#yea it is a big thing I need to address

[vers-1]

Also music I’ve been really into lately

#47 #not much sauce this time around #the last one I got from greys anatomy #it’s 2 am and I have work today I need to go to bed #I’m very worried about a lot of things #I went to therapy the other day and it helped but that’s a bit of a past problem #I don’t see it coming up a lot now that it’s all done but I get why she wants to visit it #I can also see how it’s effects ripples into other parts of my life #yea it is a big thing I need to address #the whole emotions thing #you kno i studied this to learn empathy.. I didn’t get that. I just have more compassion for humans #I’m just a fence sitter now #I like it tho #I’m not a very honest person so it’s nice to let it all out but also I can’t let my guard down too much #there’s a small list she can’t kno about #should I tell her I’m on the fence about that? finish the job or let live? I still don’t know #cause once I make that vow that’s it- I will commit #Spotify

[a-kaash-me-outside]

a bit dirty - ch2

in which you hook up with osamu in a club bathroom and that's just the beginning. prev | ch2 | next [masterlist]

// most likely a bad idea ~ ᴏsᴀᴍᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ~ 5608 ᴡᴏʀᴅs

a look into this chapter: 18+ minors dni nsfw, more exposition in this one, osamu being a caring adorable little bitch oh my god, fucking your boss, names names names pet names a million pet names, slight slowburn? like they fuck but-, afab she/her pronouns

join my taglist here!! ~~ ♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

you can’t take your eyes off of him.

you can’t stop staring at miya osamu for a number of varying reasons, each one maybe a bit worse than the last starting with oh he’s looking at you and ending with he’s your boss and also your most recent hookup with a bit of wow he’s so attractive sprinkled in the middle. 

neither of you are saying anything. the tension is palpable, evident, buzzing in the air, and you just keep strong eye-contact with him because you don’t know what else to do. what do you say to him? do you instantly address it? let him bring it up? just walk out of here right now and leave in embarrassment?

osamu is about to open his mouth, save you from this repetitive torture in your head, but he’s interrupted by another voice.

“hey,” a voice calls from the kitchen, getting louder as the swinging door is pushed open and the blonde guy from last night emerges. “unless you need me to stick around and run front of house while you train today, i’m headin’ out, kay, samu?” his voice trails off at the end as he notices osamu just standing there, confused only until he sees you and remembers you right away. 

“holy shit,” he says, “what? did ya track him down or somethin? thought you didn’t know each other’s na-” the end of his sentence trails off again as he notices the apron in your arms and the signature onigiri miya black t-shirt that you’re wearing. “holy shit.”

“atsumu, kitchen, now,” osamu says, low and commanding and despite how joking and mischievous this atsumu seems, he knows not to push it any further than he already has. he pushes the swinging door open with his shoulder and walks back inside of the kitchen. 

it’s quiet again, but he’s already spoken now, the air of his voice still lingering as you wait for him to talk once more, to you this time. you take a few more steps inside towards the counter and when you’re close enough, you let your hands rest on the edge. “sorry, let me just,” osamu says, turning around and setting the rice cooker down on the counter by the kitchen door. he wipes his hands on his white apron and then walks back over to you. 

“we should probably talk about…,” he says, not finishing his sentence because both of you know exactly what you need to probably talk about. you don’t just know this man, he’s been inside of you. you nod in agreement, pushing the thought from your mind before you get yourself all flustered, setting your apron on the counter and tapping your fingers against the fabric.

osamu takes a deep breath very similar to the one you took right outside of the restaurant, “if you’re uncomfortable at all, i would be happy to ask around to my restaurant buddies to find you a new position or write you a letter of recommendation or-”

you cut him off, shaking your head curtly, “that won’t be necessary, really.”

“are you sure?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, “i want to make sure that-”

“miya-san,” you interrupt, eyes flickering down to his name tag, “i’m not uncomfortable, i swear. i’m okay. i’m good. i wasn’t even working here when it happened. and it really isn’t a big deal, we don’t have to make it a big thing. it happened. it’s over. it’s a new morning,” kinda, you think, “and it’s in the past. i’m great to just move on from it.”

osamu is quiet, thinking over everything you’ve said, but not saying anything in return. 

“if- if that’s okay with you,” you tack on.

“yea, of course,” he responds quickly, “i just wanted to make sure that ya have a comfortable work environment and that,” he clears his throat, “last night doesn’t hinder that fact for ya.”

you shake your head back and forth. the thought of going through the process of finding another job, even with a recommendation letter and networking, is already giving you a headache. besides, you’d probably end up working for someone osamu knows anyway and then what? they know about what happened or they don’t and you have to guess whether they do or not? you shake your head harder. you can get over this. 

“‘m sorry i didn’t notice. if i’d’ve known your name or somethin’, i would’ve maybe put the pieces together, but i only saw your resume, didn’t talk to ya or meet with ya, y’know?” he says, hand on the back of his neck, eyes on the floor for just a moment. 

“no worries, i get it,” you say, tiny laugh, but you’re really thinking, wasn’t expecting my boss to be out at a club 6 hours before my shift. 

he hums, a knowing smile on his lips as if he read your mind and shot right back, wasn’t expecting my new employee to be out at a club 6 hours before her shift. 

“it won’t happen again,” you say, “already out of my mind,” you lie. 

“right,” he says, smiling, and you’re not sure if you’re reading into it or if it’s real, that same regret and hesitancy that you saw last night as he left without your number. he shakes whatever it is quickly, “lemme teach ya how to make the onigiri.” he nods towards the kitchen, pushes the door open for you and you walk under his arm, sliding past him, shoulder brushing up against his chest in passing. 

already out of your mind, yea fuckin’ right.

/\ /\ /\

if there was a chart of the relationship between the time you’ve spent working at onigiri miya and the tension between you and osamu, it wouldn’t be linear or exponential or constant in any sort of way, it would be disruptive, an arrhythmic pattern of ups and downs. 

even if the two of you hadn’t mentioned it a single other time, it lives in both of your heads, the events of that night. well, you know that it lives in your head, you suppose you can’t speak for osamu completely, but you can’t imagine the things that remind you of that night don’t remind him as well.

there are spans of time when you don’t think about it for weeks, usually the times that you aren’t scheduled as frequently or the back to back shifts that you spend busy out of your mind, no room in your head for anything other than work work work work work. you’re not sure if you welcome or rebuke these bouts.

in fact, between these mindless interim periods and the many instances that filled your head with reminiscing thoughts, you’ve survived over four months at onigiri miya without a single incident. rather, without a single explicit incident.

there were plenty of times that the chart spiked, that the chaotic pattern between your timeline and the tension skyrocketed only to fall back down to a normal level shortly thereafter, no follow up, no mention. 

it was as simple as his strong hands on your hips, exceedingly busy as he rushed from one side of the bar to the other, sliding behind you, but not wanting to bump you out of the way, unwavering grip, fingers digging into the fabric of your apron and your soft hips beneath it, a low sorry under his breath ghosting over the skin of your exposed neck. the butterflies that accompanied it and the bewildered look you threw him and the one he threw back as he approached the other side of the bar.

it was as quick as him reaching over your shoulder for something in the kitchen, fast-paced and thoughtless as his chest pressed up against your side, pushing you into the counter the slightest bit, hips pressing against your lower back, hand on your shoulder to steady you as he withdrew.

it was as innate as asking to tie your apron on one of your first days, hands smoothing over your stomach to find the strings without sight, pulling them a bit too taut as you step backwards into his hips, the way that he stayed put for a few moments before creating a bit of distance to tie it behind your back, one hand holding both loose strings as he adjusted it correctly against your waist, the carefulness of his fingers as they made a neat bow against your back and pulled it tight.

it was as effortless as a question, walking past the open door of the walk-in, “can i help you with that?” asking, arms already reaching up to support the heavy cardboard box that you were pulling down from the top shelf, not grabbing on until you nodded yes, and the second that you did, placing his hands on top of yours and guiding it down with you, soft hand on the back of your elbow, making sure, “got it?”

tonight is just another one of those nights, a night home to instances of incline and tension. you haven’t had one in a while. you enjoy living in these moments, drinking in the tiny amounts of callback to a really great night you once had. 

“shit, we were so busy tonight,” you say, throwing your bag over your shoulder, undoing your apron and stuffing it in said bag. you remove the clip that’s containing your hair, punch your employee number into the computer, clocking out and exhaling a breath without the weight of your work day resting on your shoulders. you are no longer on the clock, no longer responsible for people’s order and the restaurant's reputation. 

“yea, can’t believe you’re better than sumu and it’s only been a few months,” osamu laughs and you shrug with a false smugness. 

“what can i say?” you ask, tilting your head into your shoulder as you hold your shrug, a very genuine and prideful smile replacing your joking cocky one. “i had a really great teacher.”

“ha! so did sumu,” osamu says, pointing at you, “promise it’s not me makin’ the difference.”

ba-bump.

osamu clears his throat in the small bout of silence, shaking his head as if to reset. “anyway, seriously,” he starts, “thanks for stickin’ around and all your great work.”

“no sweat,” you say, fiddling with the strap of your bag to distract yourself from the praise he keeps sending your way. “i’ll see you tomorrow? i switched shifts with aran, so i think you and i are opening together, yay.”

he laughs, dipping his clean rag into the clean sink filled with soapy water, ringing it out tightly before wiping it along the bartop. “i do enjoy opening with you,” he admits, “ya know what you’re doing and i don’t have to babysit you.”

“i’m telling aran,” you quip, smiling.

“i mean, i don’t have to babysit aran either,” osamu points out.

“then what’s the difference?” you tease, but it’s not really supposed to be a tease, not like this. the two of you often joked around with each other, but typically in larger groups where there were more people to witness it and the words held less weight than they do now. 

osamu ignores your question, shaking his head as he throws a different one to you instead, “hey, didya even eat?” what was maybe meant to be distracting turns into straight concern, his eyebrows furrowed as he pauses his cleaning motions.

you tilt your head back. “shit, no,” you groan, “ugh, i was so busy i didn’t even remember to eat dinner.” you pull out your phone, opening your maps to try and find somewhere decent that’s open this late, somewhere fast and easy to get to. you let out another groan. “i could probably make it to-”

“i can whip ya up somethin real fast,” osamu says, cutting you off.

