#ill make them give me proper bangs

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Shout out to waking up at 6am and giving yourself an absolutely jacked haircut lol

[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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[m-t-nester]

A video file is attached. Would you like to watch it?

[Video begins in darkness.

“I just don’t see why you’re letting him stay on your couch if you’re so uncomfortable with him,” Cynthia’s voice says.

“Call it a matter of personal pride, as a mother,” Em responds quietly. 

“Won’t you end up just resenting him? You’re exhausted, you need rest. I’m just worried about you.”

“I… don’t know. Maybe,” Em admits. 

Footsteps can be heard— one pair of slippers, one set of heels, and a large bipedal pokemon. The camera fades in to show Em, Cynthia, and her garchomp approaching the couch.

“Oh, shit,” Laurence says quietly. “I— am I going to get arrested?”

“Doubtful. You’re still a minor,” Cynthia says.

“Oh.” He considers this. “Can I say hi to your garchomp?”

Em sighs, muttering something about the stupidity of innocence, but sits down to supervise anyways. Garchomp seems pretty okay with this arrangement, and puts her head in Laurence’s lap.

“So, I assumed you might have had your pokemon taken by Plasma earlier,” Em says, almost conversationally. “Not a lot of kids your age don’t even have a starter. And you could be hiding from transphobic parents.”

Laurence flinches at that.

“Knock it off, he’s clearly not ready,” Cynthia snaps.

“No, I— it’s okay,” Laurence says. “I know I can’t pass that well, anyways. I’d have to dress better than I can afford to, or learn how to do makeup, and make an effort with my voice, and it’s all too much trouble. I don’t care if people clock that I was born a girl. I don’t even know for sure if I’m a boy, it’s just safer right now. It doesn’t hurt if people call me a girl. But it’s not safe.”

“You’re…. Not sure. So you’re experimenting?” Em frowns. “I see.”

“Something like that. Being a girl in Plasma wasn’t great.” He gives an emotionless smile.

“Well, I’d imagine that being part of an organization that brutally murders children isn’t great,” she remarks coldly.

Laurence doesn’t seem to notice her tone. “They weren’t brutal. They don’t beat you to death unless you really mess up and betray us, and that was only one time anyways. It was medical neglect, mostly. Preventable stuff, like how a couple people died each winter from the flu or hypothermia. Oh, or when the measles went around. I heard you’re supposed to be vaccinated against those, but we weren’t.”

Laurence keeps petting the Pokémon in his lap, seemingly oblivious to what he just said. Em looks too shocked to do anything. Cynthia has her hands clasped over her mouth.

“Historically accurate infant mortality rates,” Cynthia says very quietly, and then rushes out of the room, looking ill.

Her garchomp looks ready to follow her. Laurence pouts, trying to get the pokemon’s attention again.

“Kid. You know— that’s not normal. None of it is normal.” Em shakes her head. “They shouldn’t be recruiting kids. Kids deserve better than this. I’ll kill them all.”

“What, all the parents? Are you going to kill me the day I turn eighteen, too?” Laurence asks.

“I— what the hell?!? What do you want,” Em demands, looking more and more flustered.

“I want to reunite with my Pokémon and live somewhere safe until I stop feeling empty inside. That’s all, really.” Laurence finally loses at his attempt to keep snuggling a ten foot tall garchomp, and sighs as the Pokémon rushes off. A moment later, garchomp returns, nuzzling Cynthia. She looks pale and unwell.

“I’m going to get some water,” Laurence says, standing with a crack and wandering off into the other room.

Garchomp deposits Cynthia on the couch next to Em, gives her one last nuzzle, and then follows Laurence.

“Sorry you had to see me like that. I’ll be a proper feminist girlboss tomorrow,” Cynthia says, trying to fix her bangs. Trying to fix her composure. 

“No need for that here. It’s okay.” Em’s hand touches hers. “I’m a bad feminist too.”

“It’s stupid. It’s stupid, it’s incredibly stupid, any historian will tell you that you should never uncritically romanticize the past. They blamed technology for their problems and recreated medieval— historically accurate mortality rates. We study the past so we don’t repeat it!”

“I. Maybe I should study more,” Em admits. “I didnt know they had kids in their ranks. Plasma, I mean.”

“Is studying going to be a trauma trigger for you?”

“I dont know.”

“I dont know either.” Cynthia sighs, wiping at her eyes. Her eyeliner, normally sharp enough to kill a man with, is smeared from crying. “Hey, this might be overstepping, I don’t know, but is there any chance you could pack me a lunch or something? Whenever things go bad, I feel like I need to Do Something about it, and I’m working with interpol to raid another hideout, and—“

The camera pans downward. Em is holding Cynthia by both arms, leaning across the couch. Their chests nearly touch. Cynthia’s body language is shocked at first, then she reciprocates, wrapping an arm around Em. A lock of blonde hair falls into Em’s lap.

Video ends.]

[kazesauce]

TWD:DD Rewatch Recap Ep 2

I'm rewatching the first season of TWD: Daryl Dixon to look for anything that stands out now that we know all the characters and how the season ends. The second episode was more fun on rewatch. The second recap is even longer than the first, so strap in or scroll on.

Mork and Mindy

The scene of Mork buying Mindy hideous clothes because he wants to take her dancing is from the series finale called The Mork Report. The plot of the episode is Mork sending a report to Ork about what it takes to have a happy Earth marriage. (His answers were honesty, respect, romance and compatibility if anyone is interested.) It makes Daryl's melancholy line “you can't miss what you never had” punch a lot harder. There's no doubt in my mind he was thinking about Carol, the only woman he's ever exchanged “I love you”s with.

Daryl, Isabelle, Laurent and the kids at the school

There's an interesting theme about lying in this episode. Isabelle, Daryl and Lou (the leader girl at the school) all lie, but for different reasons and handle the consequences differently. Isabelle lied to Laurent about who his father was, causing him to embarrass himself when he repeats the absurd tale to the kids at the school. She also lied to Laurent about Asterix the mule surviving after Daryl has to cut him loose for being loud and uncooperative. Laurent finds Asterix dead being chowed down on by 2 dogs (one of which looks a lot like Dog). Laurent yells “you lied to me!” at Isabelle and runs off. You see him later banging a stick against a contraption the kids set up in the yard, and he stays mad at Isabelle for the rest of the episode. Isabelle never apologizes. She only says that she babies him because he's special.

Lou lied to the other kids about the fate of the two boys she took with her to the castle where the peak “ugly American” trope lives. She told the other kids they were still on a mission, which isn't completely untrue because she didn't know their fate when she ran off to save herself. When Daryl returns with her, they rescue one boy and find the other a walker. She tearfully takes responsibility and puts him down. Lou is so mature and loving as a teenager being thrust into an impossible position.

Daryl lied to Lou about medicine being able to save their severely ill teacher. He knew she was too far gone, but needed the horse from the ugly American so he could hold up his end of the bargain with Isabelle and make it home. When they came back to the teacher having passed, Lou is crushed they're too late. Daryl confesses to lying about the medicine so he could get the horse and apologizes. Lou gives Daryl a nod of forgiveness. (Nobody mentions this, but the kids have access to everything in that castle now that the ugly American is dead, so Daryl did them a huge favor) Daryl gives Lou words of encouragement about what a good leader she already is and will continue to be, then offers to put down the teacher for her, but Lou declines and Daryl gives her privacy. The camera cuts to a mystified Isabelle, who apparently has never apologized in her life and doesn't understand how sincere human interaction works.

Codron

He's barely in the episode, but it's an important scene. He finds the map of their route, and because of Isabelle's detour, has time to heal from his multiple gunshot wounds and catch up to them in Paris. He also cries again as he finds the bodies of his compatriots rotting in the courtyard of the abbey while the nuns have all been given proper burials. Poor tender-hearted baby. I almost hope Carol has to mercy-kill him so they can cry pretty together.

Isabelle, Quinn and Lily – Flashback

@silver-shana-fox noticed a poster for the ballet Orphée behind Isabelle in the metro station. She explained that it's based on the Greek myth Orpheus and Eurydice and the story has parallels to Isabelle and Quinn. The original myth is that Eurydice (Izzy) dies from a snakebite and Orpheus (Quinn) makes a deal with Hades that if he leads her out of the underworld without looking back she can live, but Orpheus turns around right at the end and Eurydice is sucked back into the underworld, meaning Quinn and Izzy's relationship was always doomed. The title of the ballet is the same as a 1950 movie that adds extra characters, death and a pregnancy, so it might also be an easter egg hint that Quinn was Laurent's father.

At the abbey you meet little student Sylvie whose parents never came to get her. It's revealed that Lily was bitten after Izzy stole Quinn's car. She dies in childbirth and turns, forcing Father Jean to perform a c-section. He proclaims the baby's survival a miracle, so Isabelle takes the baby into a room and names him Laurent after the first statue of a saint she sees. I'm still undecided on where the show will go with how “special” Laurent is. Lily was having pregnancy complications before she was bitten, and likely died from those complications and not the fever. Everyone is already infected, but the virus was activated in her hours before Laurent was born. Science wise, how the baby reacts to maternal disease during delivery depends on the disease and whether the baby passed through the birth canal, so it's impossible to know how a made-up virus with no real-world analog would behave during a c-section. Lore wise this is also uncharted territory, so the show could do anything, but I suspect Laurent won't be the cure.

