vacation, a pay bump, anything everything Bruce will give him the world if only to keep Jason save and in his sights always.

Jason only makes one request: he's looking after a kid for now. A temporary arrangement, but... he'll need to check on him throughout the day and --

Bring him, Bruce tells him. Because he's serious. He'll open a daycare. The child can have their own office, for all he cares. Bruce will have Alfred pick them up from school and provide meals; whatever is needed.

And Jason laughs, a titter of sound that could bring Bruce to his knees were he not already sitting. It makes his stomach swoop and his eyes burn. It's been so damn long.

They talk for a while longer, until Jason really has to return to look after said kid. The son of the woman who helped him get on his feet. Jason played nanny and the kid got attached. Jason promises he has a lot of experience; he'll make sure Bruce eats and rests properly.

Bruce falling in love with Jason again (platonic romantic, it doesn't matter).

And when Bruce eventually sends him off for the night, of course he follows. He stays looking on from the apartment complex over, watching Jason through a dingy, lit up window with sheer drapes as Jason lives a humble, domestic life free of heartache and suffering.

It's selfish of him. Bruce knows he brought this boy so much pain, but he can't let him go. He'll ruin him again. He won't be apart from Jason any more.

Extra: the boy, Damian, looks suspiciously like Bruce and he's bemused by it. There's something else about him that's strikingly familiar, too (Talia), but Bruce is at an honest lost. Too endeared by how the boy seems to have inherited many of Jason's habits.

#brujay #frostedcinnamon #what a fun idea!#thank you for sharing <3 #secretary au

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holy-puckslibrary · 3 months

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━ 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?”

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alagaesia-headcanons · 7 months

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I'll never get enough of the AUs where Murtagh in some way, at some point ends up in Carvahall instead of Uru'baen. There are so many potential variations of how he gets there and who he stays with and even the little differences have some really fun effects. I'm especially intrigued by the idea of Murtagh growing up there while still clearly remembering Morzan and his dragon and where he came from. I think it makes for an interesting counterpoint to canon where Murtagh can't escape his past and his father's legacy because that's what everyone sees in him. Instead, in Carvahall, his past becomes such a dangerous taboo that it can't even be acknowledged, much less focused on. Rather than his past restricting him in its grasp, it keeps sliding out of his own grasp, defying all his efforts to understand what it means for him and what everyone else might feel about it. Black and blue eyes and gleaming red scales haunt his dreams, but he has to swallow those memories down every time.

Assuming Murtagh grows up with Garrow and Marian, when he first arrives with all his fear, he's determined to never breath a word about any of that. But he gets older and starts to second guess that resolve- Eragon aches to know who his father is and Murtagh hates lying to him. He deserves to eventually know the truth (what Murtagh thinks is true, that is), even if it's painful. And it gnaws at Murtagh's own heart to wonder if his family would accept him if they knew, or if the only thing perpetuating his acceptance is their ignorance. At night, he tosses and turns wondering if he's turning out just like his father, a question he can never answer because he has no reference of Morzan beyond his own dim, scattered memories.

One of my favorite AUs like this that exist inside my brain follows that track and actually stays very close to canon. Murtagh grows up alongside Eragon, and plans to tell him about his past when he turns 16, but before that, the Ra'zac arrive and he's tortured as well as Garrow. He pulls through only to discover Eragon vanished with Brom and he goes to track them down, eventually saving them when they're the ones at the Ra'zac's mercy. Then when he's kidnapped and enslaved, there's so much more heartbreak and guilt because he's pitted against everyone he grew up with and cares for. And maybe Brom gets to live so there can be a reckoning when Murtagh does tell Eragon what he believes about their parentage, following him as he struggles for the courage to face his son and tries to find any way to help his step son, before it's all too late.

For something that goes quite differently, I've been thinking through an AU where both Selena and Morzan live. Selena fakes Murtagh's death to disguise her stealing him away and she and Brom raise him and Eragon in Carvahall. They love and protect them fiercely and the boys grow up safe and happy, but whenever Murtagh tries to ask about the things that happened before, they swiftly shut him down and dissuade him from ever mentioning it out of their own fear of the past. It leaves him feeling out of place and fragmentary. And that comes at a cost when Morzan appears, under orders to search for the egg. Murtagh has to hurriedly figure out what he was never able to, now with so much danger hanging in the balance, because no matter how Morzan could want to treat him, that might not matter against the king's orders. And Selena and Brom have to confront their own snarled relationships with Morzan that were never truly laid to rest. (It also caters to my desire to jerry rig the three of them into a very messy and emotionally charged polycule.)

In that one, I build something more redeemable into Morzan's character (soon I definitely plan to elaborate on why I find that a fascinating angle to take with him). I don't know if anyone would want it, but I wrote a drabble for that AU when Murtagh first sees Morzan again, and I could brush it up and post it. [EDIT: here's the fic] I just love the idea of small town farm boy Murtagh who's peaceful and amiable and also just a little bit off. Like maybe sending the guy who dreams each night about blood red swords and dragon's snapping fangs to go plow fields won't last forever.