“no, no, you have to get home,” you wave your hand at him, eyes still on your phone as you scroll past all of the quick places on your way home that say closed closed closed closed. you point at him, “i know what time you’re in tomorrow, it’s far too late to make food.”

“i was gonna make myself dinner, anyway,” he says, hands up in surrender. you squint your eyes at him, skeptical. “honest,” he says and your words and breath get caught in your throat. you’re not sure he clocks the parallels and the way that that word has stuck around in the back of your mind for four months, but that coupled with his enticing smile is coaxing you back to the barstool. you set your bag on one of the seats. 

“fine,” you say, finger tapping on the wooden bartop before grabbing your apron back from your bag and reclipping your hair. “but i’m helping you in the kitchen so it goes even faster.”

“alright, alright, deal,” osamu says. his laughter is already buried in your chest and now his smile is burned into the backs of your eyelids and soon enough his entire memory will be with you no matter where you go.

you follow his instructions in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables and stirring the food on the stove and grabbing ingredients from the pantry and every so often when you’re not deadset focused on something and when he’s just casually moving around food in a pan, you watch him watch you with a very familiar look in his pretty gray eyes.

he’s behind the bar, standing as he’s about to take a bite of the dinner the two of you have quickly made and you’re sitting on the barstool in front of him. “do you ever sit?” you ask, spoonful shoved in your mouth as you realize how hungry you actually are now that you have food in front of you. 

“usually, no,” he laughs, watching your lips close around the spoon and smiling only once your food-caused smile arises. 

“well, come sit,” you say, gesturing to the seat beside you, “makin’ me feel like a customer or something, gonna start talking to you about the weather and how business is going if you don’t hurry.”

he doesn’t say anything, only offers a teasing eye roll as he pushes the bowl in front of the seat next to you and makes his way beside you, leaning down to pluck two beers from the fridge before joining you on the other side of the counter. he sits down, a soft grunt falling from his lips as he realizes that, huh, he really hasn’t sat down all day and, huh, it does feel nice, but maybe that’s not entirely due to the fact that he’s sitting. in fact, most of it is probably due to who he’s sitting with. 

“see? isn’t that better?” you ask, reaching in front of him and taking one of the beers. you stand up in your seat, reaching over the counter and grabbing the bottle opener because you know exactly where it is without even having to look. he hums in agreement.

by the time your bowls are finished, so are a handful of beers, 2 for you, 3 for him, and long after your dinner is over, each of you are nursing one more. you have been for the better half of an hour. you haven’t mentioned the time and he hasn’t either and there isn’t any plan to.

“thanks for dinner,” you say, a bit quieter now because you’re facing him, knee up clashing against his as you swivel in your chair, but neither of you say anything about it and you don’t go to move it. you rest your head in your hand, chin on your palm as you smile up at him, warm from the alcohol and the fact that you’ve been dying to have a moment like this with osamu since the moment you were hired.

“wasn’t gonna let you go home hungry, doll,” he says, lets it slip in the lateness of the night and the laziness of the conversation and it takes him a few half-seconds to clock it. when he does, his mouth is open, back straighter, instantly about to apologize, but you reach out, desperate for him not to regret it, and you rest your hand on his upper thigh.

“i know,” you say, low and viscous, tip of your tongue swiping against your bottom lip, teeth biting down, slow blinks and fingers curling against his toned thigh, “you’re thoughtful like that, samu.”

you swear you can hear his heart skip a beat as he tries to take in everything that’s happening, tries to make a rational decision, but any rationality is quickly leaving his mind as you stand up, supporting yourself on his thigh, now standing between his chair and yours, little room to move, pressed up against the sides of his knees. 

your movements are slow, giving him plenty of time to object or stop you, but he doesn’t. his lips part as your palm rests against his jaw, thumb under his chin to tilt his head up towards you and if you could hear his heart skip a beat earlier, you know he can hear how furiously yours is beating right now. 

you lower your head, guide his lips to yours and kiss him again, finally. he tastes like beer and dinner, but somehow just like you remember him tasting that night. it takes him only a second to move, for his brain to catch up to the events that are happening, but when he does, it’s like something snaps. 

hand on your lower back, standing up to meet you, to pull you closer to him, other hand on the side of your neck, fingers spanning the skin, massaging your throat, curling around the back, fingers grabbing onto strands of your hair, his touch is desperate. 

his kiss is even worse, teeth dragging against your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, tongue mashing over yours, he can’t taste you enough. and you get it. you understand more than anyone because you’ve had to work with osamu for the last four months, see him every week, be reminded of his strong arms and tight chest and pretty eyes and soft voice and you need him very quickly, embarrassingly quickly. 

you want to take your time, more time than you were given in the club, more time than you could ask for. you want to kiss down his chest and feel his heavy cock on your tongue and have his head between your thighs, but your mind is filling in all of the blanks, telling you exactly how the rest of the night is going to go and it doesn’t matter how much you want hours and hours of teasing foreplay and drawn-out intimacy, you’ve been empty since he came all over your thighs.

you let him hold your face, move you to kiss him exactly how he wants to be kissed, and you snake your hands down to his belt and his zipper. you need him now. you murmur it into his mouth, down his throat, “need you now, osamu, please, been so long, please.”

he hears you, every whiney syllable, every desperate word, and he’s not going to deny you, no matter how badly he wants to taste you like he didn’t get to taste you before. “okay,” he breathes, “not here, though, puppy, okay?” 

he cycles through acceptable places for him to fuck you in his restaurant and the very open floor plan of the main dining area definitely isn’t it. absolutely not the kitchen either. his office is locked, would take an entire code, a 2 minute waiting period, and, at worst, a call to his security company. he looks down at you, eyes darting all around your whimpering face and you know what he’s going to say before he’s even said it. 

you laugh first, and then nod. “guess i was right,” you say, “that you’re gonna fuck me in the bathroom again.”

he doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes again or shake his head jokingly or laugh along with you, so he doesn’t do any. “thank god,” he groans, pulling you through the restaurant into the single-room women’s restroom. 

he shuts the door behind him and locks it as if anyone was even able to get inside of the restaurant right now. still, being trapped in these confines is reminiscent in the best way. it’s cleaner here, quieter. you’re able to focus on osamu instead of worrying about touching wet spots and if people can hear you.

you’re in front of the mirror staring back at yourself and osamu behind you. you go to turn around, to face him, but you watch his hands root onto your hips, fingers digging in to hold you still, and then you watch them slip under your shirt, the shape under the fabric moving from your tits to your stomach up to your neck and back down to the button of your jeans. 

all the while, he’s grinding into you, hard cock confined in his jeans thrusting into your ass and all you can do- all you want to do is watch it happen. he’s not paying any attention to the mirror, but he makes sure that you are, moving your chin to stare directly back at yourself every time you turn your head.

he kisses the side of your neck as he quickly undoes your jeans, zipper, hooks his fingers into the waistband of both and pulls them down to your ankles, nudging them apart while he’s down there to spread them as far as they can. you can’t see him fiddling with his own, but you can hear it and you can see his arms moving in the mirror, head down, and you can hear his jeans fall onto the floor as well.

“can- can i ask?” you preface your question with a question, timid and sweet, and he looks up into the mirror, meets your eyes and there’s no way that he can turn you down.

“anything,” he says, hand on the base of your neck, heel of his palm pushing as it slides down your spine. your chest falls towards the sink slowly, both of your hands gripping the sides of it as your face gets closer to the mirror and the faucet. 

“did-,” the question is circling in your head, but the embarrassment is rising to your cheeks, trapping it in your throat, you can’t get it out. you look at him through the mirror. 

“what is it, doll? anything,” he reminds you, three fingers gingerly touching your clit, following up between your lips, scooping some of the mess that he’s already of you onto his fingertips to circle around his leaking head. 

“did you- were you thinking about this? have- have you thought about this?” you ask, because you’re dying, burning, aching to know. 

“that’s hardly appropriate, bunny,” he says, shaking his head. 

you feel so warm, insanely warm, impossibly hot, but he leans down and kisses the back of your shoulder, replacing his lips with his grip as he pulls you backwards onto his cock, not using his hand to guide himself inside, but the tightness of your cunt sucking him in again. he grunts as he enters you, fingers like a vice on your shoulder so hard that if you weren’t so drunk off the feeling of being so full again, it might even have hurt. 

he lets out a soft laugh, a tiny chuckle, “every fucking night, angel.”

you don’t get to watch it disappear inside of you, but you get to watch osamu’s expression as he does, eyes screwed shut, chin tilted upwards as a moan rises from his chest and leaves his throat. the stretch is so much better than last time, no prep from his thick fingers, just his fat cock slipping inside of you, hips driving it deeper until they’re right against your ass. 

he pushes the back of your shirt up, places the heels of both of his palms in the small of your back, soft against your skin, and then he moves you back and forth on his cock. he moves his hips to match the pace, fucking into you repeatedly, eyes trained on your movements in the mirror, of your facial expressions melting as his cock drags against your fluttering walls. 

“o-,” you whimper, “s- samu, fuck.” your fingers grip into the sink harder, trying to brace yourself as best you can, pushing back onto his cock as he continues to fuck you because you can’t get enough. you need him deeper, harder, more. 

“should’ve told you my name that night,” he says, clicking his tongue. he reaches down, grabs you by the inside of your thigh to spread your legs even wider, and then rubs small circles into your swollen clit. your arms are shaking against the sink at the feeling. you’re unraveling very quickly, eyes closing, unable to focus on the sights in front of you and now it’s him that can’t take his eyes off your reflection. you look fucked out, gorgeous, adorable, eyes rolling back, trying so hard to stay strong as your first orgasm approaches.

“what?” you breathe at his last sentence, eyebrows furrowed, so much on your mind. he could mean a million things. you can barely focus on not crashing your face into the faucet let alone understanding whatever he’s saying.

“sounds so good coming out of your mouth,” he huffs, picking up the pace, balls brushing against the inside of your thighs as he fucks into you harder, “need to hear it forever, pretty girl.”

you don’t even say it to show off or to make him happy, barely register what he’s asking for, just need to repeat it over and over again because how else are you going to prove that the noises you’re making are just for him, are because of him. “s- samu, please, gon’ come, please make m’ come, samu,” you cry.