Odds and Ends

Isabelle is an inveterate liar and thief. There was no reason to say Daryl was a priest, and it put him in the awkward position of having to say grace later. As a southern man that lived with an Episcopalian priest, there's no way he would be that rusty on the rules of not eating before saying grace, or being so in the weeds about what to say. Shades of him suddenly not knowing how to drive a stick shift so Denise could make fun of him. However, I respect that they wanted to show Daryl's childlike innocence in that situation and have him give that painfully earnest blessing.

Knowing what we know now about Quinn being Laurent's father, it makes sense that he would be hesitant to take Lily with them. He deserved to be puked on, but did it have to go in his mouth? Gross. Quinn proved himself to be resourceful, unafraid and decisive, so it makes sense that he would survive and be the head of an underground club a decade later.

The bed scene was even more tense than I remembered. Daryl is laying on the bed and offers to leave when Isabelle comes in. She says the bed is big enough and Daryl stays because he ain't sleeping on the floor for the likes of her when she didn't offer to do the same. Isabelle gets on Daryl for lying to Lou, and he throws her “the truth can wait” line back at her. She says a mule is different than their teacher and Daryl is visibly agitated. He says they just need to find a radio and Isabelle sounds irritated when she replies “So you can go home.”. Daryl, still agitated, says “Yes, so I can go home.” What is she doing acting possessive of him when they've known each other a few days at best? Back off, lady. The whole episode highlights that Isabelle is a terrible person.

[autimind]

Myths about Autism #4 - Looking autistic

(with a side order of 'I don't hate people with autism.')

A dearly beloved aunt, who regrettably passed several years ago, flat-out refused to believe that I am autistic. Even after a full explanation of my struggles and diagnostic trajectory through the local mental healthcare system. I did not come across as autistic. She wasn't the only one.

Well, I say fair enough.

[long read. I won't discuss the actual myth. We are clear on that it is bunk. However, what should we now do?]

Let's talk about what autism looks like. Allistic people seem to have these amazing insights into what's going on in other people's minds basically on full-auto or at least they claim as much but for all I can discern they seem to judge inner workings of the mind by what the visible body does. They need our outward appearance in order to function.

What is autism? We know, dear reader, that autism is high, wide and broad. That it is called a spectrum does not mean that it behaves like the number line, not even like the complex plane. It is an insanely varied, multivariate affair. "If you have met one autistic, you have met one autistic," as the platitude has it. Yet autism is real. Although it does not exist as a thing, it is a valid label for a more or less well-defined manner of neurodivergent development. All of the divergence inside the brain is invisible, though. Can we fault the allistic people all around us for only looking at the conduct and mannerisms they do notice?

Society moreover has been and is ill-served by tropes mainly in entertainment but also in serious media. For a long time, autism basically equated Rain Man, from the eponymous movie starring Dustin Hoffman. I still find it ironic that the person who inspired the movie, the late Kim Peek, did not have autism at all but rather FG Syndrome. More recent is the example of Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory, who according to many people has Asperger's. It is interesting that almost no one judges his friend Amy Farrah Fowler in the same way as she shares many of his characteristics.

Again I ask can we fault allistic people their bafflement when we come out, so to say, as autistic? By far most of us aren't Sheldon Coopers and certainly a vanishingly small minority of us are even like Rain Man.

I tend to empty a box of matches onto the desk when speaking as an expert by experience to professionals. I give them three seconds to tell me exactly how many matches are visible and of course they always fail. Given proper experience, an estimation might of course be given but I tell them the exact answer. After everyone has had the time to be amazed at my 'autistic feat', I explain that I personally counted the matches before putting them into the box that very morning.

This is my way of upending their own cultural ideas on autism. Returning to my point, I really don't think we can blame allistics all that much. Cultural inertia on top of normal human cognitive laziness makes it hard to take on new and contra-intuitive notions.

Quite frustratingly, rather a lot of allistic people, once you have told them, still exclude us while saying they don't dislike autistics/autism. A good example would be.. well, almost everyone I come across. Basically everyone commiserated with me when I became open about my diagnosis and vowed to help and understand. They can't but they aren't aware of that particular disability. It is not their fault.

The point here is that they do keep responding negatively to an impressive array of ingrained traits. Stimming in the form of feet tapping of knee bouncing (my own go-to stim), data dumping about my SPINs, correcting vague or incorrect language, taking vocal utterances literally and so on and so forth. Really now, I am not much bothered about specific word choice but it is not okay to just hold on to your preconceived notions when an actual human explains their own mental state or makes a half-way reasonable request.

Those preconceived cultural notions do exist and they do cause harm. All of this creates much frustration and anger among autistics. This is easily visible during even a cursory inspection of #actually autistic and like tags. There is so much pain! People are crying out in sheer endless reblogs, venting and sometimes even ranting about the unfair position we have in society, especially if we are also non-white, female or belong to yet one more disadvantaged or non-privileged group. The amount of anger, sometimes even rage, on this forum is simply staggering. I have run afoul of it myself, mostly for responding to some post without thinking and naively assuming I was really helping. I have hurt other people's feelings.

It would be fairly easy for me to now wax eloquent about how I was misunderstood, that from my own blog it was crystal clear that.. and a dozen other excuses. I simply say this: I am sorry. However, we still have to do something. I strongly feel that venting to eachother is all well and good but if that is all we do, things will not get better. In that case, venting becomes just a way of blowing off steam before going right back to that very same society that can be so hurtful and indifferent.

It would be a grand thing indeed if I had all the answers at this point and I don't. I do have one answer. What I propose will sound cruel to some. I will put yet another responsibility in the autistic camp. Yet more adapting to do when allistics just breeze through their lives. (They don't, but never mind that. I understand the feeling.) Still, on sober reflection we will have to admit that this responsibility is already solidly on our side for the very simple reason that no one will do it for us. We may just not have been aware of it.

I am talking about actively regulating our own emotions in general and making space for negative feelings in particular. If we manage to pull that off, we can just be with frustration or sadness for a while and allow it to process itself. I know first-hand how impossibly vague and wishy-washy new agey that sounds. I also know first-hand the awesome power of such a skill if you can see it from the inside.

At least we will have control. To some extent. We will be responding from strength, not from weakness. We will be secure in ourselves, not beaten this way and that by the breaking waves of the ocean of demands and impulses of this life. We will know deep in our being that we are always welcome in the present moment. We will understand viscerally that emotions are not self, thoughts are not self. They may influence us but they are not us.

Will that make us feel better? Maybe. After a while. Unpleasant emotions and thoughts will not suddenly vanish. But it will help. For details, see my series on Reconnecting to our authentic selves.

[enhaheeseung]

or maybe i'm just getting carried away 😂 idek if i can handle writing on top of my 2 jobs and making fanart, esp if i somehow manage to build an audience.

not that that's required! it'd just be nice to interact with people about smut and kinks and stuff outside of anon asks 🤷‍♀️

anyway, sorry for dumping this on you! (though i'd honestly still like to know about starting a fic blog... just in case)

- 🐋

So I’ll tell you how I started first and then I’ll throw in a few tips (but I’m definitely not who you should be asking about this lol)

When I first started I had no idea what I was even doing I didn’t know how to put links I didn’t know about proper warnings or how to add tags and images so I basically started from scratch with no knowledge

Which was highly frustrating at first but when my first fic reached 100 notes all of it seemed worth it

So I used that as motivation to continue writing fics and I slowly starting building an audience however just cause i got followers doesn’t mean my writing got better if anything it kinda got worse but I didn’t ponder on it any longer cause I knew I was capable of writing better than that

That being said it’s basically trial and error so don’t get discouraged when some works get more notes than the others sometimes it’s just cause it doesn’t show up in the tags (for whatever reason)

Bestie an audience is definitely a requirement (for me) I literally almost deactivated because of the lack of interaction I had cause basically if no one is reading what I post there was no point to even create a account and post it

As of late my notes and followers have decreased like crazy which is very discouraging to me and I haven’t had motivation to write for a long time and it’s hard to look past and keep writing but I’m trying

I know I’m getting ahead of myself when I say that seeings how you haven’t even started yet but I just want you to know some of the things that can happen after you start posting.

At first I thought it was fun just posting story’s for your bias and interacting with people however it’s not that cut and dry.

You might possibly have droughts where you don’t know what to write or how to write it which is was also very discouraging for me

In the beginning I didn’t realize how much effort you really had to put into writing even if it is something as unserious as smut is you still have to do research

Since I’ve been writing I’ve searched all kinds of things such as mental illness pregnancy sex positions you name it

So if you have an idea for a fic it’s not as easy to write it down on paper as it is to imagine it sometimes the wording is the hardest part of writing

Another big problem I faced was when I would read others work and compare myself to them wondering how they were getting so many likes and had so many followers yet I didn’t

That was just me being stupid though cause not everything I write is for everyone and look at me now 2300 followers and multiple fics with 1000+ notes

Not sure if I’m the only one who experienced this but it did effect my mental health in a way I was constantly trying to think of plots and I’d bang out 10k words in a day without rest and after awhile that had taken a toll on me especially with working and barely sleeping

And of course if any of this ever happens and you get discouraged you could always quit writing (I should have but I’m way too hard headed for that) but if something is causing you more harm than good I’d say drop it

I know I said way more than I should have but I’d just like to give you a little idea of how I started my journey

So now for a few tips I’d suggest starting with shorter fics to get comfortable with people seeing your content

Oh that’s another thing I was (and still am nervous about people seeing what my mind conjures up lol) but everyone that I’ve encountered has always been nice except a few hateful anons every now and then which I think every writer has atleast three hate anons so don’t sweat it

Second I’d find a plot that’s easier to write about that you don’t have to do so much research on to make it a better first experience for your first post

I’d find something that’s unique to you as well rather that be a nickname or saying.