#lemme know if you want that drabble i guess #eragon #inheritance cycle #murtagh #morzan #and others #im just rambling today #a lot of similar aus have murtagh become a rider also on the vardens side #which is fun #but i like the idea of him still being dragged into the empire and the far different emotional strife it would cause #or not having thorn at all during that time and having to navigate himself by himself

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trashiewrites · 1 year

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MW Halloween HCs

Happy Spooky day yall! Here are some HC’s i cranked up for the boys plus Farah 👀 spending time with you of the fateful day!

Price:

+No....

+you tried to do something at least decorate the house. He shut you down so fast.

+Plus, He doesn't believe in it and thinks it's a waste of money.

+You told him "THiNk AbOuT THe CHilDrEn JoHN" and I shit you not his response was "Sure I'll give them a good scare" As he pulls out his gun he carries.

+ You then make him aware of the potential lawsuits for you know BRADISHING A GUN TO CHILDREN

+He proceeds to put the gun away "No decorating"

+You ignored him, you bought small decorations anyway with your own money so he couldn't complain. Your favorite is a skeleton bowl that you placed on his nightstand one night after he fell asleep, woke up, and yelped because he woke up with a skeleton in front of him.

+Proceed to laugh in his face. To be honest, he laughs too cause it did get him pretty good.

Soap:

+ Wouldn't be surprised if Soap signed up for a decorating contest cause I feel he would love to decorate these types of things

+He even makes custom stuff

+you help him OFC, mainly by going out and getting supplies when he needs them.

+ He takes such pride and you as an extra touch Help Soap Get costumes that help match the theme of the decorations for the wear so that way when you guys hand out treats together you guys look in character and can trick a few scared in!

+Soap loves interacting with the kids. Honestly seeing the kids walk up amazed at his work on the house is why he does it.

+DadTavish energy vibes are especially high. Like he is so close to having a full-on baby fever episode.

+He gets really sad the day after because he knows he's not gonna be able to keep his props. But you guys sell the props online because they actually have a big market for this kind of stuff. Saves up money for next year's theme!

Ghost:

+He tries so hard...

+He usually doesn't pay any heed to such a holiday but he wanted to try it

+TBH the only reason he never did is that kids are normally scared to talk to him due to his mask. He's always been marked as intimidating.

+he bought simple decorations for the outside of his house and a silly little skeleton bowl for the candy he was gonna give out.

+He asked you to help him set it all up. But it was really just for the nerves

+ Day of Halloween, he didn't really dress up per se. He just kinda wore the uniform.

+Halloween became his favorite holiday that day :)

+ "Wow Mister! I love your Skull Trooper costume!" He doesn't know where exactly it's from but it meant so much to him

+ After that night he was so silently happy. Whenever it happens, he looks over at you every time with a glow in his eyes. It is so fucking cute

+Now he looks forward to Halloween every year!

Gaz:

+COUPLE COSTUMES AND YOU KNOW IT!

+He spent the entirety of the month chatting with you about different duos you both could be. This is the heaviest debate every year cause you two can never agree.

+you want to do a duo from your fav show while he would want to do the cliche couple ones like Peter pan and Wendy; just some Disney.

+You guys compromised this year by doing a duo from your favorite animated movie. (For example, Chihiro and Haku from spirited away, but you choose whatever)

+ Once the whole costume problem ends, you can finally decide what you guys go do for the holiday itself. Which is something you guys luckily can easily get behind each other's ideas. At least, you guys have civil conversations about it.

+ he usually tries to bring up doing a haunted house and then heading to a party. This year Shut him down on at least the haunted house. Why you may ask, well Gaz doesn't do haunted houses very well... Like horribly.

+ It's either he gets too on edge and almost kills an actor, or he panics and passes out. Two years in a row... So you really don't want to deal with another hospital bill. Despite him saying He'll be okay and he won't do it... You highly doubt that... Cause he has always been pretty jumpy.

Roach:

+He wanted to go trick or treating... REALLY BADLY.

+ Yeah you didn't believe him at first when he asked you about you, "Aren't you too old for that Gary?" You wouldn't believe how loudly he gasped.

+ "YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD FOR FREE CANDY!" Gary shed a single tear as he ran to your shared bedroom. You couldn't hold your sigh as he went off on his dramatic antics again. Every time, this happens every single time...

+ When you finally agree to it, he celebrates and does a little happy dance. God the shit this GROWN MAN does that makes him the world's oldest 5-year-old.

+ That happy dance stops when you ask one question, "So, what are you going to be?" He stops right where he is and stays for a bit before looking back at you... "u h h, shit... I don't know."

+ He dragged you to the Halloween shop with him so he can try out the costumes, which might I add, took about 3 hours of your day.

+ He couldn't pick between being Michael Myers or some other creepy monster you didn't know the name of. Of course, he asked your opinion, aka you choose which one he picks cause he's so damn indecisive.

+ On Halloween, he was practically jumping off the walls in the evening!

+For you, enjoying a nice stroll in the cool breeze but seeing Roach so happy is nice too. Even better when you two stop for a break and he reaches into his candy sack and hands you your favorite candy cutely. "Thank you for coming with me (y/n)."

+ Before anyone asks, yes, yes, he does get really weird looks because he is semi-tall... Like they aren't going to say anything cause he's wearing a mask and even if he wasn't wearing one, he has a baby face so he still would get his candy.

