#cw at this whole thing i think but ill. put some specifics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

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?”

⤑ to my inbox💌

⬸ back to the catalog

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

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

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detransraichu · 5 months

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heyy wassup i'm lay :]

♡ 27yo

♡ detrans soft butch dyke

♡ gendercrit tirf? idk

♡ single & yearning

♡ wheelchair user & autistic

♡ french, living in ontario (gta)

♡ feel free to send DMs/asks!

♡ if i sound stupid i'm probably high ✌👅

i'm currently writing a book about the possibility, issues and potential benefits of creating trans-inclusive radical feminist spaces, and how some trans people are actually joining radical feminism and doing feminism & trans activism within radfem! i'm still in the drafting stage, but i'm passionate abt it

i have many trans friends who i love dearly, i want a world where radical feminism and trans people aren't constantly at war so that we can all FINALLY use that energy to fight and dismantle the cispatriarchy 👏👏

more about that under readmore!

CW: misgendering in some posts i reblog!! this is a research blog, i will be reblogging from various sources to find writing material and just generally know what issues radfems have against some trans folks and the concept of gender as a whole. i believe in knowing thy enemy, in building bridges, and in respectful discourse. some radfems use male/female instead of amab/afab, and misgender based on sex/agab, make negative generalizations, and mock looks. it can be disrespectful. but if they makes good points on their post, i will reblog. i don't believe in "omg op is xyz" bc it just creates echochambers. that's not how real activism works, you need to actually interact w the other group, especially if both groups are oppressed. feel free not to follow, and i'm open to polite debates

i try to gather as much good info about radfem & trans issues as i can even if i don't agree with all of it, so if you're trans pls be safe!

(psst… i'm also a wheelchair dyke barely surviving on disability aid, with bills, debt, and bunnies to feed! i do writing commissions and take in donations. my post about that is here thank youuu)

i'm a detransitioned butch lesbian who still loves the trans community dearly, and while their struggles and traumas are very real to me, i do believe that cis women also have unique generational worldwide traumas and experiences that trans people can never understand and have often been mocked and downplayed; afab-specific misogyny, especially afab misogyny specifically experienced by someone identifying as a woman.

imo, transmisogyny and afab misogyny are two different issues, despite overlaps, with unique experiences that the other camp just cannot understand. the afab misogyny experienced by both transmasc people and binary cis women is unique, and they need a voice. each side, cis women and trans people, needs to consistently show up for the other and be good allies. i want to know where things went wrong. i'm looking for instances of misogyny and lesbophobia against afab women, and other ills within the trans community that only radfems seem to call out consistently. i also want to find detrans community. i might not agree to many or any radfem ways of thinking. i'm just observing!

posts about my trans history will be put under the "my journey" tag

#text

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caspers-delusions · 22 days

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Psych Whump Masterlist

💉💉💉

This is going to be my go-to list every time I find something with medical or psych whump in it that I want to remember. I'll reblog it frequently and try to keep it updated but it's going to start small because good psych whump is so hard to find. (This in no way endorses medical abuse, I'm a mentally ill individual but I love consuming psych whump in media. Just about everything in these movies, books, etc are at the very least morally gray so consume at your own risk. Also, I only enjoy these things in fiction. Irl it makes me sick to my stomach, I know bc I've experienced some of this.) I'll try to add trigger warnings for each one but I might miss some so I apologize in advance. If you have any recommendations please message me! I'm scouring the internet for good psych whump but medical/sickfic whump is also wanted.

Movies:

A Cure For Wellness: Guy gets tricked into becoming a patient at a "resort" that's really a mental hospital in disguise that uses its patients for nefarious means. CW: incest, medical abuse, teeth falling out, sexual assault, some weird eel shit ^^There's probably more but I haven't watched the film in a while.

TV Shows:

Moon Knight: Whole season of psych whump, the main character has DID and loads of past trauma. Has a huge ancient Egypt theme and the MC gets (kind of) forced to accept psychiatric care. CW: lots of ableism, mental break, psychotic episodes, forced institutionalisation, child abuse, restraints

Gute Zeiten, schlechte Zeiten: German soap that's been running since 1992. The specific episodes that have good psych whump are from 26.5.2017 to 01.06.2017. Extremely hard to find online, only some clips/gifs exist as of now that are easily viewable.

Perception: Schizophrenic professor who teaches at a university spirals and gets put in a mental hospital. He has a caretaker friend who helps him and the professor also sees hallucinations of an ex-girlfriend who helps him solves mysteries. CW: extremely inaccurate portrayal of schizophrenia, delusions, paranoia, and really any mental illness for that matter; lots of ableism, I think I remember one character calling the professor a freak, people treat him really badly

Books:

House of Leaves: This book is a fever trip but the MC (kind of?? The book has multiple authors, it's honestly very confusing but it's great) suffers from declining mental health and spirals hard. CW: child abuse, lots of sexual content, mentions of a caretaker beating a child, mentions/delusions of sexual assault, death of a dog (it was brutal, huge warning), mentions/descriptions of suicide and attempted murder

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: This is chock-full of psych and medical whump, it all takes place in a psychiatric hospital (I've actually been to the one in the film! -Not as a patient) CW: huge amounts of abuse from staff, doctors, nurses, there's also a scene where SA is implied on a patient, the MC is there after being convicted of SA'ing a minor and he's pretty unremorseful (the MC is a dick though anyways), racism, ableism

OG Works (not mine):

Redwood Psychiatric Insitute: Forced institutionalization, great read and it has just about every trope I look for in fics all packed into one series. Please give it a read, it's fantastic. Source - https://www.tumblr.com/only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are/706656298337435648/redwood-psychiatric-institute-masterlist?source=share by @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Fanfiction:

Into Your Arms: This is a Star Trek fanfic that follows a girl who has a severe eating disorder and mental illness. It's not the normal kind of sickfic or psych whump I go for but the aftercare in this is topnotch. Source - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185897 by moose-misses-sweets on ao3 CW: suicide attempt, severe eating disorder, abusive partner, cutting/self harm

Summarized List

Movies: 1. A Cure For Wellness TV Shows: 1. Moon Knight 2. Gute Zeiten, schlechte Zeiten 3. Perception Books: 1. House of Leaves 2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest OG Works (not mine): 1. Redwood Psychiatric Institute Fanfics: 1. Into Your Arms

Note: If something you made is on this list and you want me to remove it, please message me and I will. I don't check messages very often but it doesn't mean I'm ignoring you, I just forget I have a tumblr sometimes.) *Extra note: this was originally posted on my side blog @ennead-of-whump but I'm slowly integrating that blog into this one. I'm now only going to be using my main blog @caspers-delusions which means I'm only going to update this masterlist post from now on.

#whump #psych whump #medical whump #psychiatric whump #recs #mental illness #masterlist #list #recommendations #moon knight #perception #into your arms #redwood psychiatric hospital #one flew over the cuckoos nest #house of leaves #a cure for wellness #new blog same person #gute zeiten schlechte zeiten

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shattered-sparks · 6 months

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cw -- Blood

For not being the ones in the wrong they sure do like to keep details out to make me look like the worst person ever. (This is mainly a vent post to get out my frustrations but this can also be considered a part two to me responding to the callout post)

Thinking about making a callout doc for a while huh? So much for just needing a break from me because I make you uncomfortable.

Leaving out that you wanted to leave the friendship

Fully ignoring the fact that I was in a trauma response and communicated this you choose to stay with how you were feeling rather than stop and check on me. Yet you try and spin that I never communicated with you. But it only matters if you're not in the correct headspace to comfort/reassure and not if it is a trigger for us.

As for Y/N they aren't just a outsider to the situation. Jade brought them into it and we had to apologize to them for being dragged in.

Trying to make me look worse by saying that I groomed a 18 year old by putting false information that I groomed him when he was 17. I didn't know 2D when he was 17 and if I did I only knew him as the guy who had false pedophile accusations placed on him. (Who I defended through the whole situation) I only got close to him when he was 18. And while on that train of thought guilt tripping me by using that I was the only adult he knew at the time when it was the exact same thing for me. I didn't actively hang around anyone else other than 2D (18) and Jade (16). Both mine and 2D's familys aren't great, we fueled each other and influenced each other. He dose not get exemptment for gaining a crush on a 16 year old just because I was the only adult he knew at the time. The sexual AU was kept between me and my partner at the time (16-17) since it made Jade uncomfortable. We kept out their characters and only talked about it when we believed Jade was gone out of respect for them. They are getting upset at me for not stopping a AU that me and my partner created. (I also want to note that in this sexual AU all characters used were 18+, including the 16 year old's characters) This 16 year old was also previously groomed by a group of adults normalizing sexual content to them, having a nsfw channel anyone who entered the server could access. (Once again, adults enabling bad behavior for adults) The constant blaming me for having mental illness symptoms too is really fucking angering. Even after I sent you a picture of BPD symptoms and explained what I did that was influenced by mental illness. Like, you hold a whole point against me for switching out during a stressful conversation!!

Not to forget why I personally feel the whole doc was created to hurt me specifically the last time we had a conversation before I blocked you it was in an attempt to make up with you and 2D after you two left me when I was in a trauma state. You pushed me so far that I felt I had to hurt myself just to make it up to you two! And when you two were told about this information you did nothing! You didn't stop what you was doing, you didn't think that it was your faults. No, because "I convinced myself" When you constantly pushed when it was already explained to you that it would be self harm for us.

I find it funny for evidence you used a whole conversation Jade and Sun had when you can even see in that conversation Jade was argumentative with us, even when we did what they asked. And for the whole you never said that others hated us you sure as hell made it feel that way by bringing anyone you could into the conversation. But when we bring you what you want you have nothing to say.