So for me at the end of my post I’ll say have a good day / night and that quickly caught on with my followers as well something else was every time I changed my theme I’d change my heart color emoji so if I used blue my followers would use blue and if I used brown they would use brown etc so I think that’s a cute way to interact and have your own unique little signature

Before any of this though make sure you have a good understanding on how the app works (which I’m sure you do cause you post fanart) just learn as much as possible before posting it’s not like it’s the end of the world if you make a mistake but it’s a lot better knowing how to avoid those mistakes (also look at the structure of other blogs that helped me a lot)

So now I’ll break it down to some key points that I’ve covered throughout this post and things that I think a lot of us writer’s experience at some point

1 learn as much as you can before posting so you don’t hit a sang along the way and get caught up

2 don’t get discouraged if all your works do not do good everytime you post cause we’ve all been there no matter how many followers you have

3 don’t let numbers get to you they will come eventually just don’t give up

4 don’t compare yourself to other writers you’re good enough in your own way

5 do your research

6 you get a few haters but that’s just life

7 make something unique for your blog something that people will remember you by

8 be careful and don’t think too much while writing it’s supposed to be fun and if you ever don’t enjoy it take a break/ stop

9 if your first fic isn’t good don’t worry you get better with time and I’m living proof of that (let’s not mention my first fics lol)

10 if you have a plot but you’re not sure about it just post it it’s normal to feel nervous but just know most of the time it’ll be received well

I know I sound like a hypocrite cause I still even face some of these problems now but I just wanted to give you insight of what can happen along the way and that there’s more to fic writing than meets the eye

However this is just speaking from my personal experience you may never run into have of these problems but still

Anyways I hope I’ve helped in some way and I’m not just rambling on and on

And don’t apologize bestie there’s no need I love helping people if you have anymore questions feel free to ask🤍

One more thing I hope this didn’t scare you away from writing cause like I said this is just my personal experience

[teddy06writes]

A Thousand Little Moments (That Help Me Heal)

Requested by @alphamoonlunala9391 "Can you do more parts of What Could Have Been Was Good, But What We Have Now Is Better please and maybe make the character a god hybrid reader"

and sort of @noctis-yeye

This is the Part three of You Didn't Need Us Then, We Don't Need You Now and What Could Have Been Was Good, But What We Have Now Is Better

Quackity x reader; Past mentioned Sapnap x karl x quackity x reader

trigger warnings: some swearing, existentialism? kind of? (Charlie being like, 'everything turns to dust so whats the point')

premise: it's like i said in the part two, its just gonna be a bunch of little scenes that happen in the two year gap, plus the wedding that would then happen at the end of part two for the last scene (no I don't really know how proper weddings go, all the ones i've been too were ~weird~ soooo...)

{to the asker who actually went in my inbox to request, I can't make reader a hybrid because its too late in the series to really change it}

{snowchester las nevadas conflict- we don't know her}

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"(y/n) from Las Nevadas?"

You glanced up from your work to find Charlie at your office door, "Yeah Charlie?"

"This place 'ill be around a while right? No- no explosions like L'manburg?" He slid into the room and dropped into one of the chairs in front of your desk.

You frowned, "How do you know about L'manburg?"

"I told you- I move slow, but I've seen a lot. L'manburg was nice- but then it was gone."

You sighed, "I know... I was there- all three times. L'manburg was my home before Las Nevadas."

"If you and Quackity from Las Nevadas want me to stay here- which it sounds like you do, I want to know: Las Nevadas will be around for a while, right? I don't want it to go to dust like everything else does."

"As much as we can help it Charlie," You glanced down at your desk, "I'm not gonna let another home get destroyed."

~~

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you made it to the top of the needle.

Purpled was still sitting near the edge of the deck where he'd stayed after you'd finished the tour. It seemed the only difference now, was that behind him the sky was dark, and speckled with stars.

"You got room for company kid?" You asked quietly.

He nodded, and you quickly moved to sit next to him, "So what do you think of the place?"

"'s alright." He mumbled.

"Charlie wasn't enough to scare you off?" You chuckled.

He shook his head, "Nah... Where did you find that guy?"

"Sneakin around one of the restaurants." You laughed.

"He's insane."

"Yeah no, probably." You sighed.

Purpled got quiet again, turning to look back out over the city, "Why'd you offer me a spot here? You said it wasn't a job, so why actually offer it to me?"

You frowned, thinking for a moment, "I guess- ever since L'manburg- I don't want to see anyone else suffering on this server, especially not any more of you kids. You deserve to have a place, and people looking out for you Purpled."

"You keep saying that- but why here? How come you two are the only ones that say that?" He snapped.

Shifting to lean against the railing, you sighed again, "Did you hear about Kinoko Kingdom, when it was founded?"

"Yeah. Karl, Sapnap and George did that, didn't they?"

You nodded, "You know we were supposed to marry Sap and Karl once, Quackity and I."

"Really?" He scoffed.

"Really. Cause we'd been dating, and they'd been dating, and then Karl started hitting on Quackity, and in retaliation Sapnap was hitting on me- anyway, it felt perfect and shit right?"

"Mhhhm."

"Well then one day, right before doomsday, Karl up and disappears, and of course we're worried, but there's a war on. So once its all over, Q was devastated, cause everything he built in El Rapids was gone. He'd always wanted to just make a place for us. He disappeared too.

"Sapnap and I split up to look for them, and planned to meet up here. But- they never turned up. One day we come to find out, they went and started there own place-" You stopped, clearing your throat, and shaking your head, "They abandoned us. I don't want anyone else getting abandoned. This server tried to abandon you Purp, but I'm not gonna let them."

When you looked back over at him, there was a small smile on his face, "...Thank you..."

~~

"(y/n)! Guess who showed up today!"

You chuckled as you looked up to find Quackity leading Fundy toward where you sat at one of the tables under the needle with Charlie, "Fundy! It's so good to see you!"

"Hey (y/n)!" He smiled.

"Hello Fundy From L'manburg!" Charlie greeted excitedly.

Fundy's smile seemed to droop, "How did you know that...?"

"He knows a lot more than most people think," You said apologetically, "Anyway, how have you been?"

"Pretty alright, pretty alright." He nodded, sitting down at one of the open seats as Quackity plopped down next to you.

"That's good. It's good to see you're doing better!"

He nodded, "How have things been going over here?"

"Pretty good," Quackity grinned, "It'll be great to have another official partner on property. So far the only big one we've got living here is Purpled."

"You got Purpled to come here? Wow." Fundy chuckled.

You smiled, "Yeah, I think he's starting construction on a new UFO soon. You got any big plans for being here?"

"I'm not sure yet- but I'll figure it out," He smiled, "I've got a feeling that this place will be better than L'manburg ever could have been."

~~ "Babe, I made breakfast!"

You yawned, slowly sitting up at Quackity's call, "What kind of breakfast?"

"Pancakes!"

"And Purpled From Las Nevadas taught me to make the orange juice!" Charlie exclaimed from the kitchen.

You chuckled, getting up and tugging down the sleeves of one of Quackity's long since stolen hoodies.

Out in the kitchen, Charlie was setting a pitcher of orange juice on the table as Purpled set out plates, and Fundy dug around in a cabinet looking for syrup.

You moved over to where Quackity was flipping the last of the pancakes, wrapping your arms around his waist, "Good morning."

"Good morning babe." He chuckled.

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, ignoring the overly exaggerated gaging noise Purpled made, "Keep it to yourself!"

"Keep what to myself Purpled from UFO?" Charlie asked.

"Not you idiot!" You could hear the eye roll in his voice.

Fundy laughed, sitting up and banging his head on the cabinet.

You smiled into Quackity's back, listening to the half chaos behind you happily.

~~ "Hey Ranboo!" You greeted cheerfully as he entered the office, "What brings you here?"

"Hi (y/n), I just wanted to ask you something."

"Mhhm." You nodded as he sat down.

"Well it's Tubbo and Tommy, I'm trying to help them with all the L'manburg Schlatt, Wilbur, stuff-" He broke off with a sigh, "I just don't know what I'm doing. They need help but- I don't even know how to deal with my own issues."

You frowned, "Is it nightmares? About the festival?- or Tommy's exile?"

"Yeah... how did you guess that?"

"I know a thing or two about nightmares," You sighed, "they don't really go away like that. You aren't doing anything wrong by not knowing what to do."

Ranboo stared down at his hands, "I just feel like I should be helping them more."

"You know what helped everyone around here? Creating a home- having a place or people, that helped Fundy and Purpled, and kind of Charlie? I still don't know his deal- Anyway! just be there for them, hell, bring them here, we'll all be here for you guys."

He looked up suddenly, "Why would you guys be- why would you offer us that? We're not in your allegiance."

"I know. But I don't think any of you kids deserve what this server gives you. Bring them here or not, you all have a place here if you want it." You assured him.

"Really?"

"Of course."

~~ "AYYYY Big Q!"

Tommy's yell cut through the semi loud sounds of the crowded apartment.

"Tommy! You came!" Quackity exclaimed, "Hey Tubbo! Hey Ranboo! And is that Michael?"

The piglin squealed, running past him into the apartment, toward Purpled's dog.

He laughed, "Well, come in guys, Fundy's getting the movie thing ready, and Purp and Charlie are getting snacks and things."

Ranboo followed Tommy and Tubbo into the room as Charlie came from the kitchen, carrying the bowel of chips Purpled had told him to bring out, "Hey! It's Tubbo Underscore Beloved From Snowchester! And Ranboo Beloved Underscore From {redacted}! And Tomathy Careful Danger Kraken Innit from L'manburg!"