Alex:

+I'm going to be completely honest with Ya... He seems like the guy that likes true crime.

+ SO, instead of typical Halloween stuff like Horror movies and cobwebs. You both are watching true crime documentaries while making little knife cookies!

+Honestly you two get really sad at the end because you can't help but feel horrible for the victims of these killers you had watched. So, after the documentary binge, you both just relax and watch normal things.

+Honestly Alex forgot it was Halloween until someone came to the door for a trick or treat. Sadly, he had to bear the bad news to the kids. He didn't have candy but offered a knife cookie.

+ With the consent of the parents, he put them in a little sandwich baggie and gave it to them.

+You looked back at him with a small glare at him giving the cookies, "what you want me to leave them empty-handed?" You nodded, "Oh come on (y/n), not like you're going to eat them all anyways." You took that as a challenge.

+ you got sick the next day :D Alex was also mad that you legit ate all the fucking cookies. He only got to have like 3 out of the 14 or so.

Farah:

+ So, Farah doesn't really get the purpose of Halloween. But she gets one thing. It is the one day she can scare the living shit out of you all day and you can't be mad at her for it.

+She hinds in the most obscure places and somehow knows where you are going to go at all times.

+ Honestly, it freaks you out how many times she can scare you in one day... Her record is 20.

+ Poor you get so anxious and somewhat competitive cause you want to catch her before she can scare you. Have you done so? no, currently you have zero points on that front...

+ "Boo!" you screamed and fell backward, "Haha! got you again (y/n)!" she lends you a hand as you proceed to tell her that this isn't what Halloween is supposed to be. "Well, it is this for me and I quite like this holiday. Keeps your senses sharp, doesn't it?"

Alejandro:

+ You two don't really celebrate Halloween, the most you two do is buy decorations and make little Halloween snacks. Also, Alejandro has a weird obsession with candy corn...

+ You guys also watch Horror movies but that really is for Halloween, nothing special.

+ You guys celebrate Dias de Los Muertos, which is really big for him! You guys have an ofrenda in your house and his family usually hosts a big party to celebrate the day which you are happily welcomed to!

+ If you have ever been to a Mexican party, you can probably expect what it's like. If you don't know, just know its fucking amazing! fresh food of all kinds, all kinds of booze, and top that with a loud stereo or a live band!

+ Personally believe that Alejandro would bust out a guitar and play a song or two! Aka, I believe he has a killer Spanish singing voice, English... He's okay with it.

Graves:

+Take this as you wish, But I'm telling you right now this man is way too fascinated with slasher films... I MEAN IT, HE LOVES THEM SO MUCH!

+ Legit you guys prob had a bucket that you would handle the trick-or-treaters because he won't leave that screen. HE'S SO FOCUSED!

+ It honestly shocks you how many of these types of movies this man can watch in one sitting cause honestly it prob gets boring after about 3 of them. I'm sure he watched maybe 14 movies throughout the entire day. MIND YOU, THIS ISNT A FLEX!

+ Cheers and makes comments about the character deaths, "That girl totally deserved to die, like who the fuck is that stupid to go that way like honestly dear fucking god..."

+ One character's head got, you know, smashed and I SWEAR, the first thing out his mouth was "Haha! Pop!" LIKE IT WAS NOTHING!!! not even a flinch... I refuse to believe this man isn't a walking red flag

#CODMW #cod mw22 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 remastered #captain price #captain mactavish #john price #John Mactavish #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #simon riley #happy halloweeeeeeen #halloween #spooky

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revserrayyu · 30 days

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2.1 Penacony thoughts [part2]

**Spoiler warning** Covering up until we switch to Acheron’s POV alongside Welt (not their first conversation but actually playing as her, hence the cover photo), so be kind to yourself and look away if you haven’t reached that point yet. Brace yourself once more; I’m going to ramble.

First things first, this whole shrinking down scene where we traverse through a model of Penacony was so odd. Poor Ratio had to be rolling his eyes so hard just watching a tiny Aventurine run around like that.

I feel like we didn’t learn much about Sunday last patch, but hearing him speak about how orderly and presentable we should be at all times really fits his personality. The pretty boy certainly knows how to look good and leads me like him even more..

But only for a moment as he then uses some Harmony trickery against Aventurine so he’s forced to answer his several questions truthfully, or at least that’s the feeling I got from watching this interrogation. Seeing this was quite interesting to me because there’s this anime call No Guns Life where a character by the name Tetsuro has an ability called “harmonie” which allows him to control other extends (robots basically) and they way the anime shows it looked very familiar with all the color.

Moving on, Sasuke Uchiha vibes are coming in strong with our gambler being a potential sole clan survivor, not to mention Aventurine admitting his love toward his family is something he values more than himself. Also, I don’t like this bird.. sitting there, keeping an eye on everything, even during Aventurine’s chat with Sparkle later on. I know the Family has a big Nightingale theme going on but still. Big Brother (or in this case the Family) always watching hm?

NOPE. Any small hope I had for Sunday being someone we could safely trust has flown straight out the window with this sinister smirk of his, no matter how handsomely good it makes him look here.