(Funny cause in this screenshot right here we communicated that any amount of comfort from us would be consider self harm) Hey I just found some more screenshots of 2D and Jade trying to guilt trip us!

Mind you, this whole argument happened because I turned off a movie because it was negatively affecting Jade and they forgot that I communicated that I couldn't handle them feeling negative But it's okay since you two were under so much stress that you get to take it out on us, write a whole document to hurt us, and to get upset when you get what you want in the end. Fuck off with this "We're not the ones in the wrong here" bullshit

#cw blood #blood #vent #vent post #vent art #callout bullshit

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house-of-slayterr · 11 months

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Major Blog Updates!!!!!

TLDR: I will be on a Writing hiatus as I do some digital spring cleaning and restart some old stories I’m not happy with. But expect many new crazy life updates now that I’ve moved. And some old, or maybe new ocs will start slowly trickling back in.

No wonder I was so stressed last year, I have 11 active series and counting… 💀 and yes, I am insane enough that I’m about to restart most of them from scratch. I wasn’t happy with the way things were going with most of them, and how sloppily they were written as I never expected there to be so many of you, to whom I’m very grateful for 🥺🥰🫀

This move seemed like the perfect time to just reinvent myself as a whole, and that includes my social media presence. I’m trying to build better, healthier habits this year. And one of them is learning how to say no every once and a while. Slow down and enjoy the little things. My Autism and OCD make it very difficult for me to say no to writing requests. But I’m working hard to make sure to only accept requests when I have the energy and the excitement to do so. I would be devastated to give you all content that I know is not my best, which is why I think a rewrite is in order. 🥰

It will be a big daunting task, but the point of it is to teach me to learn to approach my fear tasks like this. I have seriously considered becoming a writer for real and taking this more seriously, and Fan Fics are the perfect way to practice. Because you all always leave such lovely feedback 🥺 and it’s my favourite of writing. There would be no point to my words if they couldn’t be shared, and to have you all want me to write for you all the time is one of the greatest honours I could ever receive.

I love being able to give you all back even a fraction of the joy you bring me, by bringing your wildest dreams to life. You’re all like family to me and I love you so much. 🫀

So yeah, sorry if your faves aren’t back for a while, EVERYONES getting a MAJOR makeover, but they will be back and better than ever! I’ll keep the old stories up in case people liked reading them. But pretty much from here on out, assume none of my old writing is “Cannon”.

Also, New rule for any future requests. Please, please, please make them specific. DO NOT as questions like “can I get a micheal Myers fix” 💀 like sure, you can… but it’s not gonna be good unless you give me a prompt. Also please try to state any specific details you want added if it’s not just a vague x reader I.E. pronouns, name/nicknames, ethnicity…

Bare With me as my tumblr gets a major face lift. I’m gonna be doing a mass edit, making new master lists and fixing side blogs. From here on out all master lists and things to do with OCs will be posted and backed up on @the-slayter-archives I will still post fan fics on here first, but they’ll be backed up on there so they don’t get lost in all my reblogs 😅

Nothing makes me happier than writing for you all, but last year I let it get out of hand and stress me out to a very dangerous point. This year I will be more proactive about taking my time and not overloading myself with requests.

As for the Role Play blogs, they will also be getting a face lift. But do not fret my sweets, I will have everything neatly organised for your handy Dandy viewing pleasure. I will do my very best to keep on top of master lists and links (bare in mind I am still disabled and chronically ill so sometimes it just takes me a while to do things) that way there’s no stress for me in the future and I can keep track of all my things nice and neatly. My autism demands routine and hyper-specific organisation categories. And I’m tried of trying to fight it, so I’m willing to put in the work to make some healthy routines in the hopes that my brain will feel less like that of Frankenstein’s monster.

I will make Rule posts and DNI banners for all my pages. Therefore there’s less room for miscommunications. And I will be far more active about remembering to put Tw/CW. My wonderful partner @disableddee has agreed to help me edit works in the future and proof for triggering topics. Unfortunately Due to the environment I was raised in, it’s hard for me to tell when things are traumatic or abusive. So I never mean to trauma dump or forget tags on purpose. I genuinely do. It realise some of these topics may be triggering to other people, and of course I want to be very sensitive to that.

Was I sobbing typing this post? That’s a secret I’ll never tell… xoxo Gosip Girl

Tag: @queer-and-utter-chaos @emeraldfangs @mothmans-kingdom @spencermaybank @joelsgeetar @x-littlemoth @frenziedslashers @willowbrookesblog @myers-meadow @ajarofpickledtears @keffirinne

#big change #remodel #revamping my old work #restarting #fresh start #writer #tumblr writer #fan fic writer #bettering myself #bettering my writing #updating my tumblr

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haepii · 2 years

Text

Limerence | PJS (09)

(n.) the state of being infatuated or obsessed with someone.

Pairing: Park Jisung + Reader

Genre: Werewolf!AU, Supernatural!AU, series

Series: Neo Culture Pack Series Masterlist, previous part, next part

Warnings: Violence, Gore, Mentions/Use of Weapons (I.e., swords, daggers, knives), Mentions of Blood, Murder, Animal Death/Murder, Werewolves (if you don't like it, leave), Mentions of bones cracking/breaking, Mentions of witches/witchcraft, mentions of vampires/fae, mentions of werewolves (duh), Jealous/Controlling Behavious (I do not condone these behaviours in real life, but obviously this work is pure fiction and so are the characters in it even if they are based off real people), Mentions of terminal illness (a brief mention and flashbacks, it can be rather confronting and I have experienced the facing of this situation myself. I know how confronting and triggering it is, so please do not put your own mental health at sake for reading this fanfic).

CW for this part, specifically: there is very graphic mentions of gore, blood, blades, violence, etc in the part so if you find any of the previously mentions things distressing, please do not read, or read at your own discretion.

Taglist: @peepsibo @seajae @thesunsfullmoon @suhappysuho @traint0tokyo

WC: <3k

The hours of the night ticked by, as you slept for what felt like years to you. For some reason, sleeping had always made time feel slower, as it meant you couldn't see Jisung. You longed to be with him all the time, even if it was in silence, or in a crowded room, or in the middle of nowhere. You were young, but you knew he made you feel whole, complete. You unconsciously smiled at the thought of him, feeling yourself being dragged out of your slumber at the sound of foreign footsteps entering the infirmary. You felt your stomach sinking, fear instinctively settling into the pit of your stomach.

Your breath hitched as you head the strangers grab onto the curtain, separating you from the main infirmary. Gripping onto the bedsheets, as the curtain was pulled open, your heart almost beating out of your chest as you tried to make out the face you saw in the faint light of the monitor machines hooked up to you while you slept. Furrowing your brows, you made out the distinct orange-toned bleached hair and coral red lip tint of none other than Ryujin.

A soft smile made its way onto your face as you made out her features. You breathed out a sigh of relief, as you saw her face. In your excitement of seeing her safe and alive, you hadn't noticed that she had not returned the smile, rather, she looked guilty, as if what was about to happen was her fault. "Ryujin? huh... you scared me, I thought it was some psycho coming in here."

"Close enough, but not quite." The familiar voice that made fear seep into your veins sounded into your ear as you were shoved into a wheelchair and finally turned to face the two of them. Chaerin looked different, the distinct patterns of ancient runes and sigils covering her skin in different shades of pink, brown and red, similar to Taegwang. Standing behind Ryujin and restraining her arms behind her back was Taegwang, you only noticed that he was holding a silver dagger to her neck when the blade gleamed in the dim light from the foyer, reflecting off of Ryujin's tear stained cheeks.

"Long time no see, we were beginning to think you forgot about us, (Y/N)." Taegwang smiled, tightening his hold on Ryujin, the fear clearly evident as her body wracked with silent sobs.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Don't you remember my explanation from the last visit I paid?" The sound of heels clicking on the tile floor, and the voice that made the hairs on your neck stand up almost made you vomit with the pit in your stomach. Seulgi walked forwards, in front of you and in the middle of Ryujin and Taegwang.

"I don't understand."

"Oh! Now isn't that the biggest load of rubbish I've ever heard. You're dating Jisung, I thought you were above dating werewolves." Chaerin snapped as she came forward, perfectly manicured hands, nails filed into bright red talons ready to strangle you only to be pulled back by the equally sigil-clad Seulgi, who looked apathetic towards this entire situation.

"I have 400 years on you, little sister, do not test me or defy my orders again." Seulgi spat, a haughty look on her face. Since you were a child, you'd always felt unsafe in the presence of Seulgi. Undoubtedly you could see the resemblance between Chaerin and Seulgi, yet Seulgi had this haughty look about her and unkind features that heightened your instinctual fear of the elder of the siblings. Chaerin had this kinder, softer, yet still haughty look about her.

"What's your problem with them?"

"That's not for you to worry your pretty little head about, princess. We just need you to do your part." Seulgi smiled with a deranged look behind her eyes, softly stroking your hair and holding your chin, forcing you to make eye contact with her. You felt this weird ringing in your ears, making your head throb as her once brown eyes turned into a light blue, close to white, and pupils dilated. her eyes widened in fury when you stood unresponsive to the frequency she was emitted, venom dripping from her voice as she spoke. "Ha! The mutts are smarter than we thought they were. They've been using Vervain infused saline to speed up her recovery, and kickstart her transformation without Jisung's mark."