“can’t say no to you, dove,” he whispers into your skin, kissing the back of your shoulder softly as he rubs his messy fingers against your throbbing clit. 

a symphony of thank yous and osamus leave your tongue as you come around him, walls choking his fat cock, gushing all over him as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. when you’ve come down from your high, when the immense pleasure has faded, you feel weak, drunk, so fucked out that you can barely stand, arms wobbling against the edges of the sink. osamu notices it in an instant, leans back, takes care of you, pulls you up with him, walking backwards, holding you in place on his cock as he pushes his back up against the bathroom wall. you can still see yourself perfectly in the mirror when you recover enough to fully open your eyes. 

you can’t imagine that the way that he’s holding you now is a walk in the park, supporting all of your weight on his thighs and in his hands, but he’s acting like it’s nothing, or maybe it is nothing to him. regardless, you feel completely supported as he thrusts up into you and you fall back down onto his cock. you’re not moving a muscle, not expending a single bit of energy other than to keep yourself from falling from side to side and even that is helped by osamu’s hold on you. 

you’re moving like a doll on top of him, bouncing up and down. he can barely get a good look, view obstructed by you, but he can see the ripples in the fat of your ass as you slam down against his hips. he can hear the sharp inhale every time his head dives as deep as it can go. he can feel how tight you are around him, how your walls hug him perfectly. he can remember how much he’s missed this feeling, how he’s tried to replicate this snugness with his fist and failed miserably.

“fuck, angel, gonna come,” he exhales.

“gonna fuck m’ thighs again, samu?” you ask, sweet and thick like syrup and he grunts at the tone, hips skipping just from the sound of your voice.

“yea, puppy, been thinkin’ bout this since that night,” he says, kissing the side of your neck, pulling out of you quickly as he feels the tightness in his balls. he slips between your thighs, soft and plush and messy. he fucks up into them the same way he fucked into your cunt. you squeeze your thighs around his hard length as tight as you can and he almost falls to the ground, a growl leaving his throat as he fucks your thighs even faster. you reach down, wrapping your fist around his head, swiping your thumb over the slit, tightening your grip as he fucks into it.

his release is unannounced, ropes of come spilling over your fist and onto your thighs, running down the insides of them gathering around the base of his cock as he slips through the mess he’s made, come leaking from the tip, drooling down the sides, between your legs and onto him. 

he presses his back completely against the wall, slides onto the floor breathless, arm instantly wrapping around your stomach to hold you in place and you don’t mind one bit, leaning back into him, feeling his heartbeat against your back and his cheek nuzzling into your neck, small kisses being placed at the base. 

you could’ve fallen asleep here, right here, in osamu’s arms.

you really could’ve fallen asleep here.

right here.

in osamu’s arms.

in the bathroom of onigiri miya.

where you work.

where someone could’ve found you in the morning. 

a customer or a coworker or someone much worse. 

fuck.

you’re too far down on the floor to see your reflection in the mirror still and you’re so grateful for it. you don’t want him to see the pained expression on your face and you don’t want to know what his looks like either. “we-,” you hesitate because you really don’t want to say what you’re about to say, “we probably shouldn’t- do this anymore-,” you whisper.

his response is instant, remorseful, embarrassed, “fuck, shit- yea, no, i’m so sorry-”

“no,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “i don’t- i don’t regret it,” you say, strong, “don’t regret the first time, definitely don’t regret this one, fuck actually, i really needed that, but i think maybe that should just be our last time.” if he can hear your voice break and crack a bit at the end, he doesn’t mention it as you push on, “‘ts a fine line we’re walking, fucking in the bathroom at work.”

“neither of us on the clock,” he notes and you suppose that does make it somewhat better, though, you’re not sure he’s ever really on the clock, “but you’re completely right.” he lets go of your waist. you’re slow to move to your feet, terrified that this whole act of cleaning up and going home will be weird and awkward, but the second that you’re off of him, he rushes to his feet, pulls you up gently, one hand on your waist to steady to you as you stand up straight. 

he hands you tissues and fixes himself up, brushes your hair out of your eyes and looks at your lips as he does and the atmosphere of the bathroom isn’t awkward or weird, it’s impossibly hard. you don’t want to leave, suddenly feeling very guilty about telling him that you should probably stop these impromptu sessions because you’re not sure how you’re going to keep up with your side of the bargain at the very least.  

“should we-,” you motion to the floor, to the wet marks and the fingerprints on the sink. he shakes his head.

“i’ll get it in the mornin’, okay? you head home,” he gestures to the front door. 

“are you sure?” you ask, smoothing out your shirt, swallowing gently as you look into his soft gray eyes. 

he nods, quick and assured. “i’ll see ya in the morning.” he hesitates before adding, “unless you want me to call aran and see if he won’t switch back with ya-”

you shake your head, “no way. you prefer opening with me anyway,” you tease, “i’ll see you in the morning, samu.” you offer a small wave as you leave the bathroom. 

he doesn’t move until he hears the front door open and then close again and then he lets out a huge sigh, puts his face in his hands and lets out another along with a small, but audible, “fuck. fuck, how does she this to me?”

he doesn’t hear the door open and close the second time, the time that you actually leave after hearing his exacerbated private sentence with your forgotten bag in tow and a sinking feeling in your stomach.

the guilt is biting at your heels as you walk down the street to your bus stop, screaming at you to turn around and run back and kiss him very hard and very confidently, god knows you could’ve, but you don’t. 

each step is heavy, dragging, and your bus shows up at the exact second that you make it to the stop, no time to overthink decisions or even look back in the direction whence you came. 

and yet, despite everything, no regret is harbored in your heart or your veins, just an underlying fear that you won’t be able to follow your own rules very well or very long.

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[chribby]

pluto in aquarius rambles

Pluto in Aquarius = Power to the People

Pluto = Power

Aquarius = Human, the Water Bearer, rules Groups of people, and demagogues.

I have several predictions based on Pluto in Aquarius. Pluto in Aquarius will be ruled by a Saturn in Pisces when it moves on Jan 20th, 2024... and as we can see, people are receiving reprecussions (Saturn) based on their Beliefs (Pisces)

Previously, I’ve predicted that it would be the Fall of Silicon Valley. In fact, while Pluto was briefly in Aquarius this year, Saturn stationed in Pisces on March 7th (One day before my birthday, lol) and Silicon Valley Bank ended up doing a bank run.

EDIT: 02/23. I just checked. Saturn did go into Pisces 03/07, but Pluto wasn’t in Aquarius until 03/23. I do consider Pluto to rule financial systems, and I do think the Saturn transit did spark the bank run, but I wanted to correct this! I am sorry! Pluto spiked the same bank run on Black Monday 2008, and led to the subprime mortgage crisis. So, Saturn-Pluto, but NOT Pluto in Aquarius. I apologize.

I think it’s fun to use astrology in tandem with what we’re experiencing because as above, so below. But, it’s more fun to be able to recognize the energy that you’re looking at.

So, here’s a little loose list of things that I think will happen during Pluto in Aquarius.

1. Power (Pluto) to the People (Aquarius) = Our reliance on these big corporate structures (Capricorn) will lower and lower, especially as we see ourselves getting punished for speaking about what we believe in. I feel like we will question sources of power, and then look into finding our power within ourselves. I feel like there will be more demagogues lol. But mostly, it will be people turning to their communities.

2. Political Revolutions - Last time Pluto was in Aqua was from 1778-1798 and I swear to god they got that bitch cracking like CRAB LEGS. They had

Irish Rebellion

Settler-Indigenous Wars

Indigenous rebellion against spanish colonization

Haitian Revolution

Northwest Indian War …

Like THEY WASN’T FUCKING PLAYING. So, you already know what time it is. I guess my question is how will the INTERNET play into this?

3. Ass play is about to be as common as kissing in my opinion.

4. Here’s more general predictions lol

cyber crimes, technological terrorism worse than data breaching, pen testing (Pluto = Terrorist activity)

online tombs

cyberpollution

Camgirling is about to change in a new way.

Digital sex work

Digital smut (erotica writers? You’re up)

Digital Decay will be addressed. We will see the first ruined images due to natural jpeg artifact build up

Digital Third Space/Metaverse will be expanded upon. Focusing on a decentralization of both this technology and the need for this “digital third space” will help this from being some terrorist rich kids fantasy.

4. OH AND LIKE I FUCKING SAID. SILICON VALLEY WILL FALL.

5. 3D is up, more focus on 3D. I saw a tweet about that, but I think that a lot of the kids will be more advanced at 3D vs how we as kids went towards digital art? Idk how to make that make sense but yea.

6. Cybertheft. Feels like there is about to be A GLARING VULNERABILITY LOL THAT JUST WENT UNCOVERED UNTIL NOW and it will get EXPLOITED AND TORE TF UP

7. Everybody thinks they’re fuckin Jon Stewart … one thing I haye about us Aquarii we don’t know how to shut the fuck up sometimes…

8. Streamers held the long con enough for people to forget responsible pirating, but this will turn on its head during this transit I think…

9. Looking at the internet….

Pluto rules generations. So pluto in Aquarius will be a new generation. And they will be weird as hell.

Pluto in Scorpio = When World Wide Web was created.

Pluto in Aquarius = WWW Square. And I feel like now, we’re looking at the damages and transformations the internet underwent since the web was created. It feels much more hollow.

I think Pluto Squares tell us how to fix things. Just saying.

This is all I have… for now….

#pluto in aquarius #pluto #aquarius #pluto in aqua #i need to write more lol

[godisshook]

Office Hours

My anthropology class was set to be the most boring of the semester. I was taking some advanced 3000 level course that my advisor roped me into. The required reading made me dread things even more; with pages full of museums and old works of art.

With the dreaded first day of class beginning, I walked to my anthropology class, preparing myself to meet the most drab, uninteresting professor, and whatever unlucky TA that was forced to accompany him. Luckily for me, I was only half-right.

As we settle into our seats, with my shabbily-dressed professor fiddling through papers as he mumbles to himself, a sharply dressed young man runs into the room. "Sorry I'm late Dr. G," the mystery man says, panting. My professor addresses the room, saying in a near whisper into his mic, "This is your TA, Joseph, if you need any assistance, he can provide it." As he waves to the students, I finally catch a good look at Joseph.

He was in a button-down with a very revealing amount of buttons unfastened, and a huge coat that draped over his whole body. As his gaze met mine, I couldn't help but continue to stare, to which he smirked, and continued scanning the room. Heat flushed my cheeks as I nearly fainted in class, taking every possible moment to steal a glance at this smokeshow of a TA.