I love that no matter what is going on or who he’s talking to, Ratio always manages to mildly insult others without a care in the world.

So stuff about the Cornerstones gets revealed, how all Ten Stonehearts have one of their own and how very important said stones are to them, so what on earth was Aventurine doing with both his and Potaz Pazto Topaz’s? Also found it interesting how closely hers resembles Qlipoth’s body when she isn’t a Preservation unit like Aventurine is.

Sunday then gives Aventurine only 17 system hours to live and he has to spend it solving Robin’s case with little to no outside help or hints on where to begin. Talk about immense pressure. Let my man gamble in peace!

And if all that wasn’t enough to make me start feeling bad for our fancy man, we get a sad backstory featuring his sister and even learning how both their parents died! Because OF COURSE they’re setting me up to get upset about him for some reason later on in the story and now I’m so terrified because if I learned anything from anime it’s that these kinds of flashback are major red death flags.

The feeling of joy came back to me though upon seeing Topaz show up. Despite Aventurine being around and all the mentions of the IPC, I honestly wasn’t expecting her to visit Penacony at all, but I’m very pleased to see her again! She definitely grew on me after that one quest in Belobog and even though she doesn’t have access to most places on Penacony like her coworker currently does, it’s nice she’s willing to lend a helping hand to us.

It doesn’t settle well with me that none of the Bloodhounds know who Gallagher is. Ain’t he supposed to be top dog around here and in charge?

Oh red text, why must you haunt me so easily? Imagine how different all of Penacony would feel if we had the option to completely turn off subtitles. People would definitely have various opinions regarding Acheron if they knew of her ominous words or not.

I wanna chalk this up as a HI3 reference, but I can’t be sure as I’ve never played. If so, I love how they can toss in hints about Welt’s past like this.

And hers.. I imagine bits and pieces would line up with her past one way or another too.

A little while after that, we cut back to Black Swan and y’all, we FINALLY get some sort of Boothill interaction in the story! Only audio for now but I’ll take it!

Hearing about bullets, him getting annoyed about Acheron being a “galaxy ranger” and the Hunt path are wonderful ways to confirm who it is and I can’t wait to eventually see him in game.

Seems like he isn’t too thrilled with Acheron though and of course, he too knows of her Emenator status. There goes my brief hopes of them being in friendly terms and seeing them work together I suppose.

This item that Ratio gives Aventurine before he suddenly disappears (again) and how it features one of his voicelines.. hilarious. It’s like it was spoken specifically for Aventurine and no one else.

I may be a little stupid.. do we know who the other mute is? The one dead is clearly Robin, but surely the other can’t be Sunday right? He spoke perfectly fine. I’m thinking back to all the Penacony characters we’ve met and they all sound fine, aside from Sam but he’s robotic so naturally he would sound a bit different yea? Maybe we haven’t met this other mute yet, I dunno. The “again” part of Sparkle’s line makes me feel like we have met them at least once.

Sweetie, how the fuck did you manage to sneak such a dangerous device into Penacony?? Even Aventurine is concerned about how the Family doesn’t know of it.

Okay.. so the whole flashback with Aventurine being bought as a slave and used to gamble for his master is tough. I know many people speculated what the mark on his neck said, and majority did think “slave” was written, but man, the hint didin’t make this story any easier to hear. Being blessed with luck ain’t always a good thing hm? Hearing the guy say “all or nothing” and learning from Topaz about how that phrase is now Aventurine’s mantra.. oh boy.

Siobhan is gorgeous and if she was playable I’d definitely pull for her.

SERVAL MENTION HUZZAH! I’m aware they mentioned my girl during the livestream and how they’re both the rebellious ones in their respective families, but Siobhan actually wanting to meet her? Oohhh~

Okay but the fact we’re encountered so many deaths, during the many story and side quests, in a short amount of time shouldn’t be normal. The way he seems so indifferent about it too.. “so what?” like sir, people are dying.

Oh, we did indeed receive one as well. That was the invitation, wasn’t it? I thought the music box Acheron stole from Duke was something different and special for different reasons. Nevermind.

I seriously need to check back into the creepy dream we experienced last time after Sparkle knocked us out, where we encountered that memory zone meme and listen to all the shouting we heard of this Mikhail guy. I figured he had to be someone important, but the Watchmaker and betrayer of the Family? Oh dear.

I bet you anything it’s Misha. Working behind the scenes in the hotel this entire time would definitely be an effective strategy, and his technique outside battle literally stops time and that seems like the perfect kind of ability for someone named “Watchmaker.”

Gallagher wondering if this certain person is real or not is another reason I think it’s Misha because apparently no one notices his presence at all. During that one scene with us, Firefly, Acheron, Misha & Clockie last past, the girlies didn’t acknowledge Misha at all. Only us and Clockie spoke to the boy. In return, Clockie is only seen by us and Misha as well. So that’s just strange.

For a moment I wonder if Misha is actually like.. a ghost of sorts and we’re just going insane seeing visions of people and cartoon characters everywhere. But that’s all stuff I shall find out later. Hopefully. If the story decides to answer my many concerns.