"I really hoped compulsion would work, well... now we need to test her loyalty to her dearest mortal friend. I really didn't want to be made the bad guy. Ugh!" She groaned, walking over to Taegwang's side,

"I don't understand–"

Seulgi's eyes turned the same blue-white colour as she focused on Ryujin. Mere seconds passed before you watched your best friend thrash and scream in Tawegwang's hold as the pain encased her. Thick tears falling down your best friend's face.

"Stop it! Please! Make it stop! Please!"

"Zip it!" Seulgi snapped as her focus left Ryujin, who was now crumpled on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as Seulgi kicked her. Your eyes flickered from Chaerin to Seulgi, and despite seeing the resemblance between them physically, it was mentally where they differed. Seulgi had lost all her humanity in her more than 400 years of life, but Chaerin, still young, had not become as detached from mortal emotions as Seulgi. If you weren't fearing for your own life, you'd think Chaerin had a look of guilt on her face.

"(Y/N). You will do exactly as I say, or poor Ryujin will pay the price with her life, do you understand me?" Seulgi me your eyes, a fierce threat lying behind her's as you looked up at her, your heart beating out of your chest as you nodded. "Use your words, you insolent thing."

"Y– yes, I understand."

"Good." She gave you a small, deranged smile that seemed eerily void of any emotion. Reaching into her leather jacket, she pulled out a silver dagger from its hilt on her jeans. In all seriousness she looked at you, before ripping the IV harshly from your arm. "I want you to stab your little mutt of a boy toy with this dagger, can you do that for me?"

Your eyes widened, tears filling your eyes as you looked at Seulgi. You were now certain, she was a psycho. The mere thought of even holding the dagger to Jisung made you feel as if your heart was being ripped out of your chest. Selfishly, you'd rather Ryujiin pay the price, but in a perfect world, no one would end up dead. Despite you caring for Ryujin, you knew deep down, you'd always pick Jisung, it was now in your nature, when faced with losing him like this. You simply could not physically bring yourself to do it. "I– I don't think I can."

"Well... that's too bad."

Without a second thought, before you could even blink, Seulgi turned around and sliced Ryujin's throat open, her blood spraying all over her face. The blood gushed out of her onto the white tiles, as your screamed the loudest scream in your life, sobs leaving you uncontrollably.

It was only seconds later that Taeil, Nayeon, Johnny and Eunbi ran into the infirmary. Eunbi was armed with a golden stake, you noticed how she grabbed the saline bag or as Seulgi called it 'Vervain solution' and emptied it onto the stake, covering it in the solution, and had the same rune-like markings on her arms as Chaerin, Seulgi and Taegwang. It didn't take a genius to discern that Eunbi, was in fact, not mortal, rather a Dominyen.

"I have 500 years on you, sweetheart. I wouldn't test your luck." Eunbi snapped at Seulgi, who'm she had pinned to the window, silver stake pointed at the younger woman's chest. Unlike Seulgi, Eunbi retained her humanity, and it left you with more unanswered questions than before. You noticed the slight burns that had begun to appear on Eunbi's hand, before she plunged the stake deep into Seulgi's heart.

You watched as Seulgi's face went pale as she took in her last strangled breaths, as Chaerin screamed out in agony, running to attack the much older slayer who stabbed her with the same stake, turning around to then take out Taegwang. Nothing could prepare you for what had just happened, tears falling down your face, now mentally disorientated you began sobbing.

It wasn't long until Taeyong ran into the room, seeing Johnny, Nayeon and Taeil kneeling over Ryujin and Eunbi walking over to you. Areum walked in followed by Jisung, who went straight to you. You got up and ran into his arms sobbing into his chest.

"It's okay, you're safe. We're safe." Jisung whispered into your hair, as

"They wanted me to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me, I'm here." He whispered, holding you tightly to him, keeping you close as you sobbed into his chest. Your friends, or who you thought were your friends were now dead, all but a pile of ash on the tiles before you, and now your best friend, the one human best friend, a constant was on the verge of death. You perked up at Nayeon's voice as she spoke.

"We're gonna have to turn her." Nayeon spoke, stroking hair away from Ryujin's shoulder.

"What?" You broke out of Jisung's grip, walking over to them, Jisung keeping close to you.

"Just do it." Areum spoke, tears filling her eyes as she hid her head in Taeyong's chest, not wanting to watch as Nayeon partially phased, and bit down onto Ryujin's shoulder. Jisung turned your head away, not wanting you to see it happen, and just as quickly as it had happened, Jisung got you out of the infirmary.

He was quick to lead you up the stairs, and towards his room, where he once again pulled you into his chest as silent tears fell from your eyes. He handed you some spare clothes of his, and headed to his shared ensuite with Chenle, getting a loaded loofa with soap, and gently cleaning Ryujin's blood off of your neck and face. "Have a shower, and get changed, it'll make you feel better."

"I– I'm scared, Jisung."

"I'll be right outside the door, I promise I won't leave you."

"Okay."

You walked out of the bathroom in his oversized shirt and a pair of his boxer shorts, and wrapped your arms gently around him. He wrapped his arms back around you, the sparks comforting you, encasing you like a warm blanket.

"We should get some rest." He suggests, swaying slightly as he holds you, leading you over to his bed softly. You look at him, still shaken from what you had just seen.

"Jisung... I don't think I'll be able to sleep... can you... can you sing to me?"

"I'd do anything for you." He kissed your head as he held you close, your head now resting on his chest just under his shoulder as the sound of his heart and vibration of his singing against his ribs now lulled you, once again, back to sleep.

The events of the previous night had left you with more unanswered questions, when you awoke to Jisung opening the bedroom door to Nayeon who walked in, seemingly prepared to have a heavy conversation with you. You opened your eyes softly, as Jisung gently shook you awake.

"I've been sent to take you to the infirmary for a quick check up before Taeyong wishes to speak to you. The both of you." She sighed, being quick to help you out of bed.

The check up went by quickly, as you had not been further injured last night, rather it was the process of dressing in your own clothes, and being back in the infirmary that took the longest time. All you could see was Ryujin's blood on the tiles, even though it had been long cleaned up, or the piles of dust who used to be your best friends, with the exception of Seulgi. Jisung had coached you through it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, holding your hand. Yet you still missed the safety of Jisung's room, or better yet, Jisung's arms.

"If you're wondering, Ryujin is gonna be okay, she'll just be out for a couple of days." Nayeon stated, finishing up her checkup on you, she stood up and gave you a small smile. "Chaeyoung will come and take you to your meeting with Taeyong– oh! She's here already, well that's perfect timing, isn't it?"

Nayeon's smile and sweet demeanour was clearly a mask for the worry she was trying to conceal, despite turning Ryujin, there was no certainty she'd survive the transformation. Nevertheless, she didn't tell you that, and she'd hoped Jisung didn't tell you that. The whole pack feared that losing Ryujin on top of your two closest friends, or who you thought were your closest friends, would completely break you.

"Good morning, (Y/N), Jisung. Come with me, Taeyong's waiting." Chaeyoung smiled, she wore a loose-fitting white linen babydoll dress with some tan sandals.

You clung onto Jisung's arm, walking closely with him, almost hiding into him. Chaeyoung had thought that you acted as if Jisung would hide you from Taeyong, not that there way anything to fear. You were not in trouble. If anything, it was the opposite, he was concerned for you, and that concern was clear on his face when you and Jisung walked into his office. "I'm glad you two came, I just wanted to talk about the events of last night. I'm sure you have many questions about Ryujin and her condition–"

"I have a question about Eunbi." Cutting off Taeyong, you looked at him expectantly, but you registered the complete shock on his face at your statement.

"Oh... and that is?" He sounded unsure, but still encouraged you to ask more, not wanting to shut you down in fear of upsetting you. Eunbi and her... species was a sensitive topic amongst members of Neo Culture, especially amongst Chaeyoung and the twins, Jeno and Jaemin.

"Why hasn't Johnny marked her, and is she a.. um..."

"Dominyen?"

"Yeah..."

"I guessed there would've been questions brought up about me. Sorry to intrude, Taeyong." Eunbi walked into the room at just the right moment, for her to explain herself to the newest pack member.

"No, no. (Y/N) asked about you, not about Ryujin so go ahead." Though you didn't notice, there was a relieved edge in Taeyong's voice. It was clear that the last thing the Alpha wanted to do was give you the wrong impression about Eunbi, who went from one of the most distrusted members of Neo Culture, to one of the most trusted.

She smiled in thanks, and sat down in the armchair across from the love seat where you and Jisung sat, the view of the luscious forest and mountain range from the broad office windows behind her. "Dominyens and Werewolves are toxic to each other... unless the Dominyen in certain cases is mutually mate and Erasthai with the werewolf, and an Erasthai is the Dominyen equivalent of a mate."

"Johnny isn't your Erasthai?"

"He is, but I'm getting there." Eunbi continued, smiling at your interest and eagerness to learn about her and her species. "The older a Dominyen is the stronger the are, given Dominyens age 1 year for every 100 years if life from birth, we can live thousands of years, and become infinitely stronger. In human years I am 2500 years old, but physically I am 25 years old. When a Dominyen meets their Erasthai; Fae, Witch, Human, or in rare cases, Werewolf, they slowly turn human so they can complete the bond or marking process with their Erasthai."

"So you'll slowly be turning human?"

"Something like that, considering that I am so old it will take a long time to become completely human, since my blood is poisonous to Johnny, he may never mark me, but the process can be sped up with the help of a witch." She explained as she look at Jisung, who had a thankful look in his eyes, to which Eunbi only smiled at him.