The class couldn't go by quicker, and as it finally drew to a close, I was immediately drawn to Joseph. While other students walked up to the professor, I beelined to Joseph, and could only get out a simple, "Hi, Mr. Joseph," sounding immensely nervous. He replied, "Oh hi! And Joey is just fine." My face reddened as he patted my back with his big hand, sending a shockwave of desire through me.

"I noticed you were super focused during class," he said, breaking me from my trance. "Yea, I just find anthropology so interesting."The dissonance between my thoughts and speech was at an all-time high, and I cringed at the thought of actually enjoying this course. However, my lie caused Joey to perk up, as he said, "Well if you do enjoy this class so much, I might have a way you can help out." On the verge of blacking out from regret, I replied, "I would love to!" Even as I said it, my brain was scrambling to find a way to flake on it as soon as possible. "I need some help filing some things for Professor G., would you mind helping me tonight?"

With his request brewing in my mind, a devilish thought came over me. While the thought of filing papers was the last thing I would think of doing willingly; some alone time with Joey would be perfect.

I walked over to the address he texted me, not worried about the length of the walk as I intended to enjoy the sun. In the middle of my peaceful walk, the sky began to darken, and soon, it was pouring. My walk became a run as I used my hoodie as a makeshift umbrella, finally arriving at the address drenched. I quickly knocked on the door, He peered around me for any indication that I came in a car, and then looked back at me. "You walked down here? It's at least a 20-minute walk from campus," Joey said incredulously. I nodded, head down in shame, and Joey ushered me in, covering me in towels laid near the door. He rushed over to a nearby closet and picked out a top and bottom. Handing both to me he said, "There's a bathroom you can change in upstairs."

I walked back down in a horrendously oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants. "Looking great," he said with a laugh, and he began directing me to a pile of books to sort out. I couldn't help but notice how dressed up Joey was, hair slicked back, in an all-black tux. Getting closer, I caught a whiff of his cologne, with a scent that reminded me of a verdant forest. Constantly distracted by him, I did my best to close the distance, moving myself and my papers closer and closer to him.

Hours passed with small talk and chuckles being shared between us, and many glances stolen. With the sun now firmly set, and the rain showing no signs of stopping, Joey began wrapping up, and said, "Let me drive you back."

Noticing the rain continuing to pour down, I mimed thinking about it, to which he laughed again, and I replied, "Of course I want you to drive me back!" As I got in his car, I could only wonder where he got the money for something like it on a TA's salary but didn't give it a second thought.

While I thought we would be able to get some chit-chat in, Joey was immediately inundated with phone calls, and I silently listened to his slew of conversations.

With the gauntlet of calls finally done, Joey focused back on me. He laid a hand on my thigh, causing me to heat up as I looked over at him. "Come to my place," he said. My eyes went down to his dick, now bulging in his tight pants. Catching the hint, I replied, "It's quite late, but I do need the extra study hours." Joey laughed at my response and put in a whole new set of directions.

As we both got out of the car, I noticed Joey taking off his coat. "I saw you eyeing me in class all morning, and especially at the Professors' place, so I only assumed this is what you wanted," Joey said. Walking to his side, I now saw him fully; holding his top in his hands. With his muscular chest revealed, I couldn't hide my lust anymore. Even as my face reddened, I tried to keep my cool, replying, "What would Professor G. think about his TA getting with a student?" He closed the distance between our lips, and said, "He wouldn't need to know a thing, right?" His thumb grazed my lip as he hovered closer and closer to me, the smell of his cologne overpowering my nostrils.

I was completely entranced by Joey, and I could now simply reply, "Yes." He pulled me into a deep kiss, sucking the breath out of me as he pressed his lips into mine. In between bouts of kisses, we progressed from room to room in his house, with layers being removed and strewn about.

Soon, we were in his room; his lips only leaving mine to let us take a breath. Feeling his cock press against me, I grew ever more impatient to feel him. I laid Joey on the bed, as his eyes met mine and sent me into a spiral of pleasure. As I begin straddling him, he let out a tortured groan, his hard cock pressing against his boxers. "You are truly a sight to behold," he said as he felt up me. I chuckled and said, "My God you're an absolute nerd!"

My eyes scanned over his body, a fire lighting up in it as he playfully tensed his chest.

"I like this angle," I said, tracing a finger down his chest to his boxers. With a flourish, I slid off his boxers, revealing his massive cock. Suddenly, Joey would take me by the waist, and put me straight on his cock, sending a wave of pleasure through me in an instant. His muscular arms laid me on my back, as my legs were raised and I soon felt him rock throughout my body. Joey's rhythmic thrusts sent me to my limit, as sweat caused his once-slicked hair to become messy and ruffled. Our eyes met as we both came, with waves of pleasure washing over me as his body rested on top of mine.

After that night, I looked at the class in a new light. Soon, I was registering for every office hour session I could, and would always make sure to request the latest time possible. I loved my "tutoring" sessions with Joey; even though I didn't learn a thing in any of them. And as the cherry on top, my professor never caught on as to why I was always going to office hours; he must've thought his class actually interested me.

#teacher #alpha men #alpha muscle #muscle #college jock

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

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

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

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

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

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

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

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

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

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

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

You'd be lying if you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate.

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

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

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

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

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

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

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

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

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

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

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

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kit-Kat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” you prod. 

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

“I’m scared to ask where.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort despite your woes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

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

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

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

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

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

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

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

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

Your body thrums with anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message received. Loud and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

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

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

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

His frankness sears your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

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

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

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

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

Your surprise drips down his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you like what you heard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’ tease.

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

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

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

But not tonight, not right now.

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

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

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men notice.

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

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

Charming as ever.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent pardon.

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

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

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

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

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

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

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

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

“Pause.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

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

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

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

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

You actually yelp.

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

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

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

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

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

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

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

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

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

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

This is the best he’s felt in months.

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

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

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

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

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

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

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

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

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

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

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

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

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

He wants you on display.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll handle it.

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

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like, right fucking now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyson balks. “Me?”

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

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

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

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

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

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

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

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

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

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

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

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

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

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

Your boyfriend grins.

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

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[quimichi]

Hello! This is my first time asking so forgive my mistakes,

I don’t know if you’ve done this before but could you do headcanons for a reader who’s lumine’s traveling partner and when their in liyue (I don’t remember how it’s spelt 🥲) Qiqi randomly starts addressing them as her parent, uhhh what’s the reaction of the liyue crew (who kinda have feels for reader) when reader just accepts it and calls her their daughter

Gosh that was long, yea that’s my ask sorry for the mistakes 😅 you don’t have to do it if you’re busy

-Honey Anon

. . . . ╰──╮BEING QIQI'S "PARENT" ╭──╯ . . . .

PLATONIC!Qiqi x GN!Reader

¡! ❞ having qiqi refer to you as her parent, which is clearly not the truth, is a situation you needed to get used to

¡! ❞ but no wonder she thinks you're her parent when you take care of her. Yes, Baizhu does too but you somehow manage to not order her around and rather gently guide her and help. (Not like baizhu would mistreat her or anything!)

¡! ❞ you always remind her to take her notebook with her, on her worst days she may forget it to take it. On the absolute worst days she even forgot where she put it. Luckily you always remember

¡! ❞ awww look at you always packing her lunch for when she works at bubu pharmacy. And the lunch always includes coconut milk, thats very important

¡! ❞ you know she can't taste anything, but she can feel textures and temperatures, so her lunchbox may look weird to people who dont know. You always try your best to pack in every food she likes the texture or temperature of

¡! ❞ I don't really know if she needs to eat and drink but--pls it's to cute

¡! ❞ Qiqi also looooves to pick herbs with you! She can't really show emotions but having you by her side all day long really makes her feel "better". With you she feels like she can't forget anything

¡! ❞ she read in books how parents act with their children, and this is what you do with her. So obviously you must be her parent!

¡! ❞ she's proud of that conclusion tho

¡! ❞ she mostly stays over at your place, sleeps with you all cuddled up in her parents arms. Its cute, really

¡! ❞ she's stuck with you, or you're rather with her but who would complain about little cute qiqi being glued to your side?

¡! ❞ Lumine and Paimon also find it adorable, weird at first but it's cute. Paimon tried once or twice to explain qiqi that you are indeed not her parent but Lumine always stops her. Crushing a little zombies dreams like this is not what they want.

¡! ❞ but they're happy for you and sometimes even join in, in the herb adventures if they have time

¡! ❞ Baizhu on the other hand was not surprised at qiqi calling you her parent. (Considering he probably was the one who gave her the books where the most basic human stuff was written down so she would remember or know) Theres not much that can surprise him. But hes sure also very happy. At first he was worried, you could hurt her or play around with her forgetfull mind. But you didn't, you helped even more and then he was relieved. What a relief no he doesn't have to poison you---

¡! ❞ and after more time spend with you and qiqi together he understood why she feels this way. Youre patient, caring and supportive. Like a good parent should be. Hes even prouer when qiqi seemed to have thought you some things about herbs. It was for sure a accident she did but now you can even help around in Bubu pharmacy with little to no struggle

¡! ❞ not Baizhu realizing he caught feelings after a few months. Panic--like this was not his intention at all-

¡! ❞ but Zhongli was definitely warm around he heart. What a nice and caring person you must be that a child will call you their parent. He already was interested in you before but now---

¡! ❞ Qiqi calling you her parent was a big gossip in Liyue once, everybody knew or talked about it and it also came to the ears of Ningguang, Keqing and Ganyu. All three of them are taken aback by the cuteness overload of it all. Although Ganyu was more open to show how soft you made her feel with you parently behavior

¡! ❞ whenever Ningguang is in Liyue she will pay Bubu pharmacy a visit just to see you two acting along. She might even give you some Mora for Qiqi like a sugar mommy--but mostly because her heart is aching for you and your attention-pls visit her in the Jade palace too, you might also bring Qiqi along for a evening tea! Be careful to not let her fall down tho---

A/n: getting the others involved was very hard to do and didn't truned out this well but--yeah

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin qiqi #qiqi genshin impact #qiqi #qiqi x reader #Platonic! Qiqi

[shallowseeker]

I was thinking about yours and somnatime's comments about The Trap being one-sided in terms of only addressing Cas's renegotiations, and then I thought about Sam and Dean going to Alaska and I wondered if Dean is being passive-aggressive. Leaving without telling anyone where he's going is a Cas thing, and maybe he wants him to have a taste of his own medicine.