(originally written on 3/28)

#honkai star rail #sunday #aventurine #acheron #black swan #sparkle #gallagher #gameplay #revsposts

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cambion-companion · 1 year

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I have to disagree with anon! I think there is good cause for my boy to have major-self esteem issues and bouts of self-loathing. In this essay I will-

Just kidding! But there’s some things that I want to point out. One: he was bullied throughout his entire childhood. Anyone who has been bullied knows that shit will follow you through your whole life, and quite often people with traumatic childhoods hide their pain into adulthood with confidence/coldness (especially Scorpios 😅 he’s a scorpio king through and through).

Next: All of his problems wouldn’t have magically been solved immediately after claiming Vhagar, but the loss of his eye only fuels that. He said it was a fair trade because he gained a dragon, but it’s really not, even if it is the last dragon of the conquest (also, he was a child when he said that, who had no clue the future issues losing an eye would cause him down the line, and wanted to comfort his mother). Losing an eye/having any disability is a big fucking deal in Westeros. It’s a big deal in our world too, don’t get me wrong - but life in Westeros is much crueler than ours. We as readers/viewers sometimes tend to look at this content with a modern lens, which is something we cannot do. In this world, he is lucky to be a prince. He can study and train all he wants, best the greatest swordsmen in all the seven kingdoms, but no matter how incredible he is, all of his potential will always be followed by ‘if only he hadn’t lost that eye’. “Imagine how much greater a warrior he would be if he had both eyes” (even though he beats Cole in the training yard with relative ease). “You have an unmarried son? Oh, but he’s missing an eye” (even though he is very obviously Valyrian and the Valyrians are all certified hotties). I wouldn’t say he’s repulsed by himself, but that the resentment over what happened to him is a big motivator for everything he does and becomes.

It makes perfect sense that he isn’t aware of how handsome he is, but I disagree that he doesn’t think much about how he looks. he is certainly not vain, but he does keep a very tidy appearance. His hair and hands are always clean, his clothes fit him well and he is just extremely well put together, something he probably learned from Alicent (queen of dying on the inside but slaying on the outside). One could argue that he only does this as it is expected of a man of his station, but Aegon exists.

It’s unfortunately realistic for the setting that almost noble ladies would be scared of him. The eyepatch is one thing, but his demeanour is described and shown as quite haunting as an adult (which just makes me EVEN MORE sad because he seemed like a very sweet child). He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would make the first move personally either, which would make finding someone to share his life with even more difficult. A lady who is unafraid of him would be rare, and for her to be that way, it’s likely she had been dealt her own cruel hand in life as well (I’m currently writing my own work where this is the case - not trying to self plug but 🤠). Someone who he could melt into in private, share his worst fears and thoughts with, allow them to touch his scars… I feel like he would cherish that greatly and want to protect that part of his life as well as he possibly can.

When he has the confrontation with his brother, where Aegon says he’ll run away so he may have the throne, you can see the cogs turning afterwards. I think he was quite sad in that moment, tormented by the ‘if only’ nature of his life. Yes, he does deserve the throne, but that doesn’t matter. He was not born to rule, Aegon was.

Sorry this was kind of a ramble, but I have a lot of thoughts because he’s such an interesting, beautifully tragic character. Let me know what you think!

Hi, my dear, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts with me! I loved reading them :)

This is in response to this post!

Aemond was absolutely bullied throughout his childhood, he was ganged up on by the other boys and I think the only person his age (who we know of) that wasn't mean to him was Helaena.

He had enough gumption, however, to claim the largest dragon in Westeros. To me, that takes no small amount of self-esteem, like "yeah, I deserve this". He received little to no attention/instruction/guidance from his father, instead I believe Cole filled that role. Aemond knows his prowess in sword fighting and carries himself with confidence accordingly. The man has swagger, I don't think by any means he loathes himself. Absolutely he is made to feel as less of a man because he is missing an eye, but literally everything he does is to make up for that (as you said).

As far as his appearance goes, let me explain better. Aemond takes pride in the traits he inherited that define him as a Targaryen. His silver hair, he takes excellent care of and grows long (like "see I am a legitimate heir") He takes care of himself, of course, but he has been given no reason to see himself as a particularly handsome man. Quite the opposite, as I am sure court whispers speak mainly of his missing eye and what horror may lie beneath the eyepatch. But yes, he does slay just like his mama. He is royalty, after all, and (once again) takes a GREAT amount of pride in his heritage (notice the dragon pins he wears on each of his outfits). Which also speaks to a certain amount of self-confidence.

Note also how Aegon is the opposite, he takes no pride in his appearance (the actor actually pointed this out too haha) or his Targaryen ancestry.

There is much nuance to Aemond's character (especially now with the show), and I certainly agree that he may have feelings of self-doubt, frustration, insecurity, but he uses these emotions to fuel himself to do better, train harder, study more...mold himself into the man he perceives his family needs.

#aemond targaryen #aemond stannies #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond headcanons #aemond one eye #pro aemond targaryen #aemond hotd #prince aemond targaryen #answered ask

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sugutoad · 4 months

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Matchup Trade for @anni-is-here

↳ Thank you for doing Matchups at Sugutoad

↳ # PROFILE: ANNI | FIRST GRADE SORCERER; a third year sorcerer who has potential to rise to special grade at Tokyo High originating from an esteemed ancient clan, a clan originally part of the big three clans until the Kamo clan earned its current title, her life flipping when she crosses paths with the King of Curses, and as hard she tried to change her fate… she couldn’t.