At first, Jisung did not like you trusting Eunbi so much, he himself had never been very fond of Dominyens and prior to Eunbi marrying Johnny, Jisung had thought Johnny a traitor to werewolf kind. However, now he realised how important it was for Eunbi to give you a better representation of Dominyens. Otherwise, you'd have one idea of the entire species, which even Jisung recognised as wrong.

"There are also three types of Dominyens and depending on the type of Dominyen, the ageing rate and rate of transformation from Dominyen to human, if even needed, will differ." Jisung added, looking at you with a small smile. Eunbi let out a surprised laugh at the facts Jisung knew about Dominyens. She had never met many that took the time of day to research the different types of Dominyens.

"You've been busy, Jisung."

"What kind of Dominyen are you?"

"I'm what they call a Novicitai."

"Were they Novicitais?" You asked with a shudder, and it didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. Suddenly, Eunbi began to tense and looked in between Jisung and Taeyong, neither showing any protest for her continuing her explanation.

Eunbi softly spoke, carefully planning out her words as to try and show sympathy for your feelings. "No. They were just the stock-standard Dominyens, also known as Slayers. Weakest of the bunch, but if it makes you feel any better, not all Dominyens I know are like them, you just had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing some of the bad eggs."

Just as you were about to say something, Chaeyoung came running into the room, her eyes wide and face relieved, a noticeable change from the stress it had bore this morning when she'd escorted you to Taeyong's office.

"Ryujin is awake, and Taeyong... I think you're gonna wanna see this one."

#nct-writers #nct dream #nct fluff #nct u #nct haechan #nct127 #nct dream angst #nct jeno #nct jaemin #nct soft hours #nct scenarios #nct jisung #nct chenle #nct mark #nct oneshot #nct Haechan #nct renjun #nct series #nct werewolf au

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jhynka · 2 years

Text

TOMORROW X TOGETHER - what happens when they're drunk headcanons CW: mentions of intoxication

AN: first hcs after a while :) hope u like them

TAGLIST: @prodbyblush @flowers4riki

CHOI YEONJUN

-Sings in the bathtub

-Specifically sings there and zips his mouth shut everywhere else because of the ‘acoustics’.

-He will belt, rap, and even sing whole operas he didn't even know he knew.

-This man will completely sing in fluent German and Italian while singing.

-One stutter while he sings and he completely breaks down.

-”I WAS SINGING SO GOOD. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MOUTH??? WHY DID I STUTTER?? MY MOUTH IS BROKEN. PLEASE. SOMEONE. FIX MY MOUTH.”

-Huening consoles him that his mouth isn't broken and that he was just enjoying singing.

-Does excessive skincare.

-By excessive, I mean squirting out a whole bottle of moisturizer and spreading it across the mirror like fingerpainting, and eventually on his face.

-Tries to make art pieces with his serum too, since its more of a yellow color compared to the cream-white moisturizer.

-He would describe his mirror art as the 'next Da Vinci', but it just looks like someone dropped their white cake onto a mirror.

-Places sheet masks on the walls and draws faces in the holes and laughs at them.

-Literally, hide all your face products because they are gone.

-Would try and give you a makeover.

-”Y/N! Here's some cream and some lipbalm that you should put on your eyes because it looks good. And this mask man I made on the wall says you're really pretty even without your lip balm eyes so remember to always forget lip balm eyes and give mask man a hug instead”

CHOI SOOBIN

-He cooks a lot when intoxicated. Cooking is the inner skill he has that only appears when he's drunk. He would make micchelen-worthy dishes and tries to replicate them the following day but triggers the smoke alarm at hybe instead.

-Complete concoctions with perfectly sauted onions, and deserts with crystalized caramel, all home and handmade in the dorms of Hybe Ent. never to be made again.

-It's always a new thing everytime he drunk cooks. Sometimes it would be a 8 course dinner, others it would be homemade deserts such as brownies and cookies. The only difference his cooking had from professionals, was that it always came out perfect. Always. Not a small burn or a slight undercook on any area of the dish. None. Always perfection on a plate, waiting to be devoured.

-He also aimlessly walks around the building.

-He would forget that he was accepted by Hybe and even debuted so he would mummer how devastated he was because he was ‘rejected’ by Hybe while banging into the walls while walking.

-On some occasions, he would just stay in the elevator, letting people get to their floors in silence but never getting off any floor.

-RM would be the responsible one, (ofc) and help him get back to his dorm room and even tuck him in.

CHOI BEOMGYU

-Tries to push Yeonjun back in the freezer.

-”Yeonjun get back in that freezer!! You belong in there!”

-Eventually gives up and passes out next to the fridge.

-Literally, all his emotions would just turn into sleepy anger towards Yeonjun.

-”CHOI YEONJUN YOU BETTER NOT BE WITH Y/N OR ILL KILL YOU”

-Becomes extremely protective of you.

-By protective, I mean clinging onto you like there's no tomorrow.

-Would be that person to cling to your leg and have you drag him around.

-The loudest out of all of them when drunk. hes going to scream, shout and even yodel.

-He's the one that would get you all in trouble with how loud he was being.

-Would try to kiss Yeonjun out of hatred.

-He will just go up to him and kiss him.

-”YEONJUN. YA. I HATE YOU SO MUCH LOOK AT MY LIPS. ILL KISS YOU WITH IT HAHAHA.”

-Yoongi would probably be walking past the dorm, and he'd sample Beomgyu's screaming for his new songs.

KANG TAEHYUN

-Drunk posts on Weverse.

-Will keyboard spam leading moas to think that Odi stepped on his phone

-Speaking of Odi, he will give Odi so much food that his playpen would just be a mess of food.

-Soobin will get silent-mad at him, but not enough to care because of his rejection-depression.

-Honestly, he seems like the type to know what kind of fics everyone is writing about him

-So 100 percent reads fanfics about himself

-”Y/N people think I'm a bad boy, hhahahahah. I don't know how to ride a motorcycle and I'm not part of the mafia, why do people say i do?”

-Is the one eating Soobin's creations

-He probably eats all of them to the point where he eats something he's allergic to and doesn't care.

-” Yeah, I'm swelling a bit but it's fine it's just a bit toasty here that's all”

HUENINGKAI

-Talks to his plushies.

-He baby talks to them and tells them that they're adorable and so soft.

-He talks about you to them and how much he likes you.

-”Y/N is so cute you know, just like you, and her personality is soft, like you, and there's also her hair that's so smooth and silky, and it smells so nice. I should borrow her shampoo and use that as plushie detergent when I clean you guys so that you smell like her when I go to sleep.”

-Probably practices his “bad boy” face in the mirror

-” Yeah, who's the cute member now? That's Beomgyu not me!! I'll wreck you so badly if you mess with me.”

-Does ASMR. He probably thinks about his Tingle Interview on M2 a lot because he really looked like he enjoyed it, so he's just going to be laying on the floor, in a fetal position, while clicking his tongue half-asleep.

-Talks super fast in Koreanglish, so no one really understands him either because he's slurring at this point or they themselves are drunk.

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elytrafemme · 1 year

Note

Okay, well i dont wanna get controversial on your page (CW/TW Dream mention)

but i wrote a story using, Dream… as a character. Its a touchy subject in this community and im going to loose a lot of friends with it I have a feeling, i dont like dream as a creator and i dont fucking support him anymore and i dont want to support him. I was never a dream Stan or any of that, i never really enjoyed his content or anything but he plays a very important character in DSMP.. and that character just so happens to be an important character in an au I’ve had since 2021, i never felt good about any of it. And i caved today i wrote some stuff, posted it (with the encouragement of some irls) and im scared how people will react.. sorry its just dumb but maybe you can understand with Cough Syrup on Hiatus and all that. :(

Thanks for listening tho, and i hope you have a good day/night

-🍌

out of worry ill get discoursers im putting this under the cut and wont be tagging this w / anything unless specifically requested so it doesnt land in main tags -- answer to ur ask will be below :]

hiya banana anon no worries, you're all good :] will say though i'm not very good at talking about these things so this will probably be poorly artiulated so bear with me here.

i def think its a touchy subject and everyone has their own takes on it, i took a hiatus from CS partly for this whole reason so i get ur situation and position here :( sending u love

the way i see it though like... you have had this au since 2021. and you're writing about c!dream like that character IN this au. that does not mean you support the creator dream at all, you're just exploring a fictional character in a setting that you yourself created. with CS like i've kind of come to terms with the fact that the dream i write in there is no indication of my opinion on dream the creator, i want to beat the shit out of the real guy but the actual character in the fic is fiction. im gonna make it clear on my fic notes that i do not like the real guy and writing the character doesn't negate that. does that make sense?

people have a right to not want to write c!dream in anything at all but people have the right to also keep writing their fanfictions, AU or canon compliant or something else, and including that character. and people do NOT have the right to harass over which decision someone makes in this undeniably nuanced scenario .

its so clear from ur ask that you very passionately dislike dream and i respect this in you so much and we're handshaking rn, and we're handshaking also on the fear when it comes to writing his character. but i think that what you did is okay and i hope u are doing alright. sending love friend <3

#banana anon #don't reblog

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astralbooks · 2 years

Text

Six Crimson Cranes - Elizabeth Lim

Read: 09/09/22 - 15/09/2022

Rating: 4/5

Rep: East Asian coded setting and cast, gay side character

CW: parental death (in backstory and on page), attempted murder, referenced executions, referenced war, child illness, near-drowning

Review:

I really enjoyed this!

This book is a fairytale retelling, specifically of the Wild Swans, and Lim successfully preserved the feeling of it being a fairytale the whole way through. In fact, the Wild Swans story blended so seamlessly with everything else that was going on that I’m half convinced the story was always meant to be told with cranes and dragons and an East Asian setting.