I feel like I've pondered that before but not too deeply. You're talking about 15x11 The Gamblers, I presume.

In this episode, we see Sam awkwardly leave a sticky note for Cas, and then text to Eileen very actively in the episode.

INTERIOR – BUNKER LIBRARY – NIGHT [CAS turns the paper around and sees the note written by SAM. “Cas, we’ve gone to Alaska. Sam.”]

&

INTERIOR – IMPALA – NIGHT [SAM is checking the messages on his phone as it continues to chime. DEAN glares at the phone.] DEAN: Silent mode’s always an option. SAM: Yeah. Right. Sorry. DEAN: And how’s Eileen doing? SAM: She’s hanging in there. She thinks our plan sounds a little too good to be true. You know, maybe she’s right.

Dean gets irritated at the PING PING PING of Sam's phone. I think he's feeling some frustration in general not just because he's got IBS/heart burn and everything's going wrong but because, yeah, in 15x09 The Trap, his needs were not really expressed.

...which would probably center around Cas's lone wolf, unilateral decisions, secret-keeping, and going dark and etc etc, so yea. Sure, sometimes Cas's ghosting is justified, but then sometimes Dean's anger is justified, too. The point is he didn't really get to talk about his side, like, at all. (He mostly just laid his own mistakes and flaws but wasn't given the chance to talk about how the behaviors of his loved ones contribute to his frustration. No matter how extenuating and well-meaning their actions were, Dean is swallowing that kinda thing over and over again just to entice people to stay and it probably feels very...difficult.)

That in mind, I think you're onto something. It's not a stretch to assume going to Alaska could be something of passive-aggressive "taste of your own medicine" thing re:Cas. Here it definitely seems he's purposely being "dark," -- you could even call it Silent Mode.

And the worst thing is Cas doesn't even seem to react, haha. He doesn't actively wring his hands over check-ins and daily case safety in quite the same way Dean does. And Cas's comms-style is not nearly so clingy either, leaving Dean a little...hmm probably feeling like he needs Cas more than Cas needs him. Very frustrating indeed. (Add to the mix the previous fight, "You've been to Hell before," and it gets...messy and complex.)

We could suppose that even after everything, after their big fight that culminated in Cas leaving, Dean is still trying to goad a reaction out of Cas. (And more often than not, trying to get a reaction out of Cas is a losing game.) I think you're right that part of the reason Dean is pushing is because he was cut off before voicing his needs and feelings in The Trap.

CC @somnatine Because you were mentioned.

#asks #this is a lovely ask #i love stuff like this #the art of goading cas

[lilith-vodkaaunt-of-demons]

Danby Phamtom

ALRIGHT GHOSTS AND GHOULS

I finally finished Danny Phantom, and I think, as a wee lass I completely missed season three, because I genuinely did not know/remember that Danny got ice powers? Like, kind of out of nowhere. And if I'm being super honest...

They did a shit job telegraphing that. Like seriously? S3E2, Danny stumbles upon The Map to Infinity, and at the VERY END of the episode, FrostBoi says "He has more in common with us than he realizes." And I'm thinking "Oh yea, he's like, Prophesized Ghost Jesus or something, of course he has more in common with the ghosts." And then nothing for 4 whole episodes! Not a hint or inkling of anything, then

BAM!

Start of S3E6, Danny's got the shakes. Okay, that's interesting, maybe Danny has a Ghost Cold, or Ecto-Fluenza or something. It's not uncommon for these types of shows to do "Sickness has adverse effects on super powers" episodes, but no, it's ice for some reason. Still not really sure why Ice. Like, ice doesn't seem like a particularly ghostly power to me, outside of "Ghost cause a Chill" mythos. Lots of ice puns.

ANYWAY, season 3 seemed pretty okay to me. There's a little ick in some of the episodes. S3E1 was weird. It seems out of character for Plasmius to stoop to Danny's level, being a 40yo, and while Danny did the same to him, I'm still not really comfortable with the choice to have the Middle Age Bad Guy basically show the entire school Danny naked.

I can kind of see why a lot of people dislike Season 3, it often feels like it regresses characters to previous, less developed states for the sake of a plot when they could have just used a different interpersonal conflict that would have worked just as well...

However, I DO like some of the development shown in this season, like Johnny 13 and Danny having a kind of Frenemies relationship where they kick the snot out of each other but all in good fun. I actually wish we could see more of this, where Danny actually manages to befriend ghosts that were previously enemies. Like, can you imagine an episode where Danny senses a ghost, goes and finds out it's someone like, The Lunch Lady, and he's like "Doris, c'mon, we talked about this, you can't keep coming in here and bothering the Living lunch ladies just because you don't like what's on the menu. Let's go get some coffee and then we can go back to the Ghost Zone." That would be amazing and hilarious, plus, could you imagine the Lunch Lady haranguing Danny because "You're only skin and bones, Boy, you need to eat more. You'll never get big and strong if you don't eat enough!" The jokes write themselves!

Alright, to address the elephant in the room; Phantom Planet.

I want to say one thing. Yes, it's not very good, but I do kind of see where Sam, Tucker, and Jazz are coming from, I just think the writing about WHY they feel the way they do is bad. See, if you look at the Subtext of what the writers are TRYING to communicate, it's about the core of why people like Super Heroes. Yes, being special is cool, but it's about more than that. At the core of Super Herodom is a desire to be able to help people when they're in need in a world where more and more you're too busy keeping your own head above water to be able to help others.

This desire to help, mixed with the inability to do so creates frustration, and that frustration is exponentially increased when you see someone who CAN help either not help, or give up the ability to help.

There are entire shows I've stopped watching because the Main Protagonist is CONSTANTLY complaining about their super cool powers, and I absolutely hate that. I would do a lot of things to get super powers, and to see someone get them, and either complain about them, or even do what they can to get rid of them rubs me the wrong way because that is my dream. To be able to help people like that. I think THAT'S what they were going for with Sam, Tucker, and Jazz. They just did it poorly, like everything else in Phantom Planet.

#Danny Phantom #Phantom Planet #Sam Manson #Tucker Foley #Jazz Fenton #Danny Fenton #Ghosts

[ahonice]

strange

quinn hughes x fem reader

warnings: angst, time skips, drinking alcohol, kinda a happy ending ?? im not sure

word count: 2.5k

song: strange by celeste

🎧 isn’t it strange, how people can change. from strangers to friends, friends into lovers, and strangers again

(*** is a time skip)

it was a saturday night in vancouver and your friends had decided to celebrate your birthday a little early because unfortunately your birthday fell on a tuesday this year and no one would be able to go out then because your whole friend group had big girl jobs now. 

you wore a tight black mini dress and black heels, you knew you would regret it in a few hours but right now it was the only thing you wanted to wear. knocks were heard by your dog max and he went crazy, notifying you that your friends had arrived.

“ok girl, your first present is this!” annie pulled out a hot pink sash that says birthday girl on it with a matching headband. “i know it is over the top, but you are over the top and everyone needs to know it’s your birthday” annie was correct, i loved attention i craved it in a way. “first of all i love it and second of all lets go i need to get drinks in my system.”

the club was busy as expected but you could not have been more excited, you loved big crowds and couldn’t wait to meet as many people as possible tonight. “i am going to the bar, you girls find a table.” the group of four girls quickly walk off as you head towards the bartender. “can i get a pineapple mojito and a shot of pineapple bacardi please?” the bartender nodded and wrote down my ticket. “you like pineapple i assume, i’m quinn.” you turned a little to my right and saw him, a very attractive man in a suit. “i do like pineapple, i’m y/n” “i see it is your birthday, how old are you turning?” “23.” “oh nice, i am 23.” the conversation was cut due to my drinks being ready. as i reach to pay quinn catches the bartender's attention, “put all her drinks on my tab for the night.” “you really don’t have to do that, i can pay for myself.” “the birthday girl should never pay, you wanna go find a table i would like to talk to you more.” 

you ended up sitting at the table your friends had found, all four of them were now on the dance floor. “so tell me about yourself.” quinn started the conversation, “well i’m y/n, but you already know that, i’m a teacher at a primary school and i have a dog named max.” it was short but sweet. “i am quinn and i play hockey professionally.” his was even shorter. throughout the night you continued to tell quinn all about yourself, but he never said anything more about himself just that he played hockey. he continued to order you drinks and have them placed onto his tab, all of them having pineapple in them. 

as 3am came around quinn had to leave so you quickly exchanged contact information and went on in separate ways, you quickly running up to your friends.

“oh there she is we didn’t get to see you at all tonight, that boy was hogging you. who is he?” i felt bad, i came here with my friends and i hadn’t even done so much as take a shot with them. “lets take a shot and then go get food somewhere.” and that is exactly what we did.

*the next morning*

why did the sun have to be so bright, you curse yourself for having allowed yourself to drink so much. quickly scrolling through your phone you see a text from that boy you met last night.

quinn: hey, i had such a good time talking to you last night. i would love to meet you for lunch today.

looking at your phone you realized that it was 4pm and way too late for lunch so you quickly responded with an apology.

y/n: hey i had a great time too, i honestly just woke up and now it is too late so i apologize, but if you wanted to get dinner together i am free!

quinn: i would love to, can i pick you up at 6:30?

y/n: yea thats great, let me send you my address.

you quickly got into the shower, you had slept in your makeup and your dress and heels so you felt gross. and it was soon 6:30.

quinn: hey i am here.

y/n: kk i will be right down i just have to feed my dog.

you run down the stairs to the front of your building and see quinn standing outside his car, “hey y/n, let me get the door for you.” quinn is a gentleman, opening doors for you and paying for you. he takes you to chipotle, neither of you looking fancy enough to go anywhere other than fast food, but it didn’t matter cause who doesn’t love chipotle. 

“i can pay for myself you know.” you didn’t mean to sound bitchy, but it kinda came off that way. “i’m sorry that sounded rude, but i just feel bad if you continue to pay for things.” “i know that, but if my mom found out i wasn’t being a gentleman to you i would be in trouble.” 