Purpled, who'd stopped in the kitchen doorway, "Did he just make a bleeped out fucking noise with his mouth?"

"Yeah- yeah no he did." Fundy confirmed.

"Your middle name is Kraken?" You asked, shuffling out with a stack of blankets.

Tommy nodded, "Yup."

You laughed, "That's- kind of ridiculous, why would Philza saddle you with that?"

"Well 'es not my dad is 'e?" Tommy scoffed.

"Wait seriously?" Quackity asked.

Tubbo laughed, "You really thought...?"

You shook your head, "Whatever... Fundy what's the status on that movie?"

"I'm almost done." He reported.

"Right, everyone get comfortable then." You said, dropping the pile of blankets you had been carrying.

Quackity plopped down onto the couch, pulling you to sit with him as Tubbo and Ranboo began to make a nest of blankets between the arm chair where Purpled sat and the couch.

Charlie passed around snacks and Fundy finished setting up the projector as the move began.

~~ You sighed, turning and pressing your face into Quackity's shoulder, "Thank you."

It had been a week since Karl and Sapnap had left Las Nevadas, and your fiancé had insisted that you take time off of managing things.

"For what baby?" He asked softly.

"Everything. I love you."

"I love you too." He murmured.

You smiled softly, looking up at him, "How long until that wedding?"

~~ "You ready?" Charlie asked.

You turned to him, looking up from the paper on which you'd written your vows, "Yeah... I think so."

He grinned, "Let's go then!"

You nodded as he looped his arm through yours and you started toward the doorway.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Las Nevadas!" He announced, "Here we go!"

You chuckled as you started down the isle with him, grinning at Quackity, who stood, looking already close to tears.

Purpled, Fundy, Sam, Tubbo, Tommy and Michael stood in various places around the alter, Foolish glancing down at the book he held open.

As you reached the alter, he started, "Dear people, we are gathered here today to witness the sort of? holy matrimony of (y/n) (y/l/n) and Alex Quackity. If anyone here has any objections to this union speak now, or hold your peace."

There was a silence, Michaels tiny snort being the only sound before Foolish continued, "This journey, which you have started together, will continue on now, as you walk, side by side, step by step, together, now joined in such a way that you can't really get rid of each other without a divorce."

Laughs and chuckles filled the wedding hall as Quackity shook his head, "Nope, you're stuck with me babe."

You laughed, "Good."

"Now, would you recite your vows?"

You pulled the paper from your pocket, "I'm going first. So, ever since we started seeing each other, we thought it would be you and me forever. Even after everything we went through, and even after Sapnap and Karl, its still you and me. I would say that its just you and me, but," You looked around at everyone,

"It's not just you and me, it's you and me and these guys. When we started this place, I knew that it would be difficult, especially with all the hurt that the SMP caused us. But, even as I was helping everyone here heal, you were helping me. Because you helped me find this family, and you- you gave me a thousand little moments that made me feel again.

A thousand moments that helped me heal."

[ribosoons]

Lunch Box | Kihyun

Kihyun x Reader || Fluff

Warnings: suggestive

Summary: kihyun just basically almost adopt you and always feeding your starving ass

a/n: i dont know where this idea come from anw enjoy!

lets say you are a starving nursing student who's always at the library praying for your life to pass all your quizzes and exams for not to harm your future patients while kihyun is at peace in culinary school. you two are schoolmates, met when both of you are on 2nd year.

it was a tough time for you that time because next day was your finals and you cannot take fail that exam thay is why you were working hard to pass the exam. that night, you wwre roaming around your school dorm when you came across with the building's kitchen. it was like a shares kitchen for everyone in that building, almost no one uses that kitchen that is why it is a surprise for you to see the lights open with the sound of banging utensils. you decided to take a look because the possibility of that person in kitchen is a murderer is there and you will be able to skip the exam if you were stabbed and found dead however you saw an innocent man with his apron on, baking, with a frown on his face.

you knew it was kihyun because he is friends with the most noisy but social butterfly, minhyuk. actually they are a group of friends, seven of them actually. you never had the chance to talk to them because you were busy shaking your brain for grades.

"what are you doing here?" upon entering the kitchen premises, you asked.

on thw otherside, kihyun was shocked that anyone would come to check on him at this ungodly hour.

"what do you think people do in kitchen?" he answered sassyly because he was pissed that his breads were still on not proper consistency.

"make out?" you replied, "i do not see anyone cook here but make out. i dont see you with anyone so ill assume you are the first actually use the kitchen"

"yeah wanna make out?" he bluntedly asked which made you laugh.

"probably, but i dont usually make out with people whom i dont even know the name" he saw him stood up properly from the position of slouching in front of the oven and wiping his hands on his apron.

"kihyun" offering his hands for a shake hands. you thought it was too formal that is why you slapped your hands onto his and informed him your name.

"y/n" he called, "you wanna-" cutting his question you defensively said, "woah woah, i was just joking with the making out part. i dont expect you to actually believe it. i thought we are just joking around here" this made him laugh which to the point he was crying. embarrassed you asked what's funny.

"i was about to ask you if you can give my breads in making a taste after it came out the oven but it seems like you are enjoying the idea of me asking you to make out with me" you saw him flash a cocky smile which you just gave him an eye roll.

"ill just agree to tastw your breads because im hungry" you agreed. ever since that day, everytime you see him or kihyun sees you, he is offering you with the leftovers of his creations and to be honest you did not regret meeting him because you saved so much money for your lunch money.

"hey! y/n!" you heard yelled behind you and turning around you saw kihyun holding a lunch box running towards you.

"i will just let you feed me your weird combination if you let me draw a blood on that veiny arms of yours"

"you know y/n for a broke starving college student like you, you are a picky one. not to mention your weird obsession with my arms" he laughs throwing his arms around your shoulders to lead you to his dorm because he usually feeds you there and you chill there to review your reviewer.

"i dont have weird obsession with your arms, i just need to practice my skills on you. i eat your creations so this is a win-win situation" you defended yourself.

"i do not gain anything from you drawing my blood. i make your stomach full and you make me feel dizzy with you drawing my blood" he looks at you with his infamous confused face that you know exactly that he is being sarcastic with you.

"you can anytime poison me because i willingly eat your food, you should be thankful that i help you judge your skills. plus if you ever need a medical assistance, just call me by my name and i will be there doing what i oath to be doing" you wiggles your eyebrows at him earning him pushing you away, laughing.

arriving at his place with him you saw minhyuk and hyungwon, his roommate, deciding to talk to them, "hey minhyuk, hyungwin, what's poppin?" you asked.

"yeah just wondering when will you two date because both of you are awfully obvious and oblivious" minhyuk said earning a laugh matching with slaps from hyungwon agreeing to his friend and a look from kihyun telling him to shut up which you didn't catch. you sat on the floor leaning on the couch where hyungwon was laying on, placing your bag beside you and bringing out your ipad where you took down notes and some of your printed materials. it was a routine, to the point like you are like their roommate also minus to the part that you have your own place where you sleep.

"you know that we are friends right?" asking minhyuk earning a laugh from hyungwon. hyungwon is extra happy today.

"yeah, kihyun rarely feeds us" minhyuk spat.

"hey! dont make me the bad guy here" kihyun arrives in the living room with a pair of chopsticks for you and the luchbox he was holding earlier also a food for him.

he sat down in front of you with the table in between of the both of you. you placed down your things and start eating what he cooked.

"hmm. i like how you cooked this. i like it" you informed him. he asked about the rating and you gave him an honest opinion. he asked about your day and you told him how you end up shoving your fist inside a human in order to support your seniors. btw you are in your internship, and facing a real patients.

"ew y/n what the fuck. in front of my own meal?!" kihyun reacted all together with minhyuk and hyungwon. because of your story that made minhyuk and hyungwon leave both of you in living area because they knew you will never stop talking about the weird encounters you had in hospital.

"you asked about my day and i answered! what do you expect?" you laughs and took a bite in your meal.

another day passed, kihyun asked you of you were busy. since you were not that busy you decided to cooperate with what's on kihyun's mind. he invited you to come over his dorm to cook with him to practice since minhyuk and hyungwon were not around. you agreed because yehey free foods!

"hey im here" you announced removing your shoes placing it neatly on the side and walk directly to the kitchen where kihyun is.

"you are right on time, here wear this" he offered you an apron. you were about to get the apron from his hands but he willingly put the apron warping his arms around you to tie a nice bow at the your back. you took no mind on how your heart was beating faster when kihyun's face was so much closer on yours.

"so what's the recipe for today chef yoo" you giggling asks, "please be nice, i am used on assisting doctors not chefs" you both laughed at your sentiments.

"i will" kihyun instructed on you on what both of you will be cooking. he decided to cook a beef dish and making a servings for four since his roommates are always teasing him to cook for them (which they are just being dramatic because kihyun cooks for them all the time) and also gave a notice that they will comeback before dinner.

helping kihyun, you are giving the tools he needed giving like how you give tools to the doctors in surgery room.

"i feel like a doctor right now" kihyun giggles.

"sure, i will be your nurse then" you laughs. while he was stirring his soup, you decides to tell a tale of your most disgusting encounter in your internship which made kihyun rant.

"y/n we don't need to discuss that infront of a dish. dont you know that a dish requires love and affection?" he nagged.

"your dish needs to face reality" you laughs.

"no y/n it needs love" he emphasis the word love.

"is that why you called me here?" you jokingly teased him. laughing at your own joke, you were stunned on what kihyun answered.