Shiori’s relationships with her brothers were great, and her growing friendship/romance with Takkan, the person she’d initially been so upset about being betrothed to, was well done! I think my favourite relationship in the whole book is the friendship that grew between Shirori and Takkan’s little sister Megari, their interactions were so sweet and heartwarming.

Something that I adored was Shiori’s gradual realisation that she’d initially got some things wrong. I wasn’t expecting this extra layer of complexity to the story, and it was such a great surprise! I loved the ending a lot!

One way in which I think this book could be improved is to do with what the reader is told is a significant character trait of Shiori’s. We’re told that she’s got such a reputation for spinning tales and making things up, as in lying rather than storytelling, that she’s unofficially known as the ‘Princess of Lies’, however we never see her do anything in line with this title in the book. There’s plenty of instances of people not believing her about something, but she’s always telling the truth. It’s not even a case of us witnessing the ending of a boy who cried wolf type scenario because whenever people don’t believe her about something their scepticism about the incident in question would be understandable even if she was always known to be honest. I hope that her alleged lying skills will be put to more use in the sequel.

This didn’t detract from my enjoyment very much, however, and I would definitely recommend this book to anyone who likes fantasy or fairytale retellings!

Thank you to NetGalley and Hodder & Stoughton for providing me with an e-arc of this book, even if I did end up reading a published copy.

#review #book review #six crimson cranes #elizabeth lim #books #booklr

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mlm-mod-taka · 3 years

Note

Hey! Could I request some headcanons of Taka, Kazuichi, Gundham, and Kaito (separately) comforting their male s/o who is insecure about the way he looks?

Also, i’d like to be added to the anon list as ✨anon Thanks :)

INSECURE READER • taka, kazuichi, gundham, kaito x m reader

of course, ✨ anon! welcome to the class. i personally know how this feels in both a gender sense and in an appearance sense, so i feel like ill be able to write these slightly better because of it. remember that youre all beautiful and i think youre all worth everything in the world, never forget that! my dms are always open. anyways, enjoy your request!

tws/cws: insecurity, self hate, self deprication, mentions of t$umugi and ang13 in a positive way.

|| -> mod taka <3

initially, he took note that you looked a little down, so he let you take a break from school work. taka definitely didnt wanna add onto any stress you were feeling at the moment.

after noticing that you started wearing more baggy clothing recently, and that your mood hasnt gotten better, he confronted you in the nicest way he could, while still being his usual bold self.

when you tell him that lately youve been insecure about the way you look, and that you didnt feel attractive, he gives you a serious look, before letting you continue venting.

after youve told him everything, he immediately starts to deny everything youre thinking about to yourself, he himself seeing how handsome and charismatic you are.

his boyfriend feeling insecure about his great appearence? not on his stern watch, no sir. he states every moment that he remembers how charming you are, reassuring you more and more with each memory.

he completely understands what youre going through though, and while he is known for being very strict with the rules, he will make an exception for you. he lets you blend into the background in class rather than encouraging you to recite more, and he allows pda for the whole duration of your small slump.

is extremely encouraging when you want to try and be more confident in yourself, giving you tips to help you get a better attitude.

is also very supportive when you dont want to try it just yet. he even buys you some oversized clothing to help with your mood, also with a speech about how much he loves you and your appearance. youre basically showered in physicaly affection whenever he says his encouraging speech.

i feel like he instantly notices when you feel insecure, i headcanon that he himself has gone through some parts of his life that make him very familiar with the feeling of insecurity or self hate.

makes you a small mechanic doll of your comfort characters. doesnt matter how niche, he'll find materials to make them for you.

hates seeing you so sad, so he showers you in compliments and love, constantly giving you sappy tangents about how much he loves you.

gets you your favorite food, puts on your comfort show while you eat it together on the bed, all cuddled together in a tight blanket with the mechanical doll he made for you in your grasp.

would also watch funny american sitcoms with you, willing to do anything to see you be happy, even if its for a slight second. he wants to be your comfort zone so you can slowly be more confident in yourself and break out of your shell.

lets you take as many mental health breaks as you want, he knows how important it is to take those. hed much rather let you take breaks than slowly but surely burn out from exhaustion.

if there is any specific clothing/specific accessory that you particularly feel confident in, next thing you know there will be boxes of that at your front door, all in your favorite colors.

is always there for you, in any scenario. he will always be available for you to vent to, and whenever youre ready to help yourself, hes most likely in your room with you, cuddling and making cheesy jokes to make you feel better.

cham-p is the first to notice you being less energetic than usual, and has spotted you avoiding multiple interactions with your classmates. this worried them, seeing their other father act so unusual. so, they immediately ran over to gundham to say what they have seen, which resulted in a determined gundham.

why, his dark prince is feeling down? now this just cannot do. whichever lowly mortal hurt you is now going to feel the wrath of the supreme overlord of ice!

approaches you, very mencingly, asking who hurt you in a stern tone and in his usual dramatic language, which made you smile. seeing him so protective of your feelings and how concerned the dark devas seemed for you, made you feel validated in a way.

when you tell him why you have been in a terrible mood, he is shocked once again. you... you dont like your appearance? who?! who made you feel this way? he shall banish them in the deepest pits of hell for several millenia! even that would be much too merciful for the pain this person must've costed you.

when you explain even further to a furious gundham that it was you, and that no one else was at fault, the dark devas immediately jump to your person, snuggling against your neck while there was a tint of sorrow in gundhams usually confident expression.

assures you that youre an amazing person, both inside and out. mentions each and every detail he loves about you, while maga-z rests on your shoulder.

if you have a favorite animal that is exotic, he will definitely find a way for it to be available for you. it doesnt matter what he has to give, he'll find any way to make you happy.

isnt much for physical affection, but makes an exception in times like these. he'll always be ready to go on and on about how much he loves you when youre feeling down on yourself. he and the dark devas will always be there for you.

takes a small while to notice your mood, honestly. but he'll get there eventually! with the help of a very concerned kaede and shuichi, he will ask if anythings been going on lately.

respects your choice when you dont want to talk about it, and gives you your space when you want it. but, if you want some affection then he will never leave you alone.

will let you know hes there whenever youre ready to talk through other ways. he will always be a few feet away from you, and everytime youre anywhere near together, he will put an arm around your shoulder while calling you a cute nickname.

after awhile though, he'll try to lightly pry. he doesnt want you to suffer on your own, and he wants to be able to help his boyfriend in any way he can, you do matter the most to him after all.

once you do tell him, the first things he asks is if someone made you feel like this, offering to give them a good "talking to". when you tell him that its not anyones fault, he aggresively starts expressing how much he loves how you look.

would be one of those people who declares his love for you in the loudest, most confident way possible. everyone else in the class has to hear him ramble and yell about how cute and beautiful you are, everyone except kaede, shuichi, tsumugi, angie and gonta is so tired about hearing it.

whenever you dont want other people to see you, he offers you his jacket. he also lets you wear his clothes since he's most likely a bigger size than you. you can practically take his whole closet and he'd be fine with it.

gives you love, affection, and compliments almost every second of the day. he'll tone it down if youre overwhelmed by it. but every time he passes by you, he'll give you a compliment about your appearence, which helps you with your whole situation, reminding you that he'll always be there when you need him.

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iclaimedtobethebetterbard · 2 years

Note

NOT A QUESTION ABT LORE but what r everyone's fave type of music / fav artists / etc . This is very important

oooooh this is a good question and i can probably not give it as good of an answer as it deserves because i grew up in a white evangelical community /neg and was basically not allowed to listen to anything but That Kind of worship music for the first like 14-16 years of my life. so since then i have been trying to figure out how normal-people listening to music works. i still haven’t really figured it out, i’ve just found a few artists that i like and i just kind of put them on repeat and am not sure how to go about regularly finding more new things i will enjoy. like. i listened to over 11,000 minutes of lil nas x last year. (which i am very proud of actually lol.) but like, that one artist was a full tenth of what i listened to the entire year.

[ask me questions abt the backstories/lore for my if you’re going my way, i’ll go with you fic]

answers in terms of general vibes below the cut, although i do not know enough about music as a whole to give really specific examples like u asked for i am sorry 😭 (if you have opinions on what they would listen to, you are Probably Correct and also I Would Like To Hear Them) (also cw allistic ableism mention):

so obviously virgil likes emo, because that’s the law when you write fanfiction with virgil in it lol /hj probably his tastes are a lot more expansive than just emo though. like you can tell that emo is kind of where he started out from, but he’s branched out a ton since his teenage years and he likes a bunch of different genres now.

logan i think likes anything that he can use as an audio stim. stuff with big loud strong rhythmic noises. technically i have not officially made him autistic in this fic but like. probably he is lol. im dragging my feet on talking about it in the fic a little bc,,, i feel like if random people in the fic’s universe find out he is autistic, they are definitely Super fast to draw incorrect connections between his supergenius power and the savant stereotype. which is gross and which logan haaaaates so much. i vaguely have a scene in my head of him like getting really annoyed by some ableist reporter talking to him on live tv and snapping that “actually i have only been a supergenius for 2/3 of my life. i have been autistic my entire life” but also like. ughhh i don’t want to put him through that. so im on the fence about talking about it in the fic or not. but yeah i think he really really likes audio stimming and is hyposensitive to audio in general (which also is part of why he likes to process his thoughts by speaking them aloud) so he likes music with lots of Noise in it.

patton mostly listens to Music Aimed At Little Kids. like disney soundtracks etc. plus anything child-appropriate that logan listens to, bc again, logan does not treat children that differently based on their being children and sees no reason to play entirely different music than normal when patton is around.

i don’t know what janus likes to listen to but i know it is very different from the like disney soundtracks and kidz bop or whatever that patton listens to (and that janus does also listen to because patton listens to it lol) (literally nobody is making them do this but they do it anyway and then complain about it a lot) (but only when patton is not around bc they don’t want to make him think they’re upset at him about it <3). possibly he is kind of snobby about his music taste? but like in a very oh-this-person-is-definitely-in-her-mid-20s way if that makes any sense (im not sure if it does). i have the least idea of what janus’s preferred music is tbh.

remus’s music taste,, again i don’t know what it is but i do know that you can Very Clearly tell that Oh This Man Is Extremely Mentally Ill from looking at what he chooses to listen to.

roman i think has honestly mostly not been allowed to listen to music basically at all up until now. like if his parents felt like listening to music, then he would have to listen to that, but he wasn’t ever really allowed to choose music or have any way to listen to it on his own. his experience with music has been whatever other people choose to play around him and that’s about it.

yeah!! those are the vibes!! i don’t really have a ton of specific genres or artists to name im very sorry 😭 but i am super open to hearing ideas for those if anyone has any!!