***

over the course of the next few months quinn and you had become best friends, always hanging out after he was done with practice and you were off work. you had began going to all his games that took place on home ice, wearing his jerseys or canucks hoodies everytime.

“how long have you guys been together?” you had gotten used to being asked that question, if no one knew either of you two personally than it would definitely seem like you and quinn were dating. “oh we’re not dating, just friends.” that was always your answer to those who didn’t know  of your relationship with the hockey player. “i’m sorry, it’s just how you’re always here and in his clothes i just assumed–” “it’s fine, you didn’t know” sighing as the woman quickly leaves to attend to the rest of the significant others. you didn’t mean to snap at her, it just gets exhausting having to constantly tell others that you were not dating the guy you so badly wanted.

***

it was soon your birthday again, you went out to the same bar with the same friends except this time quinn would be joining you. you were sat down as quinn walked over to you, “one pineapple mojito for the birthday girl, and two shots of pineapple bacardi for the both of us.” one drink turned into three and you couldn’t even keep track of how many shots quinn had gotten you, but somehow you ended up on the dance floor with a random man’s hands wrapped around you. he was cute, but he wasn’t quinn. which is why your back stayed against his chest, but you can feel eyes on you that don’t belong to the man you are grinding on. 

“hey y/n, who is this?” you quickly open your eyes to see quinn standing, quite angrily, in front of you. “oh um this is–” you curse yourself for not even learning this guy's name. “i’m ethan, nice to meet you bud but um this is kinda a bad time, i was about to ask y/n if she wanted to head out of here.” “yea that is not happening, bud, y/n let's go, we're going home.” i didn’t even protest as he dragged me out of the bar, but once we were outside it was a different story. “what the hell quinn, what is your problem?” “what is my problem? what is your problem? you don’t even know that guy and you’re all over him the whole night not even giving me a second of your time.” “so what if i don’t know him, i’m not hurting anyone by dancing with him.” “you’re hurting me, y/n, i have liked you ever since we met and for the past year you haven’t noticed it.” “quinn it is not my responsibility to notice that you like me, you should’ve manned up and told me yourself.” why was quinn acting like it was too late, it wasn’t too late. “it’s not too late to tell me you know.” trailing off as you finish your sentence almost too scared to finish it. “y/n i like you and i have from the second i saw you at the bar last year, i’ve been too much of a coward to tell you because i was scared of how you would react and i am sorry for that, but seeing you with him tonight just made me crazy and i need you to know that i like you y/n.” “i like you too quinn, i always have.”

***

you and quinn had now been together for three months now and it was going great, tonight was opening night for the canucks so you were dressed in quinn’s jersey and talking to the other significant others. “i thought you and quinn weren’t dating?” i turned to face the woman who had asked me about our relationship a little under a year ago, in the time being i had learned her name was hanna and she was dating elias peterson. “well we weren’t when you asked me, but now we are. we’ve been together for a couple of months.” “that is great, elias always complained to me about how much quinn talked about you before you guys got together.” “that’s sweet.” it really was, the game had started and you and everyone else kept your eyes focused on the ice below us. 

Once the game had ended you waited for quinn to exit the dressing room talking to hanna until elias had walked out, quinn following him seconds later. you said goodbye to the couple before walking out with your boyfriend. “i heard some things about you today.” you giggled out. “oh yeah really? what was it?” 

***

today was once again your birthday, marking you turning 25 as well as your anniversary with quinn. you were going out to that same club as you have for the past two years but this time you were going with just quinn, your friends had insisted that you celebrate your birthday/anniversary alone and they would celebrate with you a different night. 

although this was you and quinn’s one year anniversary you two had never said i love you, or at least he hasn’t. you said it one night and he didn’t respond, he just stood there staring at you. after a few moments of the awkward silence you apologized before walking out, that was seven months ago and neither of you had said it again, even if you wanted to really badly.

“here is your pineapple mojito babe.” quinn handed you your drink. “have you ever had anything but this drink? i swear i have never ordered you anything else.” he continued talking about the drinks he thinks you would like. “should i order you one? it has pineapple in it so i know you would like it… y/n” you hadn’t responded to his questions making him concerned. “huh, wait what were you talking about?” “what is on your mind babe are you okay? you’ve been distant all night.” he keeps staring at you that is makes you want to break down, you don’t know when your relationship started to fall apart but all you know is that right now it is the worst it has ever been. “i love you quinn.” he doesn’t respond. “did you hear me, i said i love you.” “i heard you.” “than why won’t you say it back, we’ve been together for long enough–” “because i don’t, i don’t love you y/n i’m sorry.” you felt like your world came crashing. “how long have you not loved me, because i know that i have always loved you.” “i don’t think i ever loved you.” you couldn’t even stop your tears from falling out of your eyes. “i’m sorry babe i just–” “don’t babe me quinn, how dare you.” 

the two of you continued to fight until 3am when the club closed. you didn’t even care that the whole time you were fighting everyone around you could hear, it probably ruined their night but whose night could’ve been worse than yours. you had finally stopped crying a little bit after they announced last call. “y/n i’m sorry about all of this i really am, i wish i could love you but i can’t. i’m going to go back home, can you get yourself an uber?” how was he acting like everything was okay when it wasn’t, was he even remotely upset that you two had broken up? “can you close out the tab too?” he was already at the door when he asked, he wasn’t even asking at that point. you didn’t even say anything you just nodded. quinn soon left, both the bar and your life, and all you could do was cry.

***

one year later you were back at that club to celebrate your 26th birthday with your friends and your new boyfriend, ethan, the guy you had met the night you started dating quinn. turns out he was also a teacher, but a physical education teacher and he worked at a primary school a few minutes from yours. you guys had rekindled at a school board meeting.

the whole night was going great until he walked in, quinn. why was he here? he knows that this is the club you go to on your birthday, was he doing this on purpose? was he hoping to see me tonight? as much as you would like it to bother you, it doesn’t. you are so happy with ethan, someone who actually loves you. 

you don’t give quinn a single glance the whole night, but you were aware of the glances he giving you thanks to your boyfriend who kept informing you. “he looks pissed, oh shit he is coming over.” and before you knew it quinn was right there smiling at you. “happy birthday y/n, it’s been awhile.” yea it has been because you dumped me on my birthday and never spoke to me again, elias and hanna had to get our stuff from each others places because you refused to see me. “it has been, but that is not my fault.” you could hear ethan chuckle at that one. “well if you don’t mind i would like to continue enjoying my night with my friends and my boyfriend.” you gestured over towards ethan. “it’s nice to see you again, quinn is it?” he knew what his name was, he just wanted to piss him off as much as possible just for what he did to you. you loved that about ethan, he would do anything for you. “yea i’m quinn, but anyways y/n it was nice to see you again.” and with that he walked away, but i didn’t care because the second his back was towards you, you put all your focus back onto your boyfriend and friends. the ones who truly loved you.

a/n: i started writing this when i was really drunk and listening to sad songs, but i think i like this one. we can thank the frats jungle juice for helping me make whatever this is. also i literally don’t know if this is a happy ending or not lmao cause it is but it isn’t at the same time. also this is not proof read so if it has grammatical errors than ignore it.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl #angst #fanfic #fluff #canucks #hockey #ahonice #ahonice writes

[yorshie]

Hey everyone!

HAPPY FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR!

I wanted to let you guys in on some things that I’m working on right now.

I’m getting through requests so I can open them back up, but I wanted to let everyone know that my askbox is still open for talking and for raccoon rambles. I guess it’s kinda like head canons but I totally don’t see them as requests and I’m down to talk turtles at any time, so feel free to come say hi!

I’m thinking about starting a naughty blurb/short story collection for Valentine’s Day. I got the idea from Tychou but I still haven’t decided how it’s gonna work, but I’m leaning towards letting you guys send in pairings over here, but the writing itself will be kept on AO3. Still thinking on that one.

You guys can still send me in sketch prompts! Nothing too detailed please but if there’s something you’d like to see me draw more of feel free.

The stories coming out next are most likely : Ch 6 of SMR, then Pick up the Pace, then Donnie’s not possessive.

Also, big thing at the end here, I’m opening up post submissions soon. I’ve never gotten one before so I don’t know how they work, but I started thinking about this the last time someone sent me writing in the ask box- now, there’s still tagging in posts, I know that, but I was thinking about when I first started writing for TMNT, how a bigger blog reposted Appy Slices and that was how I started reaching ppl. I want to encourage others to write, and I want ppl to stop seeing a gate in front of writing. No one gave us permission to write, we just had a little bit of audacity and a story to tell, and that’s all you need to write for a fandom. You don’t need anyone’s permission. You don’t need to be “good enough”. There’s no magical step stool where you get over the hedge and suddenly you’re a fic writer. We just wrote :)

Hm I rambled there a bit. But yea, post submissions. I’ll set up some rules and pin them nice and big in my master post, but I’d really like there to be a way for people just starting out or just getting into the fandom to get their stories out in front of other ppl. And as long as these rules are met, you could hypothetically submit your post or tag me in your work to read.

Hm. Think that’s everything. Thank you all once lord for being a part of the trash pile (address: tortuga brothers garbage truck) look! We got a mailbox! :D

#raccoon update

[kaunis-sielu]

A Payment: 7

The next morning finds you on the train. You usually get a compartment to yourself but you haven’t seen a single person on this car, which is unusual to say the least. You’re not going to kid yourself, you know that Steve bought out the car. His obsession with keeping you safe is going to drive you up the wall but you suppose that it’s better than the complete disinterest that your father had, other than Lance as your driver slash bodyguard slash babysitter he didn’t much care what you did as long as you came running at his call.

You’d taken the earliest train that you could so you could sleep on the train, Lance has never seemed to need the same amount of sleep as a normal human and since you were still forced to sleep with Steve you’d opted for sleeping on the train. When you’d sat down he’d sat next to you, working on his phone and you’d tried to stay awake, really you had, but you were just so tired.

You wake up with your head against a shoulder, at first you assume it’s Lance but then the voice talks and to your horror it’s Steve. You bolt upright and Steve chuckles softly,

“Stark, I gotta go.” He says before hanging up the phone. “Mornin’ Sweetheart.” He purrs and you give him a halfhearted glare that he just grins back at. “I was gonna wake you up soon, we’re almost there.”

“Okay.” You tell him standing and looking at him, he’s going to need to move for you to get past him but all he does is smirk expectantly up at you. “Are you gonna move?”