"yeah, i called you here because i need the love of my life to be beside me while i cook dinner for my shithead roommates and also to feed my nursing student" he said not removing his stare on the meat he is cooking inside the pot. kihyun realises what he said he quickly turned his head around facing you.

"did i just tell out loud my thoughts?" he asked you with fear in his eyes.

"yeah, you want me to summarize? i am good at summarizing stuff from what i just heard. i might even took down some notes for me to remember because that was the sweetest shit ive ever heard from your mouth" you laughs squishing his cheeks.

you heard the pot overflow which made kihyun comeback into his senses and check the beef he is cooking.

"so you do like me just like what minhyuk and hyungwon saying?" you teased smiling right directly at him, purposely shoving your face at his for him to see your teasing smile.

"i do. so please stop teasing me, it doesn't help me at all" he said avoiding your gaze.

"good because i also like you" cupping both of this cheeks you squeezed it and kissed kihyun's pout lips.

kihyun immediately grabbed your nape placing one hands on your waist to kiss you passionately. stepping back, you are now leaning on the kitchen's countertop. he lifted you up to the countertop causing you to wrap your legs around his waist. he move his kissed from your lips to your neck now nibbling your neck.

opening your eyes, you saw minhyuk and hyungwon standing there watching both of you making out. tapping kihyun's shoulder he stopped.

"we just walked in, we are not watching you guys make out in our kitchen i swear" minhyuk defensively explained.

"is that how friends treat each other?" hyungwon asked making kihyun throw a spatula on hyungwon making them run away. after hearing the door close kihyun is not looking at your eyes, not breaking the eye contact he said, "i love you y/n. can i be your boyfriend?"

"kihyun i do not make out with someone and not date them. of course you can be my boyfriend"

[renaerys]

22. for reds 🤡

This is 100% not what you asked for (yet...👀), but I give you part 1 of what we're calling the Weird King AU. I'm turning this into a proper multi-chapter High School fic because I love you and I'd jump on any bandwagon for you.

xxx

Like most young, conventionally attractive Supervillains, Brick had made a bit of a habit of failing upwards. It was pretty easy in a town full of simpering morons content to project their own narrative assumptions onto him, and who was he to crush their dreams when they made his life a little easier?

For example, dating.

“You can tell me, you know.” His cute date, Tracy, sipped her milkshake across from him.

“Tell you what?”

She softened and reached her hand across the table. “Your tragic backstory. I’ll listen without judgment, I promise.”

Brick tried to think of something tragic, but it all seemed pretty underwhelming as far as Supervillain origin stories went. “You mean like how I was born in a toilet?”

She made an oh shape with her lips. “We all have those days where we feel like we were born in a toilet, Brick.”

He’d dated Tracy for three months before she broke up with him out of the blue in tears: sorry she couldn’t fix his baggage, she just wasn’t strong enough to handle all that tortured darkness, but she wished him nothing but health and happiness. Brick deleted her number from his phone and spent twenty whole minutes staring at the toilet in his bathroom, wondering what the lesson here was.

But everything changed when Mojo got out of prison and moved Brick and his brothers back to Townsville, where he enrolled them in the local high school alongside their former arch nemeses, the Powerpuff Girls.

Suddenly, everything Brick did pre-supposed ill intent. These people remembered him as the pest who had graffitied their local monuments and blown up their cars and endangered their children. They held no love for him, and at best they feared him. This was not Citiesville, where he’d been a tall, cold glass of Voss water in a sea of recycled Dasani.

He found himself thinking about his birthing toilet again as he stepped into the cafeteria alone and the conversation quieted down as his new classmates watched him from the safety of their tables. His next moves here were critical. He was no longer at the top of the food chain, but fear and mystery surrounding his origins and character gave him a certain power over his peers.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of social suicide, I will fear no cringe,” he said to himself.

The jocks were out. Capable though he may be, Brick was not much of a team player unless there was a blood contract involved requiring his participation on pain of satanic torture. The drama kids were also a hard pass, not because he thought drama was lame, but because they had barely noticed him walk in, and Brick did not have the energy to deal with people more self-involved than himself. Some of the unaffiliated tables could be safe, but without a good understanding of the nuanced social dynamics in the high school, he could be heading toward irreversible doom, and that was a risk he was not willing to take.

He saw his salvation just ahead. It was the only option, all else being equal. In an environment where he couldn’t be certain of his baseline status and potential for upward mobility, there was greatness to be had only by association and certainty only in the devil he knew.

Brick helped himself to the empty seat directly across from Blossom Utonium to a chorus of gasps and staring.

Blossom did not startle like her table mates had. She watched him critically behind a head full of bangs as she balanced her soup spoon in her hand. “Really.”

Brick unwrapped the burrito he’d purchased in the lunch line and brandished it before him. “Really.”

He took a bite of the burrito. It was not hot enough. The two girls to Blossom’s left whispered to each other about that bad boy and he’s hot, though.

Blossom daintily spooned soup into her mouth without spilling a single drop as she continued to watch Brick for signs of his imminent dark side transformation.

The guy next to Brick was brave enough to ask him what his next class was. Brick had a mouth full of disappointing burrito, so he passed the guy the printout of his class schedule in lieu of answering.

“Wow, all APs, huh? Hey, we’re in U.S. History together next period, nice. I’m Mike Believe, by the way. Brick Jojo, right?”

Brick didn’t answer him immediately on account of the burrito currently occupying his mouth hole, and Mike took it the wrong way.

“Oh, yeah, we all know who you are. Blossom sort of filled us in.” He winced like he’d inadvertently revealed a terrible secret.

Brick swallowed his food and washed it down with a gulp of water. “Saves me some time.”

Mike looked super relieved. “For sure! Hey, I could lend you my notes if you want to catch up. Gershwin’s giving a quiz on the Progressive Era on Friday, and she’s a hard-ass who definitely won’t care that you just transferred…”

Brick chewed on his lunch as Mike continued to talk at him about classes and other vaguely helpful, albeit uninteresting, information. But Mike seemed normal enough, a little chatty but not in an overeager sort of way. Blossom was no longer clocking his every move and seemed to be absorbed in her friend’s latest swim team cheating scandal, until Brick reached for his water bottle and she suddenly laser-focused on his wandering hand.

Her keen attention to him was honestly flattering, if expected. It was in his nature to be noticed, and in this narrow respect she was no different from anyone else whose head he turned. If she chose to feed her interest with the flames of suspicion, then it was no difference to him.

But if she was anything like him—and on a chemical level she was probably the closest to him that a person could get—he suspected it took tremendous effort to hold her full and sustained attention. The world they inhabited was as vapid and mundane as the humans that surrounded them, and even the most gracious of gods grew bored of worship. Which explained all the smiting and fucking and generational curses upon entire households in everything from Greek mythology to the Old Testament.

Brick was pretty deep into a fantasy of Blossom going full Ixion and the Wheel on the swim team when Mike tapped his shoulder. “You ready to go?”

It took him a moment to realize the bell had rung and he had a class to get to—AP U.S. History with Mike, apparently. Brick gathered his tray and his bag and followed Mike. When he looked back at the table, Blossom was already gone.

xxx

That whole first week was painfully boring. No one bullied him, or pranked him, or picked a fight with him, of course. But no one really approached him, either. His brothers were more determined to make an effort. Boomer announced he was trying out for the soccer team because there was no rule saying a Super with extremely well documented ties to active criminals and the forces of Hell couldn’t kick a ball around a field. Butch had gotten himself invited to a midnight screening of Snakes on a Plane in some rich kid’s home movie theater, but only after that same kid had accidentally spilled milk on Butch and burst into tears in front of a cafeteria full of Juniors and Seniors. Brick declined the invitation Butch extended to him. He had that AP U.S. History exam to study for on Friday, anyway.

He shared all of his classes with Blossom. Even in the classes where her assigned seat was behind his and he couldn’t see her, he could feel her lobotomizing stare at the back of his head whenever she glanced up from her notebook. And while Mike’s notes were perfectly adequate and the friendly gesture counted for more than the content (a gesture Brick would not soon forget), there was a far more efficient way to accomplish his goal of murdering the class averages while also taking the edge off his loner doldrums.

“Can I borrow your class notes?”

Blossom rose from her seat and pulled her hair tie out to re-do her extremely long ponytail. She held the elastic between her teeth as she worked. Her teeth were very straight, he noticed. Some pretty nice girl-teeth, generally speaking.

“Which class?”

“All of them.”

He watched her wind the elastic around her hair with quick, adroit fingers. “That’s a lot of notes.”

“You’re the top of every class. No point in asking anyone else.”

She moved toward the hall. He followed her out. “Why would I help you?”

A legitimate question delivered without venom. Unlike her sister Buttercup, who’d “run into” Brick after school on Monday and told him to watch his back, Blossom didn’t have to do anything but maintain a general proximity to make her superiority complex known. Which was the kind of flex he could fuck with.

“Isn’t helping people sort of your mandate?”

They had arrived at her locker, which she opened with enough force to rattle the hinges. “I help the helpless. Are you helpless, Brick?”

Brick smiled at her baiting. Had she ever actually said his name at a normal volume before? It sounded good even in her baseline bitch timbre. “Critically helpless. I’m the new student who transferred in the middle of the semester, and you’re the only person who knows me.”

A couple other students clearly trying to get to the lockers Brick was blocking hovered just out of reach. They whispered to each other, but neither of them actually worked up the courage to ask Brick to move. He ignored them.

Blossom rummaged in her locker for the binder she would need for the next class. “Make friends.”