#peregrin said a thing #peregrin answers #if you're going my way i'll go with you #ghasper tag!!#iygmw lore

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crown-anon · 3 years

Text

@hearts1ck my beloved

November 1st

CW: explicit; more CWs under the cut

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; reader has male anatomy; more specifics under the cut

edited 14 March 2021

anonymous asked

consider. okay. CONSIDER. consider masochist george. okay?? okay. okay LISTEN.

I think I have a problem with gimmicks also. because. because. ever since strawberry milk george, I. I have not stopped thinking about strawberry flavored lube. because! listen okay hear me out.

(this is absolutely 110% a response to discovering that you share a birthday with him. what of it?)

I know everyone likes pillow princess george and. that's okay. that's FINE. these are not mutually exclusive.

george looking up at you with The LookTM wearing some pink strawberry milk lingerie. not even lingerie really! just something cute like that

& him being like. "I know you love me 👉👈 but I need you to fuck me like you don't"

so I was. thinking. that brat george is the exact kind of person to say (playfully & consensually) "but I don't wanna give you head, I just wanna fuck >:(" after you've got him worked up, maybe from teasing him throughout the day, or edging him a little. but you still need some type of lube. so you go to apply the first bottle you see and he's pink when he asks you "😳 is that ... strawberry ... ?" and you're confused like ??? bro you just asked me to fuck you into next week why're you interested in the flavored lube

but. but listen. he would get so enthusiastic about it. at first it's just "maybe I can stand to eat them out just a little bit before ..." and then after you come the first time it devolves really, really quickly into the need to just. take care of you. and it stretches on until you've come three or four times, and you're still shaking, and he's just. completely gone in subspace

hmm ... george climbing up onto your lap when he's done with you, going in to give you a kiss, and he tastes like strawberry. and he ends up moaning right into your mouth because he's been so horny but so? understimulated?? that he outright jumps as soon as his dick grazes your thigh. it would only take a couple stuttery grinds before he's finishing on both of your stomachs

and he's just so cute when comes, or when he bites down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet. and it's your birthdays. so, you decide you'll give him a reason to cry. and he'll finally get put in his place! it's a win-win for both of you!!

istg every time I send you an ask I discover something new about myself. you. you have made a dreamteam simp out of me. I am but a shell of the man I once was. I think I should thank you? [👑]

hearts1ck

i say this nearly every time you send stuff in but...... by god you own my soul. all of it. this – i – first of all, the implications of masochist george losing his fucking mind when you’re rough with him? guhhhfjklgjgf. and ,..d,,f,,, ,, ,, george in pink lingerie. i. i . a... pink satin slip maybe or .... ohghfd; oh my god those. that cat panty/bra set. im ascending im losing my brain as i type this i cannot –

okay im back on earth. he’d get into that rhythm and settle like liquid while he gets to work on you, and his subspace face is so self-satisfied and nearly smug so he’s just having the time of his life,,, and he makes such a loud noise when his dick twitches against your thigh and maybe... JUST MAYBE he whimpers extra watery when you drag his hips to grind against where you’re wet and dripping/your spent cock as if he’s the one who’d get overstimulated by it. when he finally leans away, eyelids heavy, you gently fit your hand over his jaw and ask, “did you even ask? it’s one thing to come without permission, but not even caring to ask? georgie, i might just be offended,” and he whines “green”s against your neck before you even check-in

and because u made it abt both of our birthdays ,,,, spanks for each year we’ve been alive methinks ??? and then the scratch down his ass gets him hard again and he’s so embarrassed by it, ,,, , ,, ,, ,, ,, ,

also thank god you’ve joined the george boat. i’m so proud of myself for hopefully being part of the reason you got dragged over here HJFKDHSKD

#👑 anon #(my beloved) #keep #anon thoughts: george #redsick #SHAWTY WANT THE WHOLE CREW SHAWTY BAD

as soon as you said birthday spanks I decided I had to write more about this. and I was going to leave more snippets in your askbox like the fucking gremlin creature I am, but then my thoughts started. actually having structure? and then I started writing it. and I tried to do homework and write on study breaks only but. I just kept coming back to this. this is the polar opposite of writer's block. I think I'm cursed or something. so here I am rushing to finish this so that I may rest in peace!!

yes I've been writing nonstop since I sent you that ask. what of it. what the fuck of it.

when I said I discover something new about myself every time we interact, I. I'm serious. I think I might be insane or something. I'm way too sadistic. you'll see. what the fuck is this? what the fuck did I just write??

this would have done so much critical psychic damage if I had posted it on November 1st in real life, but mental illness says I can't let my horny thoughts rattle around in my brain for that long. so!! it's you guys's problem now xoxoxo

I'm not fucking proofreading this. love you though 💗

I did end up proofreading actually. oops! looks like posting at 23:00 isn't always a good idea.

November 1st

CW: explicit, anal (kind of vague), bondage (collar + leash), corruption, domspace (I think??), edging, handjob, humiliation, masochism, oral, praise, sadism, spanking, subspace, swearing. I call George a whore and a slut at least once. and also, George calls yellow at one point. this one kind of surprised me so just. Be Careful. I cannot believe I wrote this. I don't know where this came from.

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; I use the word "sir;" reader has male anatomy; I use the words "cock," "dick," and "head;" reader can ejaculate

—

dawn shines through drawn curtains, illuminating the tile floor and your robed figure reflecting off it. batter sizzles in the skillet as you flip the last pancake over. this side looks golden brown, like honeycomb or caramelized sugar. that delicious, freshly-baked fragrance mingles with scented candles. it's perfect, you smile. he's going to love it.

you lift the pancake with a spatula, stacking it on top of the others on his plate. you bring it to his seat at the table, along with the butter, the syrup, the honey, the jam…and you go to pour him a drink.

"hey baby," you greet warmly to the sleepyhead rubbing his eyes in the entryway, still clinging to a pillow. his hair's a mess, only wearing socks and a sweatshirt that reaches down past his thighs. you reckon he'd only just crawled out of bed.

"morning…" he yawns, stumbling past you to take his seat.

"milk?" you ask, he only nods. "did you sleep okay?"

he hums affirmatively. "I…can we…"

one track mind, you joke inwardly. but you don't blame him. "of course," you open the fridge.

you hear him pause. "…is it too early for that?"

"no, no!" you give him a lighthearted laugh. "I kind of expected it, to be honest…I want it, too."

he's silent under the noise of you rummaging through the fridge. "I—"

"sorry—it looks like all we have is strawberry milk. is that alright?"

"yeah…yeah, that's alright. I…actually…wanted to try something new." you shut the fridge, he's fidgeting in his seat.

"hit me with it," your expression is gentle. you pass his cup off to him, but he holds his hand over yours a little too long, looking up at you.

"fuck me like you hate me."

you don't know if it's hearing him swear, or the way he said it so calmly, or how he closed his eyes and swallowed hard before his tone could dip down into something lower. but like a match in an torrent of gasoline, suddenly you're burning up.

you only realize you're staring when he bites his lip and looks down. you start to say something, but the words don't form.

he laughs nonthreateningly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "is that a yes?"

you laugh with him. "I…yes, absolutely yes." you turn back around to make your own stack of pancakes. "you should eat first, though."

"what?" he teases. "will I need the energy?"

you smile. "yeah. I think you will." you can practically feel him open his mouth in protest, but he stays silent after that.

and it stays mostly silent while you cook your pancakes. you hear the clinking of his fork on his plate, but it isn't very disruptive. it sounds like he's hurrying to finish his food.

when you go back to the table with your own platter, he's already done eating. he's red down to his neck, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, looking at you expectantly. you spot a pair of tassels peeking out from under it, just below his hip bones. is that…

he pulls the hem up just a bit, holding your gaze. he smiles, apparently satisfied watching your face heat up.

"I—you should go…go get ready," you manage. he gets up before you even finish your sentence, only stopping to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.

except it isn't quick, when he slides his hand down to rest firmly on your collar, and leans in to trail kisses down your neck. "a-and leave that on," you stutter.

he pauses, just under your jaw. "leave what on?" he murmurs.

your breath catches, you shut your eyes. "whatever the fuck it is you're wearing under there."

he's hardly grazing your skin, but you can feel how hot he is next to you. it takes all of your willpower not to shiver.

he pulls back quickly, only his hand lingering. "I don't know what you're talking about." and just like that, he disappears into your bedroom.

you reach up a hand tentatively to your collar, hot to the touch. I'm in way too deep, you decide, and force yourself to take a bite of your food despite your nerves.