⨳ SUKUNA RYOMEN; Sometimes, you're a stranger in my bed // Don't know if you love me or you want me dead // Push me away, push me away // Then beg me to stay, beg me to stay, yeah // Call me in the morning to apologise // Every little lie gives me butterflies // Something in the way you're looking through my eyes // Don't know if I'm gonna make it out alive ; Finding one another in each lifetime, a loves that never fades and only grows / a hate you so much / pretty lies / an engulfing inferno / sickly praises whispered / beauty and the beast / a deep, rumbling chuckle / people watching / a drawling voice / partners in crime / menaces to society / ‘hold my flower, I’m going to kill someone’ ‘ok babe’/ haunting memories / crimson red / candles and red lanterns / love me to death / red lipstick marks / black nail polish / He would burn the whole world for you, but won’t let a single flame hurt you

⨳ The King of Curses… how does does manage to even cross paths with him much less hold his heart in their own hands? Let me tell you how… matching his personality and strength to a degree. And trust me, your powers that will be revealed in the coming section is something to not be messed with. Although he may never admit it, there is something captivating about your violent tendencies combined with a tender heart that piques Sukuna's interest. It is not necessarily a single reason but rather a combination of your distinct personality traits that attracts Sukuna towards you. You can not convince me that Sukuna doesn’t have dry humour. It’s quite an interesting dynamic with Sukuna, who I wholly believe, enjoys the witty banter and teasing between the two of you, a rare occurrence for him as most people are unable to even look at him, let alone engage in conversation. Sukuna possesses a weird appreciation for your humour and your ability to find joy in various situations, which ultimately prevents overwhelming circumstances from affecting those around the passionate duo. With you, Sukuna is constantly kept on his toes, ensuring that he does not kill and harm too many (to which he calls you a hypocrite ) He might be the King of Curses, but if you asked him to do anything, he would do it within seconds. While you may have your differences, your shared sense of humour, loyalty, and ability to bring out the best in each other is what draws you together. I want you to have someone who understands you, someone who won’t judge you for how you act around them and have an unwavering commitment towards you (even if it is an obsession at times) and Sukuna fits all of those boxes off.

⨳ How does love blossom between the two? Well, I like to imagine that Sukuna was originally born human and later picked up characteristics of curses as he grew up such as the mouth on his hands and stomach. Anni was a girl from an esteemed clan during the Heian period, her clan claiming a spot in the big three. While he was shunned by all, she was loved by all those who resided in the village. Well, I wouldn’t quite say that she was loved by all but rather respect. The villages respected her family far too much to say anything out of line that could possibly result in their death but for her? She was a bother to them with her non-lady-like attitude and violent tendencies. Two sides of the same coin. What baffles the salmon haired boy was how the girl, who grew up exactly opposite of him, never seemed to deem him as a monster but rather a friend.

⨳ He had first seen Anni when he had been training, I would say around the age of 12, and at the corner of his eyes he couldn’t help but see a glimpse of brown hair. So he went to check it out, in an attempt to confront her. But when he went to find her, he couldn’t seem to find the mysterious girl. The next time he saw her and had an actual conversation, which is something he hadn’t had for a while, it was an awkward accident. He had just been walking near the pond when he saw a figure swimming near the shore. At first, he had ignored her but he had made eye contact by accident. “You shouldn’t be staring at a naked woman, you know?” The brunette smirked at him from afar as he fought back a smile of his own. “I’m afraid I don’t go for ugly women” “So I assume you would go for me if that seems to be the case.” She said while wrapping a towel around herself, never once breaking eye contact. “I don’t go for stalkers” He said with a smug grin, a soft hue of pink rising to Anni’s cheek, standing out greatly from her pale complexion. “I just wanted to see how you trained..” she stuttered, finally breaking eye contact, her eyes currently glued to the floor. “Never seen anyone train before?” “Girls in the clan aren’t allowed in the training room, much less learn how to fight.” The first part of Anni’s sentence nearly stopped Sukuna’s heart. “You are from a clan?” He bit the inside of his cheek. The brunette nodded slowly, she seemed to be displeased with that title instead of boasting it like many Sukuna knew. He let out a breath and sat cross legged in the sand, motioning her to sit beside her to which she didn’t oblige to. “I’m Anni.” “I didn’t ask..” “Rude. You are?” “None of your business.” Anni let out a groan of frustration causing Sukuna to chuckle. “It’s Sukuna.” He waited for her to run away but she smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Kuna.” “Kuna? Ew, don’t call me that - that horrible nickname ever again. “Why? Aren’t we friends now?” “And what makes you say that?” “You told me your name and I told you mine and we are having a pretty neat conversation. “ Sukuna sighed, it was now Anni’s turn to laugh. And when he went up to leave after a while, he decided to never cross paths with her again. But the gods seemed to have a different plan for him, he knew they hated him but not this much.