“Working on it.”

The locker door slammed and she faced him. There was something confrontational in the way she held herself before him that kicked him in the nuts back in time thirteen years to their more uncouth days when all he wanted to do was destroy her so he’d be the only one. Now they were older and wiser and he actually did need her notes to study, so destroying her was not high on his list of priorities.

“You want to be my friend.”

“We have so much in common.”

“So do lions and hyenas.”

“Both are apex predators, so.”

She took a step closer and peered up at him. Brick did not move, although he wondered what was so interesting about his face. She probably just thought he was hot. She was probably as bored as he was. She probably—

“You have lettuce in your teeth.”

Brick pulled back and covered his mouth on instinct. God fucking damnit.

Blossom was already walking away from him by the time he’d picked the food from his teeth. “I’ll expect my notes back in mint condition before first period tomorrow morning.”

Brick pressed a fist against the lockers and quietly fumed. “Dumbass…”

“Um, sorry, but do you mind…?”

The student who’d been waiting for her locker space to clear up had her palms up as if to assuage a feral stray. Brick pushed off the lockers, but his fist left a dent where he’d unleashed some of his impotent self-pity. He looked back at the girl, and she shook her head.

“It’s fine! It, uh, it happens sometimes.” She pointed a couple lockers down to Blossom’s, which was dinged up worse than the others.

Brick stared at Blossom’s locker, and then back at the girl. Her narrow, dark eyes were wide, but not out of fear. She was waiting for something, and like an idiot it took him a moment to catch up. “You’re trying to make me feel better about fucking up your locker.”

She laughed nervously. “I mean, it’s really fine! You just looked so miserable for a second there, and I just thought…”

Great, he was moping so hard he had an audience.

The five minute warning bell rang, and a flood of students rushed past them on their way to fourth period. Brick stepped aside so the girl could get to her locker.

“Hey, you’re the new guy, right?”

The new guy, yeah. How quaint. Except, she was waiting for a response, which wasn’t the absolute worst thing that had happened to him all week.

“Brick,” he said. But of course, she already knew that, and she was just being nice.

“I’m Kim. Kim Chan.”

“Okay.” He didn’t have anything else to say to her, so he decided to get his shit and get to his next class.

“Welcome back to Townsville, Brick.”

Brick shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off. It didn’t occur to him until later that Kim was the first and only person who had properly welcomed him back home.

[dxwnxdusk]

“How oblivious can you human’s be? Disgraceful. You come into my archives, to sprout blasphemy about my King? Rot. That is what you are. A withering festering plague that hasn’t been yet cured and the gods cannot move quick enough or are far too lost themselves to do a damn thing. You came into the best place to get your pitiful ideals shattered in the face of truth. Ignorance is not a blessing!”  Her ears wilt downwards, the raised tone doesn’t help with her sensitive hearing but she didn’t care who heard. She’d make her words heard and they would listen. Even if she had to drag one of the stars to her will to bind them down. She would. The doors of the archives room rattle before slamming shut with a thunderous bang. The six foot five inches tall snow white simian rises. Pink, Magenta and Blue ears faintly glowing alike the stars adorning her pelt and face. Run her in circles? Not likely. Not this time. They’ve gone far enough, prattled on long enough with their false truth. She’ll give them a lesson alright. “A bad king? Maybe that is what he shows to you all. You see the reckless, impulsive silly monkey that leaps into danger headfirst. Who doesn’t think before he does things. Maybe he doesn’t all the time. Maybe he is reckless and impulsive but it comes from something you clearly lack. A heart of emotion. A heart born of love for his people. For those he cares about. Wukong is here, anytime the newborns grace this world he is there. He welcomes each new life to this mountain with that smile that hides his own struggles. He greets new life into this world with hope, that will shimmer and shine past any darkness. He is there for the troop and anytime he wasn’t? Was because he couldn’t or was unable to be. All the time he’d check on everyone, every single person. At least when he had the chance.” “A shimmering hope, that is what Wukong is. He stands tall so others can be weak, so that the hurt may begin healing. But he is not entirely invincible. He suffers, he bruises, he cries, he bleeds, he mourns, he screams just like us. HE ALWAYS HAS! This man won’t stop because he is so selfish in that regard. He wants everyone before himself to be okay and it’s a fight just to get him to rest let alone accept any help from others! We’ve been doing it from the beginning, no matter how strong he is. The troop, The Generals...even me. We can sense it and we will do whatever we can to lessen the hurt, to help him heal. The world just keeps messing with everything and people can’t leave him alone. That’s where I will come in. I made an oath to never do physical harm to another. I try to keep myself a pacifist.”

“Nothing that happened those five hundred years was his fault. Not the illness I failed to combat. We failed him that day, we accepted the consequences but those years still haunt, still torment him. Can you imagine being away from someone you love? Only to hear they have passed away? To come back home to a place of ruin? No. Most of you will never know that feeling. You’ll never know what he’s felt. What he’s gone through and thus you build stories around what you dare to think. Without a hint of truth! He’s our king! HE ALWAYS WILL BE! WE ARE PROUD TO HAVE HIM AS OUR KING! I WILL NEVER LEAVE HIM!”

A closed claw slams down on the table in a fist, fur bristled as her earlier glow has intensified. Pupils in fine slits, tail lashing behind her before she exhales ruggedly. A large amount of purple smoke escaping her parted lips before she brings her claws to rest over one another. A proper position as she sighs.

“Wukong has so much pressure on his shoulders, that many will never see. If he can keep it that way he will. He’s stubborn in that regard but he cares so much. A bleeding heart of gold. it’s cracked and worn, he’s moving slowly. He loves so unconditionally to those who have earned it. His kindness is something you cannot replicate, cannot begin to ever truly understand. He will stand there and take the blows for you if it means you remain unharmed. he will take all the pain he can from you and shoulder it as if it was his own. He’ll bear the weight for you, if you have earned such kindness. Our loyalty is not born of blind faith. it is born from love to him as well. Perhaps more in my case. He is not a bad king, he may not be the best but he does more than enough for us. More than enough...always. And he still tries to do more.”

“That’s my king, I am his Lore Keeper. The Healer. I am the star born amongst those who have accepted me for who I am. Who do not care of my origin. I came to them able to fit in their palms and they raised me into who I am today. He led me forward...Wukong cared for me when other’s couldn’t. He showed me the beauty of the world and instilled in me a faith that it could become better despite the lurking edges of darkness that would attempt to swallow the light. He gave me the strength to keep going. He helped me in a way no one will ever understand. He gave me the will to believe in myself. Everything I have accomplished? It’s thanks to him, for believing in me. When no one else did. he helped me overcome so many obstacles. Even through that age of darkness. I never lost faith in him. Many of us never did, Even if he had been here for the illness many of us still would have perished. For some it was just their time finally despite immortality. We have had the time to accept it, he still needs that and we’ll be there for him every step. If he stumbles finally? We will catch him. Just like he caught us. We will raise him up just how he did for us. We will always care for him as he’s done for us over and over. No matter what it costs.” “My emotions may never be truly heard. Even if I am to admire him from afar? To simply be there to help him heal, to be someone who can listen and help him shoulder the hurt? Then that is what I will do. I will be there for him now and forever more until the spark of my life finally goes out. I am not immortal.” “But I will love him. Because that is what I have decided. Even if my emotions would be forbidden, or forsaken. I cannot stop loving him. I never will...”

[hiswhiteknight]

Unbelievably Outlandish– Part 10

Summary:  Before starting down a new crossroads, the Reader goes onto an adventure of literary traveling. Suddenly tossed into an unbelievable story that has swept the world, The Outlander Series itself. How will a twenty first century woman survive?

Note: I own no characters, except reader, clearly this is based off the lovely book series Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and tv show. This follows more the tv show, but it’s far from accurate. I’m going to try to get better with using less proper English, but who knows maybe I’ll get into Scottish slang.

Pairing: Jamie Fraser x Female Reader 

Words: 1400

Warning: Angst, playfulness, cursing, slow start, obvious fighting and violence, mention of suicide

*I’ll be honest, this chapter is more of a fuller, substance chapter. If you wanted to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or chat. Thank you for everyone’s patience!

The hunt still left you plenty in your thoughts. It should be on helping in whatever way you can, but you kept thinking on your role here and how you clearly will never belong, no matter how to try to be kind and open to the culture, no matter how much you push away your own values and morals for these people. It will never matter. Rupert yelled your name, catching your attention. A man got hurt and you help mend what you can before instructing Rupert to bring him back to the village. Another scream, a different type of scream caused you to be pulled from you own thoughts of now and into the times of wartime. You charge to the scream, you found a man losing blood quickly, and a shot pulled you from your thoughts. The boar that did this must have been shot, “Mistress Y/L/N, am I going to die?”

 All the pressure and anger you felt subsided, “Hold of Geordie, let me look at you,” several clansmen surrounded you. Dougal showed up to hold Geordie as you tried to patch up his leg. Dougal and him were exchanging words when you saw the wounds to his abdomen. Dougal made eye contact with you and you knew he knew what you were saying. You pulled off the tourniquet, and grabbed his hand, “Geordie, the pain is going to be go soon, but while we wait, I have a bet with Angus.” Geordie looked at you the way many men have looked at you before in the Marine. You had to bring him peace in the time of his panic, “I bet Angus that the colonies had more beautiful sites than Scotland. Tell me about your home, what’s it like?”