—

"that," you hiss. "that fucking outfit. that."

"oh, this?" he bites his lip, hooking his thumb in the keyhole. "this's just what I went to bed in last night."

"fuck you. we both know that isn't true."

he tugs gently on his top, pulling it a little to the side. "what's the big deal? can't I wear something special for my birthday?"

"it's special, all right," and you leave it at that, opting instead to slot between his legs where he sits waiting on the edge of the bed. you bring up a hand to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb across his cheek. you'll never get enough of the way he looks at you, like you're intoxicating.

…? you frown.

"is something…missing?" he perks up instantly at "missing."

"what…?" he chooses his words carefully.

"the collar—your collar. where is it?" you turn away to start going through your bedside table, but the way his lips quirk up into a sly smile isn't lost on you.

that's lube…that's a vibrator…where the fuck is it…? "w-what collar?" he stumbles over his words.

your mind jumps to say, the collar that came with that outfit, or I know you know what I'm talking about, but you won't give him the satisfaction. you decide to speak a little darker, only a firm "George." you hear him swallow.

"w-well," his voice is shaky, "you only told me to leave on whatever I was wearing under my shirt. and…I wasn't wearing that collar at breakfast…s-so technically…"

you stop looking immediately. you turn to take him in, legs crossed, stance confident, but expression showing uncertainty. you can see the regret on his face. "get up." he takes a shallow breath. "get up."

"I'm—"

"don't I'm sorry me," you snap. "you look for your fucking collar on your own."

he slips off the bed, looking ashamed, but starts digging through the drawer all the same. "I really am sorry," he murmurs. you take his place sitting on the bed. he finds what he's looking for rather quickly: a simple white leather collar with a bell, and a leash. he hands them off to you shyly. "um, here…"

"good boy," you praise. "kneel."

he shuts his eyes and does as he's told. you can see the bliss wash over his face just at being ordered around. his lips part a little as he lets out a heavy breath. if only I knew what this would do to him, you muse, I'd have done this ages ago.

you fasten the collar, revelling in how he shivers at the gentle sensation of cold leather hanging around his neck. you leave it a little bit loose, but still comfortable, and hook the leash in its place. he sits obediently still on his knees, looking deep in thought.

"Oh, I know what I'm gonna do to you," you bait. "how old are you today?"

"mmm. twenty-five." he looks down.

you smile, holding tight onto the leash. "I'm gonna edge you. twenty-five times."

he flinches away immediately, yet hums in pleasant surprise when the leash snaps taught. the bell jingles stiffly. "no way. that's way too much."

"I think you should've thought about that before you wore that to breakfast," you decide, tugging a little. he's caught off-guard and stumbles forward, stopping himself by leaving a clumsy pair of kisses on the inside of your thigh. the metal and leather feel refreshingly cool against your feverish skin. "we've got all day, baby."

you expect to hear some kind of protest, you're crazy. or a playful taunt, I'm better off doing this by myself. but he knits his brows and openly moans at the thought. "all day…" he repeats.

he looks up at you, almost pleading, and you can hear the resignation in his voice when he whispers "alright."

"get up here," you command. "on top of me." as he climbs up into your lap, a little too eagerly, you add, "and take your dick out."

you shrug your robe off your shoulders while he's working on his panties, and without thinking, you ask, "color?"

he stops, leaving his head poking cutely over the waistband. he looks up at you again. "…what?"

"um…color," you explain. "like, how are you doing? is this okay? I don't actually want to hurt you. uhhh…green means good, yellow means slow down, and red means stop."

he stifles a laugh. "you're such a nerd. I'm okay."

"alright." you blush a little. "we can stop whenever you need to. this is for you…" you think of something horribly unsexy to say. "…birthday boy."

now he's really laughing, with his whole body. you think the way it makes his collar jingle is cute. "oh my god. shut up. just shut up," his expression turns serious, and he drops to a whisper, "and fuck me."

that got you hot again. you pull him by the leash into a kiss, you bite his lip, you eat him up. and you grab the both of you together with your other hand, you moan in tandem. you can feel how you took him by surprise in the way he twitches under your thumb, the way he leans into you with his whole body. you part from the kiss and he leans back on his heels, panting hard, holding on to your shoulders for support. you can feel him shaking a little.

when you move your hand all the way up the first time, you squeeze both of your heads gently, and he practically falls into you. muffled in the crook of your neck, he begs, "god, do that again."

so you do. again. and again. what was a string of stuttered breaths turns into a single broken moan as you jerk the both of you off. when you think you're getting close, you let go of yourself to focus all your attention on him.

"fuck, sir," he whines—hahaha, that sir made your cock leak a little. he shut his eyes tight. "I-I-I think—I think I'm—"

just like that, you stop, and he goes slack, practically laying on you. but he doesn't grind back, or even move to touch himself. that won't last very long.

you let him come back down, knowing edging takes a lot out of you; maybe even more so than actually coming does. slowly but surely, his breathing steadies. you rub between his shoulderblades affectionately, still trying to ground yourself, too.

once you've found your voice again, you question, "are you gonna count for me?"

he makes a sound against your skin, somewhere between excitement and fear. "…o-one." you revel in how fucked-out he sounds already.

"one what?" you prod.

he seems at a loss, like he's forgotten himself, what he said. after a minute or two of pondering, he catches on. "…sir."

it's your turn to moan. your dick jumps at the honorific, still mostly untouched against your stomach. "good boy." and you dive back in. twenty-four to go.

—

it's noon. you're working on nineteen. and your partner's getting much more…expressive. he's started biting his hand to keep himself quiet, but he's still…

"I-I—oh fuck, I'm—fuck, I-I'm—I'm—" he whimpers through his teeth. and he yelps, whole body shaking, bell jingling incessantly, when he comes all over your hand and stomach.

you take your hand off him immediately, and this time he does try to reach down, ride through it, but you grab both his wrists to stop him. he grinds down uselessly against your thigh and your dick. although you're still hard, and only a hairline trigger away from coming yourself, it doesn't stop you from keeping this brat in line. you only bite your lip and close your eyes.

he leans his forehead against yours, moving in to give you a kiss, but you push him away.

"did you never learn how to fucking count?" you growl.

he winces. "I-I-I-I'm…I'm sorry—"

you scowl at your hand, covered in come. "here, slut," you raise it up to his lips. "clean this off for me."

he tears up a little, but takes your fingers into his mouth all the same. pretty quickly, though, he spits them back out.

"it doesn't taste good…" he complains.

"oh? oh, it doesn't?" you mock. "but it felt good, when you came without my permission, like a cheap fucking whore."

a couple of tears spill over, roll down his cheeks, yet he says nothing, only moving back in to lap his come off your hand. you can see it in his expression that he's not very happy about it, but he doesn't protest further.

"is this good enough, sir?" he asks, when it seems that he's gotten it all. it looks clean enough, you agree. you grab him by the chin, hooking your thumb in his mouth. you don't even have to tell him to suck.

"you come without my approval again, and it's over. you can go back to playing minecraft—or what-the-fuck-ever—with your friends for your birthday. do you want to sleep on the couch, Georgie?"

if he wasn't crying before, he's definitely crying now. he doesn't shake his head, but he circles your fingertip with his tongue enthusiastically, as if to say, I'll be good, I'll be good this time, looking up at you doe-eyed.

"bend over for me," you demand. "across my lap."

he does so immediately. he slips a little bit while he's changing positions, you hear the bell ring, and he scrambles to correct himself. he settles with his ankles crossed and his head in his hands, propping himself up on his elbows. you feel a little bad, you admit, but you won't budge; he has a safeword, you trust that he'll use it.

"let's try that again," your tone softens. "I want you to count for me, okay?"

he nods.

you pull his panties to the side, pause briefly, and bring down your hand with a satisfying smack.

"ohhhhhh—" he moans, jolting a little. "—holy shit, did you just spank me?"

your stomach drops, you go to rub him gently where you just hit him. "is that okay—?"

"it's hot, it's so hot, fuck," he shifts in your lap. "um, sorry…one."

seriously, something about hearing him swear awakens something in you, every time. you're fired up. you spank him again.

"mmm—two…" is he…? "three…"

you pause to massage his ass again, and to speak. "you're…you're hard again, aren't you?"

you didn't even spank him yet, but he lets out a moan. "fuck, I—I just. I want you. I want this. so, so much."

you wonder if this is actually the same George who was fidgeting with his pillow in the dining room this morning.

"you're so bad, getting turned on by something like this," you tease. he only moans in response.

"four—five—six—seven…" he chokes out. "it's starting to sting…"

you take a break, kneading the skin where your angry red handprint is starting to take shape.

"eight…nine…but god, it hurts so good…" he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "ten…"

at ten, you linger for a moment, holding a handful of his ass. "does it?"

"yes—yesyesyes," he buries his face in the pillow, and shivers. "fuck, eleven…twelve…"

you pull his panties down to his knees, and switch sides. he lifts his hips up, so I can reach him better, you guess. you don't miss the telltale glint of a butt plug, but you'll get to that later.

"thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—sixteen," he moans between slaps. he's gripping the pillowcase so hard his knuckles are white.

in this new position, the way he jumps with every hit makes his cock brush against yours just right. fuck, you're still hard from earlier. this time you're the one who whimpers.

"seventeen, eighteen," he pauses, breathless. you pull gently on his leash, he arches his back and moans, "n-nineteen." his bell jingles.

he grinds down, just for a moment, and the friction is delicious. you're a little dizzy, you think you might've thrust back. you both sigh at the feeling.