⨳ Wherever he went, she was always there and jogged up to him with a smile. Soon, Sukuna found himself enjoying her company. It was nice to have a friend, though he still wasn’t fond of the name she had given him. The name ‘Kuna’ still runs down the spine, he should be feared by others, not given some cute nickname by Anni. At one point during their blossoming friendship, she convinced him to teach her how to fight and was a natural. No one has ever gotten a hit on her, except… her. Sukuna wasn’t sure when it happened but at one point, he would get furious when he would see Anni happy under the company of a different male. That smile was only for him, not for others. His face would always turn red when she would jump on him from behind. It took him too long, far too long to recognize his feelings for her. A part of him was afraid it was unrequited feelings and didn’t speak up for a long time but simply stayed with her friend.

⨳That was until one day, 6 years after they became friends (so now they are at the age of 18) It had started like any day, Sukuna was crossing through the streets to get to where Anni should be waiting for him until he heard whispers around him that got his attention. He was eager to see her, they hadn’t crossed paths for a few days (almost a whole week to Sukuna’s disappointment) The daughter of one of the Big Three clans had been diagnosed with a deadly disease for the last few days, any moment today could be her last. Sukuna’s heart dropped, he almost fell out his chest. No.. it couldn’t be Anni. But the Zenin and Gojo clan leaders both only had sons, no daughter. Only the Spark clan had a daughter - his precious Anni. He ran as fast as could, pushing everyone out of the way. He didn’t gave a fuck who glared or swore at him, he needed to get to her. Pushing the guards standing at the front of her house, who were bewildered at the sight of the cursed boy confronting them, and ran to her room, sliding the door open. He panted, tears stinging his eyes. She looked so calm, sprawled in bed and her eyes appeared closed. Was he too late?

⨳ He nearly dropped on his knees as he walked to her bed, clutching the white blanket covering her lower body to maintain balance. He wanted to say something, to make sure she was alive and heard her tell him that this was all a prank. But she didn’t move and his voice got to his chest. Brown eyes fluttered open and she muttered at him. “Stalker…” Sukuna's heart raced quickly. He was so happy that he didn’t even say anything back. “I thought you died…” “I will… soon. I just wanted to see you one last time. I’ve been laying all day in bed so I don’t waste energy and knock dead on the floor” she giggled. Sukuna closed his eyes, letting his forehead fall on Anni’s shoulder as he took in a breath. “I love you…” She stayed silent but Sukuna was glad, he was able to take this feeling off his heart and tell her how he felt before she took her final breath. Unexpectedly, salty tears fell down Anni’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Why make me wait so long before I die?” She was practically yelling at him at this point, it broke his heart to hear her voice strained and raspy, filled with so much pain all because of him and his cowardice. “Idiot… I don’t want to die. I want to be with you.. I’m scared, Kuna. I want to live a normal life with you” She hiccuped between words and continued but he couldn’t pick up anything at her words all jumbled together, he gently (as if she was the most gentle thing ever and would shatter under his touch if he was too roughy) rubbed her tears away, never once looking away. Her head fell down on her pillow, sobbing quietly as Sukuna held her hand. He didn’t once let go or say anything, even after she took her final breath hours after. That’s when he broke down, tears slipped down his cheeks as he rubbed his forehead, swearing nonchalantly. “I’m not going to let you die… you can’t. I won’t let you..”

⨳ Little did Sukuna know that the last words of someone or to dead people could turn into a curse for the soul of the deceased. He had just cursed the girl he would erupt the world in flames for. (Sukuna later detaches himself from the world, Anni was his only connection to everything and as a result of this, he slowly build up even more negative emotions and became the curse he is today) It wouldn’t be for another thousand years until the brunette would be reborn once again, 18 years before she would meet Sukuna again. The sad truth is that she wouldn’t even recognize or remember him for quite some time, while Sukuna’s heart breaks upon seeing her.

(This doesn’t fully depict your romance but rather just a few impactful moments in your life of knowing him so you can let your imagination run free with what happened with the 6 years of your friendship. This relationship means everything to me and breaks my heart. Another lyric that remind me of you and Sukuna is the ending of Enchanted by Taylor Swift, not needed the whole song but just those lyrics: This is me praying that // This was the very first page // Not where the story line ends // My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again // These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon // I was enchanted to meet you // Please don't be in love with someone else // Please don't have somebody waiting on you)

RUNNER UP: NANAMI KENTO AND TOGE INUMAKI

⨳ The Ink Web is a powerful technique possessed by few of those who are born into the Spark clan. When using it, one conjures a web made of ink that ensnares and restricts the movements of their foes. The strength of the technique lies in its ability to immobilise opponents, hindering their ability to fight back. To initiate the Ink Web, the user focuses their energy and channels it into creating the web-like structure. Once formed, it can be directed towards the intended target, entangling them within its inky embrace. It requires skill and precision to effectively utilise this curse technique in battle. In addition to immobilising foes, the Ink Web curse technique can also obscure their opponents vision, enveloping them in a shroud of darkness. This can disorient and confuse them, making it challenging for them to perceive their surroundings and plan their next moves. This technique can also create opportunities for strategic manoeuvres. By ensnaring and restricting the movements of their opponents, the user can seize the advantage and launch attacks or prevent incoming ones. The Ink Web curse technique has two more remarkable abilities. It possesses the power to sap the strength and energy of those caught within its grasp, draining their vitality and leaving them weakened. To add on to the factor of taking away one’s cursed energy and strength, the user who had initiated the attack is able to use that cursed energy as their own. Secondly, the ink used to create the web can be infused with various elemental properties, such as fire or poison like Sukuna’s fire! Another reason you would be amazing with him since your powers benefit one another.