 Georgie perked up as he told you about his home and you gripped his hand with all your might and continue to stroke his hair to help sooth him. And soon he was gone, you quickly got up and made your way to your horse. Before you knew what you were doing, you made your way to the castle. You needed some busy work, like stitching up the leg of the man who was also attacked by the boar. Afterwards, you walked outside to see the men playing field hockey, which you played for a few years in high school. This was far more barbaric, and you could see Dougal taking his rage out on Jamie. He could cope in anger, but if you did this, you would be gutted.

 You wondered who would win in a fight and you had no doubt Jamie would win. When you saw Dougal on the ground, a young girl from one of your lessons tugged on your arm, “Well hello Molly dear, you enjoying the gathering?” There is no reason to take your rage on children, they didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, teaching them defense things and survival tactics was the most time you felt at peace, well except when you were with – never mind that thought.

 “Aye mistress, very much,” you smile down at her, “I heard about your ill-wish and I know who made it. They did not know it was intended for you when they gave it to the girl.”

Guilt hit your chest again, someone was scared you were going to hurt them for being an accomplice. You were letting the harshness of one person hurt your relationship with the majority, “You know who put it under my bed?”

 “Aye mistress,” she whispered, “You wouldn’t be telling my mother, would you? She wouldn’t be wanting me to get into others business.”

 You bent down to her level, “Tell you what,” you pull out your coin bag with most of the money you made for yourself while staying here – your escape money, “I’ll tell your mother you helped me collect supplies for the gathering, which is why I paid you all this. And you tell me who put it under my bed?”

 “Mistress, I don’t need your money. Girls aren’t allowed to learn the things you are teaching. You don’t deserve any ill-wishes. You’re lovely,” you smile up at her.

 You pass her the bag, “You’ve earned it dear, I keep my word. Give me the name and the money is yours.”

 “Laoghaire,” she whispered. You shot up, looking around completely shocked.

 “Alrighty lass,” you pat her on the shoulder, “If you don’t mind, I have business to take care of.”

 “Be careful, please,” she urged after you.

 You had a hyper focus again, you intended to kick her ass, like you reported. And you found her socializing where most of the clan put up tent for the gathering. You passed Murtagh and Jamie, taking off your sling bag off and your dagger from your waistband and handed it to one of them, “Murtagh, could you mind this for me?”

 “I’m not your errand boy, lass, and where you going that you won’t need this,” he questioned.

 “You’re a pretty face, Murtagh, you ask too many questions,” you sass to him, looking at your target. Jamie and him stopped leaning on a post, both putting their drinks down. They could clearly tell you mean business. “Hey, Laoghaire, you two faced, toxic bitch, I got your gift earlier and I would like show you my appreciation.”

 She had the audacity to give you a glare, before she realized she was in real danger. She started to step backwards, and the crowd started to grow around you as you moved closer to the girl, “Leave me alone, wench.”

 “Oh, you do have words now that you can use. I thought you might be too stupid to speak up and say something since you chose to instead use this voodoo bullshit to get at me. You want to bring me pain lady, let’s go at it,” you finally were within three feet of her. Before you could make a grab at her, she ran in another direction.

 You were about to put your running skills to work, when Murtagh gripped your arm, “Come on lass, you made your point let’s get you back to the surgery.”

 “You know what, I’m a little busy right now. But I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few, we can have some tea to cleanse our spirit, la de da and all,” you keep her in your eye sights. You were about to start your chase when you were tossed over a shoulder. Murtagh was carrying you back as you banged on his back. You were mad in this moment because you gave your dagger away to this meathead or he would have suffered from a few, no lethal jabs. He dropped you in the surgery room, “Damn it, Murtagh what the hell is wrong with you?”

 “With me, you were about to put a big target on your back. You’re a guest here lass, they don’t take too kindly to guests attacking one of their kin,” he leaned against the counter.

 You started to cry, and you usually do not cry, “Does it mean nothing I didn’t start it? Her action deserves a consequence. I watch all men here fight over nothing and here I am fighting against an injustice and my life is at danger. Do I not matter to anyone where? Should I just go to the tallest tower and jump?”

 “Don’t be so dramatic, an ill wish is nothing,” he urged to you. He didn’t seem too phased by the fact you were crying, though he did soften his voice to show sympathy, “I know you don’t believe any of nonsense. You are a smart woman.” You started to toss things about the surgery, organizing all the stuff you brought out for the hunt. Murtagh walked over to you and stopped you by gripping the top of both your arms, “Y/N, you matter more than you know. Stop this behavior, you’ll get accustomed.”

 “Murtagh, why do I always have to be the one to change? What do I have to do to feel like I belong here, how long will it take for people to believe I’m not an outsider?”

 He took a deep breath again, “I know it doesn’t seem it now and I don’t know how, but you do belong here. It’ll come in time. Until then, stop picking fights.”

 “Yes father,” you rolled your eyes, “Where is Jamie, I assume he has my bags and things?”

 “Aye, right now he is taken care of Laoghaire, so you needed be worrying about her anymore,” he said, making his way to the stairs.

 “Unless he has killed her and hid the body, I’ll keep to worry about her and her no good deeds, thank you,” you shouted at him. “And make sure Jamie brings back my things sooner rather than later.”

 And before Jamie could drop off your things, Dougal Mackenzie came down to share you would be journeying out to collect rent from the clan who wasn’t able to make it.

PART 11

 Taglist:  @doctorwhatwhenandwhere @damnedandbroken @blushingpogue @blancastans @slytherinambitious @kinky-asher @lovesanimals @bilesxbilinskixlahey

[buzzkillzine]

28/8/22

I had the realisation recently that I'm an old man. Not age wise. I'm comparatively young. And not in the sense of some skeezy guy who slides up to you in a bar wearing a fedora and says 'I'm an old soul' because I listen to jazz.

I'm old because I feel like I'm falling apart and having all the sorts of problems than an old man has but I'm in my early 30s.

I've never worried about getting older, age is just a number. It gets bigger as you get older. It happens to everyone. I would be worried if the number got smaller and was a countdown to death instead. There would be an ominous feeling behind that.

But I never really considered the health and lifestyle implications of being old.

All my health problems have been traditionally old man problems.

I've had shingles, carpal tunnel, a heart condition, kidney stones and sometimes I just straight up pass out while peeing.

I've never had any 'cool' health conditions or injuries. Even my childhood ones were never cool. I had friends who had cool stories about their injuries. Like they got into a fight, or fell of a motorbike, broke their arm doing a flip off something etc. All my scars have dogshit stories to accompany them.

I have a weird scar on my left hand that I got because I tripped over while trying to skip with a skipping rope in year 9. I have a scar on my shin cos one summer I was outside standing on a chair with the sprinkler going underneath it and fell off and banged my leg.

Just once I wanted a story of fighting a shark to rescue a damsel in distress and getting a cool and mysterious facial scar that made me look hot but instead I just wound up with a lot of gravel rash cos I was clumsy.

I never had a broken bone that required a cast, which is the top tier of childhood injuries. You get the cool story, you get a cool cast and you get everyone to draw on your cast! That's like tattoos in Primary School!

The only bone I ever broke was my kneecap when I stepped on the back of someone's shoe and then fell over on the grass.

I did get a big scar on my knee from that where a year later it hadn't healed and I had to have the broken bit taken out.

Maybe it was a combination of being overly accident prone as a kid and being someone who doesn't really look after themselves but not in my early 30s I'm an old decrepit man who is falling apart.

Things could obviously be way worse and I am very grateful of the health I do have, but I guess I just want better stories to go with it.

Maybe if I make it to 80 I'll take up wrestling bears in my free time. I'm sure that'll give me a good story. Or at the very least a cool scar.

Even my hobbies are old man hobbies. I collect typewriters, I like birdwatching, gardening, complaining about things and sitting down. I envy an old man's ability to just sit and be.

Imagine just existing for a while, without having to do anything unless you wanted to? That's the dream.

One day I'll be an old man. A proper one. And if not at least I will have experienced the hobbies and ill health of an old man.

That's pretty close.

Speaking of birdwatching we've had two birds make themselves at home at my place this week. A Crimson Rosella and a Galah.

Fucken top stuff.

[captainkurosolaire]

Prompt #11 ~ Reclaimed Living

♫Overpowered♫

Another cleansing of the soul came with reinvigorated steps loudly revisiting a place of his bearings. His latest and most formidable enemy awakened him from a ghostly remnant he served. He wasn't the same. The last Crew finding them behind his follow weren't the same that collapsed, or buried with his old ship. The rover returned to a rancid pub front-steps. In a dead and remote location, where used to be celebration, came to cease. Now it was just nesting drunken sailors who held no direction. Majority of the Crew that served a Captain were family members, other associates, all drowned and dead brought by his endeavors, curses, afflictions. It was never easy to confront a past, but proper healing cannot begin without it, that's where his wisdom had found of recent date. It was the most despicable and deplorable thing a feeling could present in a leader. The people under your helm perished but the Captain didn't go with his ship and men. Although all held belief he remained deceased, this would be soon uncovered in a twist. He unstrapped his holstered revolver. Swallowed nerves. Then proceeded. Inside were grievers those at the bottom of bottles, they felt too. Sapped of motivation. Chained, jailed, life had no meaning. The peers that died, killed them too. Outsiders didn't come to this enclosed location. So as creaking old planks of wood were heard they drew alert. Until a stoppage. A shadow between the doors. Even in their rancid and intoxicated states they drew arms. The two loose doors flung open as the perished ghost became alive. In a series of insurmountable clicks and aim's hundreds of trained gun's re-positioned. Dirks, brass knuckles, a plethora of last resistance shown. If they were to be raided, they'd go with bangs.