"…t-twenty…see? I-I can count…I'm a good boy…I'm good for you…aren't I?"

"you are," you murmur, but you aren't sure he hears you. "you're so good…"

"twenty-one—twenty-two…I-I feel like I haven't done anything right today…twenty-three…"

"…George…?" you hear a muffled sob.

"twenty-four…" he mumbles.

"George?" you start to get concerned. he just keeps crying. "hey…" you whisper. you gently prompt him to turn him over; the pillow's a little wet. you pull the panties off all the way, and get him out of the bra, which had a little stray come on it. you help him sit up in your lap, and pull him into a hug.

"am I really just a whore…?" he asks brokenly.

"you've been so good for me, baby. you've done everything I've asked." you wipe his tears away with your thumb. "are you okay?"

"but I—" he coughs. "—I came too soon, I came without your permission…"

you kiss his hair, and hold him to your chest. "you've been so patient. I'm proud of you."

he finally wraps his arms around you. "I-I'm sorry."

"nonsense," you reassure. "your comfort takes priority. are you okay? color?"

"I…" he searches for the words. "I dunno. yellow? I…that hurt, I think. being…degraded?"

you comb through his hair with your fingers. "I understand. thank you for telling me. I love you."

—

you stay like that for a minute. you grab him a snack and a drink, but for the most part, you just enjoy each other's company, tangled-up together. you don't bother putting your clothes back on.

it's later in the evening. you're straddling him, peppering his shoulders with kisses, and he's giggling underneath you. he turns over to give you a short and sweet kiss.

"baby?" he says, looking expectantly.

"what is it?" you sit back on your heels.

he hesitates. "…I wanna keep going. from earlier."

you're serious again. "are you sure you're okay?" you grab his hand, bringing it up to kiss his fingertips. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm alright," he assures. "I remember you promising me an all-day thing, though."

you blush, a little surprised by his forwardness. "of course. I think…I…" you laugh. "I wanna fuck you."

"yeah?" he smiles, leaning up close. "show me how much."

you hold his jaw while you kiss him, biting his bottom lip between your teeth. he tastes like the coffee and cream you made him earlier. you feel his breath hitch. he reaches up to hold your shoulders.

you pull back. "hey, blow me first."

"what? why?" he giggled.

"it's been a couple hours, I'm not hard anymore," you coax. "I thought you liked taking orders?"

he cringed. "but come tastes gross!"

you slid off him and hopped off the bed, opening the drawer. "suit yourself. you get to watch me jack off, then."

"fine by me, I think you look good when you masturbate."

"ohhh, I forget, you're too blissed-out to pay attention to how I look when you're getting fucking owned."

"I am not!"

"you are too!" he sticks his tongue out at you.

you open the lid, pouring a little on your hand, a little on your cock. it's translucent pink, seems a little fragrant. you give yourself a couple of strokes with a sigh.

he's quiet for a second, then, shyly, "um…is that…strawberry flavored…?"

you bite your lip. "I thought you weren't gonna give me head?"

"I was just curious." it's a weak lie, but you say nothing.

your eyes are shut, but you can feel him moving around a bit on the bed, you hear his bell ring a couple times. you feel a hand on your thigh, so you decide to peek. and holy shit.

your partner's made his way to the floor, on his knees between your legs, holding his leash in his mouth, his fucking mouth, what the fuck. his thumb's rubbing circles on the inside of your thigh. the half-lidded look he's giving you should be criminal.

"you—I thought you said you wouldn't…" you can't find the words. you reach out and take the leash from his mouth. you see your hand shake in front of you.

"I'm just watching…" he whispers, looking up at you, mesmerized.

you're only able to get a couple of pumps in before he's joining you, hand over yours as you get yourself off. just the extra sensation of somebody else's touch is enough to make you bite back a moan.

"fuck—!" you jolt when he licks a stripe up the underside. he mouths over the head, jerking you off on his own now. you move to grip the sheets in one hand, his leash in the other. and you come without warning. you see it end up on his hand and your stomach before you shut your eyes tight.

he's quiet while you're coming down, just helping you ride it out, giving you kisses on your thighs. when you look back down at him, he's got two of his fingertips in his mouth, licking them clean. he stands up abruptly, it startles you a little. you see his bell ring. and he grabs you by the hips and leans down to your midriff.

"…I don't think I cleaned you off all the way earlier…" he breathes, and he starts to lap up the mess of his and your come that's been on you since this afternoon.

what the fuck. why is this so hot? why is he so hot? all too soon, your spent cock twitches in interest at your lover. he cups it with a hand, smiling against your tummy. you're so sensitive it hurts. you think you mean to say something, but nothing comes out.

"hmm…?" he bites his lip. "you still want some more?" all you can do is whine. at this point, you don't know if it's in protest or invitation.

you don't get the chance to find out either, because fuck, he's really going down on you now. you don't know what the fuck he's doing with his tongue, or where his gag reflex went, but at this rate you're gonna come again.

"George—George, baby, I—slow down, I-I'm—" you plead. his leash slips out of your hand, you tip your head back.

he swallows.

—

the last thing you remember is coming harder than you ever have in your life. you think you held him by his hair. you might've fucked his mouth a little. he's never let you come in his mouth before…fuck…

it's nighttime now. he's riding your thigh, got one of his legs slotted between yours. the friction between his knee and your overstimulated cock feels embarrassingly good. you're so dizzy, all you can articulate is a loud moan. you don't sound at all like you remember. his bell keeps ringing and ringing and ringing as he grinds against you.

he leans down, one arm holding your hip, the other keeping himself propped up. he bites your shoulder, hard, hard enough to bruise. he comes on both of your stomachs.

"George," you beg. you're losing your voice.

"mmmmmmsir," he slurs. "fuck me."

"George, I…" you don't know what you're saying. the end of your sentence turns into a whimper.

"you need me to get you hard again? you need me to rile you up?" he turns to kiss your jaw, feeling around for your dick. "like this?"

"George," you sound urgent, until he squeezes right around the head, and you forget what you were saying. you're pretty fucking close to forgetting who you are entirely.

he sits up on top of you, grinning. "love the way you say my name, sir."

that name. all it takes is the way he says that fucking name and you're ready to go again. you flip the two of you over, so that you're towering over him instead. "you still didn't. fucking. ask me. if you could come."

he giggles, a little crazed. he hooks his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest.. "so what? so what? you gonna fuck me 'till I behave?"

"yes," you reach down, "I think I will." and you pull out the butt plug he (probably forgot he) had in all day.

"fuck—" he sobs. you watch his dick bob. precome drips into a pool on his stomach. "—green—green—so fucking green."

you're still sensitive from coming twice—you're pretty sure he is too. you lean down to give him a kiss, you moan into each other's mouths. he tastes like strawberries and his and your come. it is a little gross, you admit. but he's so tight and so fucking cute that you can't bring yourself to care. you part, and there's a line of salvia connecting the two of you.

"wait—" you say, but it comes out like a growl. "roll over."

he gets on his hands and knees, reaching back and spreading himself open for you. fuck.

you fuck him like that, holding the leash tight, loving the way he arches his back into the bed. the bell on his collar jingles incessantly.

you spank him, one last time.

"th-that's twenty-f-five—oh, fuck, sir," he growls, clinging on to the blankets for dear life.

you pin one of his hands in place and reach down to touch him. he starts laughing again.

"mmmmmmay I please come, sir? I—fuck—I'm so close, soclosesoclose," his breath stutters, you can hear the breaks in his voice. he buries his face in the blankets.

I'm close, you think, but the words don't make it out. "you're so good—you're so fucking good—come for me—fuck, come for me."

—

you're a mess. there's some drying solution of come and lube on your stomach. not to mention whatever the fuck's going on with your hair. your robe is discarded haphazardly on the floor. you think you've got a hickey, but you can't remember where.

actually, you're both a mess. he's also covered in come, sweat, and lube. he's got a red ring around his neck where you pulled him by the leash a little too hard. he's just covered in bruises. he clings to your arm, still fast asleep. you both passed out pretty quickly after…whatever that was, but you got back up a couple hours later. it doesn't look like he did, though.

actually, your whole bedroom is a mess. a blanket or two ended up discarded on the floor. there's an empty bottle of edible lube somewhere around here. your kitty lingerie set, still dirty, somehow ended up hanging in the closet. the first time you woke up you were both cuddling with a butt plug that you misplaced in the heat of the moment.

you don't think you've ever seen him like that. you can't even put it into words. you've never spanked him. he's never called you sir. you've never come in his mouth. he's never…begged for you like that before. you've never been so exhausted after coming that you both just, just fainted.

you feel lightheaded, and dead tired. you know you both must have gotten back up and gone at it at least a couple more times, but it's blurry, you can't remember. all you know is your vibrator's missing, and you feel…unusually empty, like you do the morning-after getting railed a little too hard.

last night…what the fuck happened last night?

you contemplate getting up, slipping your arm out of his embrace, pulling the covers back up around him, leaving to make breakfast. you're kind of disgusting, several hours after sex without cleaning up properly. you want to get yourselves some washcloths, maybe take shower together, or run him a bath. you know he's gotta be way more sore than you are.

you catch yourself staring, lost in thought; he just looks too cute when he's very clearly roughed up, but still sleeping soundly. and with the way he wanted…the way he needed you yesterday, you don't think he would want to wake up alone.

maybe it's okay if we sleep in a little longer.

you stroke his hair and whisper, "happy birthday, baby boy."

—

edited 14 March 2021

#limeade-zest #georgenotfound x reader #george x reader #george davidson x reader

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