“I don’t think I will Darlin’.” You kick him in the shin as you squeeze past him,

“Oh, so sorry.” You say sweetly and he laughs, it’s like nothing you do phases this man. You come back from the bathroom and nearly tumble into his lap as the train lurches, slowing as it pulls into the station. Steve steadies you, not saying a word as you slip back into your seat.

He does some business while you pack up your apartment. You thought it would take a lot longer to pack up your life but you’re pretty much done packing what you’re going to take by 4:30.

“Steve?” You say, realizing that you actually don’t know your address yet,

“Yea Honey?”

“I don’t know our address.” He looks up at you, want clearly in his eyes and it knocks the breath from your lungs. He writes the address down for the driver then holds out a hand out for you.

“You hungry Sweetheart?”

“I could eat.” You agree and he pulls you closer to him before rumbling,

“I’m starving.” When he smirks down at you you know he doesn’t mean for food and you scowl at him, which does nothing to dissuade him. “What are you feeling like?”

“There’s a bar that I like.”

“You don’t wanna do somethin’ fancier?”

“No, I like the bar.” You wanna check in on Daisy, make sure that she’s okay and let her know you’ve moved back to New York. She and Grant had dated and things hadn’t exactly ended well, you’d taken Daisy in and had become close friends.

When you enter the bar she launches herself at you with a cry.

“Oh my god!” Steve tenses and you wave him off as you hug Daisy. “What the fuck! Bobbi said you got married?”

“Yea, it’s not a big deal.” You tell her and she pulls away from you glaring. Her gaze snaps to Steve,

“I assume this is the asshole.” She says and you give her a fond smile.

“This is Steve Rogers. My husband.” You tell her and she scowls at him.

“If you hurt her I’ll kill you myself.”

“If I hurt her I’ll let you.” He agrees and she blinks at him in surprise. His hand rests on the small of your back, “Darlin’ does your father own this bar?”

“No, I do.” You tell him and he looks surprised, “But I’d like to sell it to Daisy, I won’t be in Boston enough to keep an eye on it.” Daisy’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open in surprise.

“What? I can’t afford this place.”

“What if you pay me monthly until you pay me off? It’s not feasible for me to keep The Bar and this way I know you’re taken care of.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yea.” You assure her and she gives you another hug.

“If you need me you let me know and I’ll come to New York for you.”

“Like hell you will.” You tell her, “If he gets his hands on you again he won’t let you go. You’re safe here.” You can feel Steve shift slightly and you know he’s going to want an explanation but it’s none of his business “We’d like to eat.”

“You’ll come back and visit?”

“Of course. I’m still working for Howlett Brothers so I’ll be back every other month to check in with them.”

“Good. What can I get you guys?”

“Any of the burgers.” You tell her and when Steve goes to protest Daisy ignores him and nods,

“Okay.”

“Just trust me.” You tell him turning to go sit in your favorite booth. Steve slides into the booth next to you, rather than across from you like you’d thought he’d do. Bucky sits across from you and Lance takes his usual spot by the door.

When your food comes you thank Daisy and eat quickly. She always knows what kind of burger to give someone and by the way that Steve and Bucky both inhale theirs you know that’s she’s been spot on with theirs too.

“I got us a room at the place that I’m looking at buying.” Steve tells you as you walk out of The Bar.

“Okay.” You don’t really care at this point where you stay, you know that he’s not going to let you out of his sight and you do want to actually talk with Daisy, you know that she’s worried about you and you don’t want that.

“What?” Steve says sounding surprised,

“What?”

“You’re not going to fight me on this?”

“No? I’m kind of at the point where I know I’m not going to win this one so whatever.” He laughs softly and offers you his hand. You take it, which you’re not entirely sure why, but you’re not going to worry about it.

You head to the hotel, it’s a quaint little thing, maybe a hundred rooms or so, in a red brick building. You’re brought to the top floor and once the door is closed Steve hums softly.

“What do you think Sweetheart?”

“About?”

“The hotel.”

“It’s cute. Clearly dated and needs some work to be more sound proof, I know the planes are flying overhead but I feel like they’re right overhead.”

“You think it’s worth the cost?” He asks showing you the text from Pietro.

“No. I’d knock at least $50,000 off due to repairs and see what they counter with.” Steve gives you a little nod of approval then texts Pietro back. You text Daisy and let her know you wanted to see her after close, you’re fairly confident you’ll be able to slip out of the hotel without waking anyone.

You go to bed earlier than you might have if you weren’t planning on slipping out, but you are tired from your day of packing. You did think it was going to take much longer than a day to pack, granted you haven’t gotten any calls on your apartment yet but you also haven’t hired a realtor either. Maybe you will in a day or so, especially if you don’t get any bites tomorrow.

You allow yourself a little nap, then wake exactly at 1:30 in the morning. A skill you’d learned as a teenager, always be able to run. The room is dark and quiet, you hear Steve sleeping next to you, well on the other side of the pillow wall you’d built. You slip out of bed and into the bathroom where you’d left your suitcase, pull on a pair of jeans, your tennis shoes, a bra, tee shirt and your jean jacket then you dig your knife out of your bag and tuck it into your pocket with the hotel key. You don’t bother leaving a note, you’ll be back long before Steve wakes up and you know that you’ll have Lance on your six, he always seems to know what’s going on in your head and after your interaction with Daisy you know he’s going to know you’ll slip out to see her tonight.

You slip out the door of the hotel room, closing it softly behind you, then make your way down the stairs that elevator was so loud earlier.

You’re not surprised when Lance meets you on the sidewalk.

“Daisy?” He asks and you nod.

“I don’t need Steve knowing all her business.”

“If he finds out you’re gone he’s going to be pissed.”

“I never agreed to tell him what I was doing every second of the day, nor did I agree to get permission every time I leave his side. You’ve been enough for almost twenty years.”

“Why are you so resistant to letting him care about you? And you about him?”

“The last person, present company excluded, that I truly cared about was murdered in front of me by my own father. All she was trying to do was protect her children.”

“I know Queenie but maybe give him a chance?”

“It’s been three days. What makes you think I’m not?”

“Did you tell him you were leaving?” You don’t answer, you know he wasn’t really looking for an answer Lance knows you didn’t tell him. “I’m just saying. Him caring about you wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“I already have two weaknesses, I don’t need three.”

“Bullshit.”

Tag list:

@andahugaroundtheneck @connie326 @also-fangirlinsweden @lumar014 @loving-life-my-way @pagina16ps @emdying @dumblani @valsworldofcreativity @blackwidownat2814 @sky0401 @dontbescaredtosingalong @abschaffer2 @patzammit @inkedaztec @newdaynewyearnewlife @sophham

#mobster!steve rogers x reader #mob boss!steve rogers x reader #mob boss!steve #mob boss! Steve rogers #mobster!steve rogers #mob au #a payment story

[kittyofalltrades]

Babe I’m gonna need to know your kinkiest thot about Hux

Well, this got out of hand. Nobody look at me. I blame you specifically for this Dee.... NSFW under the cut.

First of enemies to enemies that fuck. No way around it.

Vast amounts of hate fucking goes on, on nearly every flat surface.

His office, your office, random corridors, against walls, and in a special twist, a storage closet. There isn't really a place that Hux hasn't fucked you.

Nearly every place you've had a screaming match has eventually led to angry sexy no matter who is in the right or wrong.

For him, the leather gloves stay on, not because he doesn't like the feeling of your skin, but because he likes how your pussy clenches around him when he does. He doesn't know if you have a leather kink but he can do this one thing to please you.

Hair pulling is his favorite thing, not that he'd ever admit to it. He loves when you tug his ginger locks, ruining his pristine image.

Choking is also a big thing for him. He likes to feel your pulse flutter against his fingers while he holds your throat. He likes to remind you that in that moment he is your god.

For wanting to be neat and he likes to make a mess of you, you both left his office with clothes in tatters with because he cut you out of them with the nearest sharp object or because you've just ripped them to shreds.

He's also not afraid to send you out of his office or quarters wearing cum on your tits from where he's made a mess of you. Your complaints of a walk of shame and the resulting angry sex keep him doing it again and again.

You are both grateful for the high uniform collars because you both sport teeth marks and purple hickies from your activities. And in your case, some bruises on your hips.

Sometimes even him reprimanding you ends up with you bent over his desk begging for him to fuck you while he edges you until you cry. To teach you a lesson, he'd purr in your ear with a slow deep roll of his hips that serves more as a reminder that you hate him than anything.

The week that you spent away from him and the star destroyer was brutal. You felt like it was constant edging because you still had to debrief with him via holo. You weren't sure how you kept your composure with his long distance teasing.

The second you'd returned to the star destroyer, you'd stormed to his office, barging in with a snarl to find him smiling serenely at you. He addressed you by your title and offered you a seat to debrief and it took everything in your power to not lunge over the desk to get your hands on him.

Once the debrief was finished, you finally gave into your desires and stalked around his desk. You did the one thing he didn't expect and pulled his cock out, sucking him off until he finished in your mouth before storming out of his office once again.

You knew you'd made an impression when he caught you in a deserted corridor not from your quarters. You didn't have time to speak before he was tugging you out of your uniform to fuck you right there against the wall.

Your levels of animosity never wavered, even as you spent more overnights in his quarters. Reminding him with every breath that you hated him and nothing would change that. Even while he was buried to the hilt in you, you'd remind him of your hatred of him and how you could find someone better to fuck.

Those times he'd stop fucking you and glare at you until you squirmed under him. He'd remind you that if you could get better, you wouldn't be in his bed taking his cock. If you could get better, he wouldn't know what you sounded like when you cum.

He'd keep still until you apologised to him, the only apology he'd ever weasel out of you before he'd start his brutal pace into you again.

Maker, you hated him with every fiber of your being, but damn, the sex was good.

Yea.............that was alot.....I think I'm gonna go throw myself away now.....

#general hux #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux #star wars #first order officer #too damn much

[mhateesyoux]

Only friends Ep 7

I don’t even know how I feel about this mess of a show. I’m frustrated. It’s so fucking good yet I hate it!! Why? Cause why tf is Mew getting on my nerves yet again? If we think about it, he’s also using people for his own benefit, so that makes him selfish. Just if not almost as selfish as Ray which may i add is an idiot and I’m disliking him a lot right now. I love Khao but Ray is seriously getting on my nerves.