⨳ Domain Expansion: Also called ‘Arachne’, the mist of ink that surrounds you and your opponent grants you heightened senses, allowing you to perceive the slightest movements and vibrations, similar to those of a spider. Even one step could be the end of those captured in this reality. Imagine a swirling sea of dark ink, stretching and weaving like an intricate tapestry. During Domain Expansion, the range and strength of the Ink Web are magnified, enabling it to cover a larger area and immobilise opponents with even greater force. Within the misty realm, the Ink Web gains the ability to create illusions, disorienting and confusing adversaries as they struggle to discern reality from deception. The Ink Web's tendrils, alongside the user, grow stronger within the domain, allowing them to exert a greater force when ensnaring opponents, making it even more challenging for them to break free. The jujutsu sorcerer who wields the Ink Web gains the power to manipulate the ink itself, shaping it into various forms such as spikes, blades, or shields, providing additional offensive and defensive capabilities. The domain expansion dampens the senses of those trapped within its grasp, making it difficult for them to perceive their surroundings or sense incoming attacks, further increasing the advantage of the Ink Web's wielder. Within the domain, the Ink Web has the ability to regenerate and repair itself, ensuring that it remains a formidable and unyielding force throughout the duration of the battle. Within its expanded realm, the Ink Web grants the jujutsu sorcerer the ability to summon ethereal creatures made of ink. These ink summons can take various forms, ranging from fierce and powerful beasts to agile and elusive spirits. They serve as loyal allies, fighting alongside the sorcerer with each ink summons possessing unique abilities. Users who are a bit more experienced possess a unique power called "Ink Veil." This ability allows the jujutsu sorcerer to create a protective barrier of swirling ink, capable of deflecting and nullifying various attacks.

⨳ I’m not really sure how I came up with this power for you. I took a mix of your personality and a few of your likes and combined them into one until a power was formed. The more darker theme was certainly chosen due to your love for horror

⨳ The Tachi Blade is a traditional Japanese sword that dates back to ancient times. It supposedly dates back to the Heian Era and you had shown a weird interest in it. The Tachi was primarily used by samurai warriors during battles and important ceremonies. It was known for its long, curved blade and its ability to be wielded with both hands. The Tachi was worn suspended from the waist, with the cutting edge facing downward. The Tachi was also used as a symbol of status and honour, often adorned with intricate designs and symbols representing the samurai's lineage or achievements.

⨳ In battle, the Tachi was used for slashing and cutting motions, allowing the samurai to effectively strike their opponents. Its curved shape and sharp edge made it ideal for powerful and precise cuts.

⨳ Now with your power, it definitely gives you an advantage in battle. The users of Ink Web could utilise the flexibility and range of the weapon to strike from a distance, wrapping their swords in black tendrils. Another thing any sorcerer, not necessarily from the Spark clan, can infuse Cursed Energy into the sword (similar to what Yuuta did in JJK 0) By focusing their cursed energy into the weapon, they can imbue it with additional power and capabilities.

⨳ KIRARA AND HAKARI;your best friends. three of you had first met during your first year when you were put under the supervision of Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, and became quick friends. A thing that certainly puts you guys together is all your rebellious, goofy and bold behaviour. But you do have to scold them at times, such as when those two got expelled and therefore couldn’t participate in the exchange program with you. A lot of your time with them consists of you being a third wheel unfortunately. But they always have your back even during the toughest situations and the three of you shook the jujutsu society.

⨳ FIRST YEAR STUDENTS; I’m sort of combing them all together because they have similar opinions on you. They respect you a lot, certainly the most in the third year section. Itadori loves watching movies with you and swimming. Nobara wants to be like you, someone even the higher up can’t say much to. Megumi knew you as a child due to both of you being from a high esteemed clan and when you were kings to him, he clinched himself on to you. It wouldn’t be a lie if I said he probably had a childish crush on you before.

⨳ GOJO SATORU; he is your sensei! He wholly believes that you, alongside Hakari and Yuuta, have the ability to surpass him one day. He is one of the reasons why the higher ups are slightly afraid of you (alongside your clan, of course). He sees himself too much in you, he sees bits of Geto too. He wants to protect you from all harm, so when he sees that the King of Curses is obsessed over you, he is willing to do anything it takes to keep you safe. Even if it meant he had to die

⨳ SECOND YEAR STUDENTS; though not a really strong friendship like you have with the third year of the sibling relationship you share with the first years, the second years see you as someone who can guide them. Since you had recently finished second year, they occasionally come to ask help for work and other things. Maki certainly trains with you, you can’t convince me otherwise. Whenever they are on a mission with you, they will look up at you, entrusting everything with you. Because they know the power of Anni Sparks.

#I hope you enjoy this!#ryomen sukuna #sazh matchups #anime matchups #jjk matchup #jujustu kaisen #moots!

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