This is the best writing in TV because all these characters have potential of being liked and disliked one episode to the next. As of right now the only person I can tolerate and have tolerated from the start is Sand. Don’t get me wrong last episode he was petty af and wasn’t innocent at all either but he’s the only character I don’t fully hate. Mew is giving me a false act vibe with this bad boy wanna be era. I mean yes I’m glad he’s being petty but let’s be real, he had just met Top and you’re really gonna try and screw your friend, who you’ve probably known longer than your ex boyfriend, over. I’m hoping he’s doing it based off the betrayal he felt from Boston and not from Top which would make a lot more sense.

Let’s address the biggest fucking elephant in the room yea? Mew & Ray. Mew is being a sneaky little bitch yet again. Why are you now only gonna give Ray a chance? Why now after finding out the “perfect” boyfriend wasn’t so perfect? Why drag this poor guy around just cause you know he’ll always be there for you and love you? Sounds a little narcissistic to me not gonna lie. The corny Harley Quinn & Joker costumes for next week’s episode?? LMAO i actually laughed.

I’m gonna need Sand to not give in to this guy anymore, PLEASE!!! I beg of him. I’m not even sure I want sandray to be a thing anymore. That ending scene broke me!! How can Ray be so selfish after everything Sand has done?! I’m actually flabbergasted. Not me feeling bad for Boston and Top this episode lol but no fr maybe Top was falling for Mew, but idk I don’t really care for Top as a character tbh he lowkey fades out for me. Boston on the other hand, he may be a dick and all but at least he has no filter and tells people their shit like how it is. I actually felt bad for him. He was secretly recorded, twice!!! One thing I’ll give Mew is respect for not sharing it and instead handling it over to Boston but I’m not so convinced it’s gone.

I don’t even know what to expect next episode all I know is that it’s gonna be yet another shit show, sand better not be stupid and take the blame for Ray or fall into his trap again, Nick deserves better, sand deserves better, mew & ray are a shit show and the party is gonna be a big bag of shit. We shall wait and see…

Sorry adding in, Mark did an amazing job this episode. This poor baby is so in love with this man it actually hurt me but I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. He did do a lot of sneaky creepy shit to get Boston. Idk he deserves better but I can’t help feel bad for him.

#only friends the series #sandray #topmew #tonick

[sscarred-starss]

you're gonna hear about my quirk theory you have no choice enjoy :3

So, how would quirks change basic biology? Yea, you have wings, but how does that affect your bone structure? how do your feathers regrow? how are your cells and dna able to repair your wings even though it isn't in basic human functions? CAN you repair your wings because it's not in basic human functions? What about horns? how does that change your bone structure? and with things like detaching body parts, how does that change or hurt organs? Like when kirishima got turned into a meatball, how did that work? did his organs and bones just become like soft and squishy? if so, how does the quirk turn those things to be soft and squishy?

so my theory is that as superpowers progressed, evolution happened too, aside from superpowers. as more and more quirks appeared, bodies adapted to being able to handle more things--pain tolerances went up, maybe even there were less nerves in the body, regeneration of cells was faster, stuff like that. But, that doesn't account for things like with what happened with kirishima, or does it?

I think that most quirks have a chemical aspect to it. With that quirk, as it physically changed the body, it changed the chemical makeup of the bones and muscles too, changing their rigid-likeness. And the reason the quirk has a time limit is because the chemical makeup change only lasts for so long: tying into the extremely fast regeneration of cells. And with Kirishima's quirk, the chemical composition of his cells would change to take on more durable properties, for example, like an armadillo's scales.

With Shoji's quirk, I think he would be able to handle a ton of pain. Because the teeth and eyes and bones all need to come from somewhere, right? so i think that shoji's quirk isn't really dupli-arms, but rather the ability to regenerate almost instantly, to the point he can grow extra appendages. but because of society and the lack of thought into this kind of stuff, he just assumed he could grow extra appendages.

But, what about Shoji's natural dupliarms? How is that explained? Well, it's said in the manga that Shoji's parents "didn't have arms like his", so let's assume that Shoji was born with his extra arms. And after literally 30 minutes of straight calculations I have given up because there is not enough information on the internet (HOW MANY CELLS IN AN ARM. NOT JUST THE SURFACE AREA, THE ARM. AND HOW BIG IS ONE OF SHOJIS EXTRA APPENDAGES. AND HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO GROW IT DAMMIT. I NEED THESE ANSWERS FOR CALCULATIONS), but from the entire 30 minutes of pain I was able to gauge that not only do I have extreme respect for Shoji because it would be growing like thousands of cells in a second which is very painful, i was able to figure out that with the rate he grows cells at, even accounting that the time it took for him to grow extra arms as a child vs a teenager probably decreased, it would be 100% possible for him to grow extra arms as a fetus due to extreme cell growth rate. Now I bet you're wondering, why would Shoji be born with the arms if he had to develop them himself? And I will address that later with the transformation and mutant quirk rant

So, i think that most quirks aren't really as different or wild as they seem, instead, most of them are just untapped chemical changing quirks, such as Bakugo's explosions. The sweat in his body was changed into a nitroglycen-like substance, and nitroglycen is extremely flammable. This similar substance could be even more flammable, so instead of really creating expolsions, he's changing the chemicals of his sweat so that the natural heat of his palms causes the chemical reaction/explosion.

But that really only covers mutation and transformation quirks, so what about emitter types? (and i don't know much about the 'other' category, but really it just seems like another chemical transformation thing)

I think that emitter types have chemical-quirk like properties, but is mostly other supernatural aspects that couldn't be explained by science. Many still have roots in chemistry and biology though.

And remember the glowing baby, the original quirk? That was the first true chemical change. The chemical makeup of the body was changed to glow, similar to how anglerfish or fireflies can make parts of their body glow.

Thank you for coming to my tedtalk I am hyperfixated on superpowers I did not beta read this Half of this definately makes no sense But yes

QUIRKS 100% HAVE BOTH CHEMICAL AND SCIENTIFIC REASONINGS *AS WELL AS* JUST "OMG PERSON GLOW !!" REASONS. BC ITS AN ANIME/MANGA, YA GOTTA HAVE A LIL SILLYNESS IN IT.

but like fr i loved everything u said, agree agree, nod nod. would read another one of these

( -Vali ! im not awesome with words, but I really appreciated this!)

[hikari-ni-naritai]

"big needle hurts" yea for like a second, then you get a spicy rush of all natural endorphins. AND a new place to hang shiny things. It's nothing but wins!

Also body modication owns cause its a way to destroy the natural order of the frail human form to suit the one who wields it, and that's just about as cool as it gets.

There's so many things to address here I barely know where to start. My fear of needles is admittedly less of an issue now that I've been getting regular blood tests done but I do still have what I would call a greater fear of and sensitivity to pain than the average person. Getting stabbed all the way through terrifies me. Maybe if I wanted to get a piercing I would be able to brave it, but as it stands it's the equivalent of cutting off my hand so I can join a professional one-handed American football team. I don't want to do it so it's not worth the price.

I don't think I've ever experienced endorphins from pain. I'm sure that happens but like. I don't remember a single time I've gotten hurt and felt good after. I just feel in pain after. So that isn't something I'm going to try and make happen.

I don't need a place to hang shiny things bc I would get them tangled in my hair and it would end up being really really annoying and I'd get frustrated to hell about it.

Body modification DOES own, and I hope I didn't come off as implying it doesn't! It's just not something I personally want to engage in aesthetically. My frail human frame suits me fine already. The only modifications Im interested in making are medical, for things like relieving dysphoria or fixing arthritis.

I know I seem like a cool person online but you GOTTA keep in mind I am so fundamentally boring by nature lmao. An important reason I survived being religious for so long is that all the rules against sex and drugs and alcohol and tattoos and piercings were like, just things I already didn't want to do. I'm like if a youth pastor was a girl and not a huge hypocrite.

Anyway love u please don't think I'm Going Off on you 💙💙💙💙

[angelsdean]

i have been studying for my dean studies degree (rewatching spn + going down all the dean winchester meta tags like im a crazy 1800s scientist and the tags are holes marked Centre Of The Earth: This Way) and i just want to say you are absolutely correct in how you perceive dean. also i wanted to ask if you have any thoughts on deans character change post-kripke era bc i have so many thoughts but they dont arrange themselves in coherent sentence forms. im like an idea blender constantly on the highest setting and every so often they throw too much material into me and i explode chunks of thoughts in ways that do not lend themselves to interpretation under our earth standards of logic. and it looks like you have a lot of really good dean thoughts™️. anyway have a nice day

hi thanks so much for being here! i feel like i'll have much more to say about post-kripke era dean once i get there in my rewatch (which i have not been doing lately, need to get back to that!!) but i think a lot of the changes we see in dean's character post-kripke era is a combination of the fact that dean really was becoming thee central character (i know i know that's such a deangirl thing of me to say but!) of the two brothers, like post-swan song felt like sam's arc as the "main character" ended, and for seasons after most of the central plots revolved around dean (purgatory, demon dean, mark of cain, the darkness). another thing that i think contributed to the changes post-kripke era is just that there were a lot of new writers coming in. also following kripke era was gamble era and sera gamble is a known samgirl lol (and not a huge cas fan) so i feel like that also impacted some of how dean was characterized during her era. but yea i think, in general, throughout the show, we see lots writers bring their own spin on all the characters and sometimes that leads to new characterization (both good and bad) and sometimes we have to grapple with some wildly ooc or inconsistent characterization because writers will just...not do their homework lol.

these are all mostly outside explanations for dean's character changes, but once i'm farther along in my rewatch i'll def start talking abt more in-world explanations. for me a lot of it goes back to just unresolved post-hell trauma. (and continuous trauma piled on top of all that). like dean IS different when he comes back from hell. early seasons (and pre-series) dean ISN'T all that angry. he's always had to be the mediator. but then he starts getting angrier (starting with john telling him he may have to kill sam). and then he comes back from hell and he's got a lot more anger boiling under the surface. and i think hell is a HUGE thing for him that the narrative never properly addresses or lets him deal with and heal from in any significant way. and i feel like having to bury that trauma so he can deal with the next big bad or apocalypse definitely has some effect of him.

anyways, i'm rambling now but thanks for the message, sorry it took me a few days to get to it!

#replies #dean studies