"Minfilia's oversized tits, blimey o' bastard... I don't believe it. Ye chose a poor choice t' ruse us n' appearance." They didn't follow a leader. Each of their voices left were who seized first in their mass. The interloper had them cautiously on standby. "Nay. It b' me." The Seeker discarded his only means of defense and slid a kick over. They had the right to take their shots. Tension was stacked in disbelieving soaring heights. Each still felt a beguile footman who stood at their gate. "Ye inconceivable fool. T'is a reason why, Dead men tell no tales..." Cocking mechanisms of flintlocks surged. Another chimed in when Captain went to peace. "Best ye tell a helluva' tale. Of what ye live..." This served a code, a message in a bottle, but parchment became waterlogged, useless. If there was ever a moment etched within his time, to become unspoken, now was it. He would be a preaching to a choir. Chewing and clacking his gums, he'd lower the tricorne to his heart. A ferocity lit in his hues, rebellious. "From conception we're met with opposition. There ain't a single-choice upon what we calls origins being dealt, whether by some invisible puppeteer, deemed an author, or some putrid sack ov' excuse-spinner." Revving up, "Educated, groomed, taught t' be the same way, that results t' a history never ending but repeats, wondering why we live under th' same shadows ov' all our dated descendants who fell. Constantly wishing or reflecting back, things were simpler, better, desiring do-overs. No-one looks forward t' a clock, only backwards when bloomed." The fulfillment of dreaming in youth, gets devoured, in due age, later when matured. What could've been, spawns. He took brash steps even while being trained on with blunderbusses. "Thrust into environments where eating metal, doing whatever it takes to survive! --- They call us problems." Speaking out to the rebellious that still swelled, "Sentence t' unexplained diseases, festering rot n' us. We start giving into instability, alongside insecurities, it racks us into a trail of bottomless failures, believing we've nothing of importance... Told by our closest endearing whispers, who mutter the same air of our doubting thoughts... It encourages demons, t' vices, to a point, a visit only ov' ferryman can accept us." He registered and conveyed a lot of personal emotion. "Bein' pirate everyone thinks our take ov' freedom means pure unadulterated chaos, anarchy, destruction. To be feared... Truth it means we're standing against what governs us all, growing bone's where they've gone missing." Showing teeth and taking a stand on top of a tavern table between, the disheartened. "Authority, Order! These things are presented as principal things that are required to function, n' keep peace... But it's artificially made-up. Think to yourselves! How many label's have been created to categorize yourself? To try separating you from being an individual, just so someone can stand-out against on a perch! you don't even know how t' stand anymore! ...Thinking by being on your two-legs that's all? You b' so far drowned, you cannot impose those who wear their crowns, cause you accept it as all-purpose... O' if a mass-herd flocks, it's natural to' fall in that line and try to be included at all costs, thinking it'll grant you an audience, notice, give you validation." His speech began boiling up, resonating something in a few, they became domesticated too. "Words, like 'martyr', 'rebel', thrown around. Placed to maintain control, they subjugate, they'll bend rules, whatever it takes! They'll use their fancy speeches t' rile you into a false-sense to stay kneeled over, stating it's a 'we' or 'us', ignoring really they're out their own business." He presented as their so called pirate king was faceless, removed, abandoned all the free-spirited left. That continued with the powers in place. "Same almighty forces that are throwing us into forgotten. Trying to remove us, are the some who were us, once..." The red-coats weren't someone to be all idolized. Innocent's rain rampant on

those, it was not-self sacrificial, they were govern. "Free. Isn't exclusive. It's within us all, a lifestyle, something that any are capable of taking with zero discrimination, no hierarchy, or diversities preventing you at some barrier for entry! Reach down! Battle against your illnesses, wounds, oppressors! Wobble on your soles and fight to stand against what you disagree with, crawl even, gnarl at that hilt! Die fer passion, what makes you feel who, who gives you it! That's what actual breathing looks like! This IS yer rightful treasure, yer CLAIM. Get it back into your hands and you'll know this is a world you own!" Climatically blew through in his renegade passion. The very air he exhaled into these words weren't laced, they came from personal, raw emotion! Casting away not only to his own liberation but his former folks. "This is living's meaning!" Reaching down grabbing a bottle and smashing it against his arm into a tearing cut, bloodied arms formed outwardly, like wings he threw his arms. Drops of resolve and armed weapons fell in unity. 'The Captain ov' the Five Seas' approached them, and said, I am alive, but so are all those who died, they're in me! I haven't lost this War, It's only getting started. Waves, winds, change, so I've adapted. Here, I am.'

The lawless bellowed out an uproar outcry and jolly, shooting their guns into the ceilings. Smashing and slugging each other with haymakers, drinking and thrusting into debauchery, they were free, once again! Label's no more! Defined, never again! Each saw their passion, the moment was seen! What went obscured. Captain leapt into the brawl, of celebration, he was home, alive! The storms were still remaining but he found many places to call shelter when they came.

[aprxl-showers]

i was feeling a bit sad yesterday and this is the result...

Keith huddles on his bed, hugging three soft pillows at a time to his chest. He takes a deep breath, willing the tears away. He hates this.

Fighting with Shiro always sucked. He and Keith always seemed to be in angsty moods around the same time—more often than not being the cause of each other’s ill tempers—and they’d yell and slam doors until Keith inevitably stormed off. He always ended up in the same place: he and Lance’s bedroom, pressing himself against the wall in order to be as far away as possible from everyone.

His jaw is achy, signalling another impending onslaught of tears and Keith knows it’s probably a losing battle. However, Lance always said letting emotions out was good and healthy and not to worry, he would always be there to give Keith hugs.

Lance isn’t here, though. He’s been away at his parents’ house all weekend for a birthday of some sorts. He had whispered promises through kisses that he’d be back before Keith knew it. But it’s already nine thirty and Keith is reaching a breaking point.It isn’t like he relies on Lance to stop him feeling certain ways. He had made sure of that when they’d moved in together two months ago after ten months of dating. He never wants Lance to be burdened with all his issues and be unloaded onto all of the time. Nevertheless, they still talk. They’re boyfriends, of course they’re there for each other, and sometimes nothing beats being held tightly in Lance’s arms with soothing words pressed to his hairline.

It’s a Friday night which should be a relief but Keith is working all of Saturday and Sunday, meaning he has to get up far too early tomorrow, and he feels like he hasn't been able to take a break this entire week. His teachers have suddenly amped up the intensity of classes and assignments with the upcoming exams. His anniversary with Lance is also on the horizon and he’s trying to save to take him somewhere fancy.

Whenever he does catch an extra moment Keith tries to watch something on Netflix but then the hours fly by like minutes and he’s left feeling shitty again. He initially tried that method when he’d slammed the door shut earlier, angrily tossing his bag off and letting his head fall into his hands. He’d tried to put on a brave face, blinking through tears at the laptop screen as some young, star crossed lovers made eyes at each other across a classroom. It did nothing but remind him of Lance’s absence which didn’t improve his emotional state in the slightest.

He ducks his head into the crease in the pillow closest to his chest as if it will soak in the ball of negativity swirling in his chest, the lump in his throat, his heavy heart. Take it away.

There’s the sound of faint footsteps and jangling keys and Keith hears the door click open as Lance makes his way into their apartment. Keith listens to him as he moves through their home, dumping his suitcase on the sofa, fetching a glass of water and approaching the bedroom door. Keith realises too late that the light isn’t even on.

There’s the sound of a flick and suddenly he sees Lance’s eyes clearly. He watches in horror as Lance’s happy, beautiful expression slips from his face and he places the glass on the chest of drawers.

“Keith?”

He doesn’t want to be a downer on Lance’s day, especially when he’s only just arrived looking like sunshine itself, so he attempts a smile. He also attempts to reply but all that leaves his mouth is a choked, pathetic sob. Lance is diving forward before he’s even registered. Warm hands cup his face and Keith collapses forward into his boyfriend’s chest.

“Lance.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry. I just—” His breath shudders.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, I’ve got you.” Lance reaches up to stroke Keith’s hair, shushing him quietly. Keith softly nudges his head into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply and calming for the first time in hours. Lance’s fingers wipe away his tears gently as he presses fleeting kisses to his eyelids. They stay like that for twenty minutes, in silence. Until:

“Fuck.” Keith’s voice is no longer garbled and he rubs his eyes, exhaustion hitting him like a wave.

Lance tucks his bangs behind his ears over and over and over and over. “Seems appropriate. Do you want to talk about it?”

Keith leans back, offering Lance a more genuine smile. Lance returns it. “No. It’s just Shiro. I’ll call him tomorrow and work it out. How was your family? Did you enjoy seeing everyone?”

“Yeah, it was great.” Lance isn’t fully at ease yet, Keith can tell. He cradles Keith’s neck, running his thumb up and down it. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier.”

“No. You don’t have to apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong. By the time you came in I was feeling the last of it. I would have been fine in another hour.” Keith shuffles over, pulling Lance into a proper sitting position on the bed beside him. He gathers his boyfriend’s long, slender finger in his own. “Please, tell me about your weekend. You looked so happy when you came in.”

Lance hesitates but Keith squeezes his hands once more and his angelic grin slowly returns. Keith feels a weight lift from his shoulders.

“If I’m being completely honest, I missed Mama so much,” Lance says, dropping his head onto Keith’s shoulder. Keith doesn’t blame him. It’s almost impossible not to miss Mama McClain. “There’s nothing quite like hugging your mama, you know? I mean—”

“Yeah, I know.” Keith kisses Lance's forehead, banishing the returns of the worry lines. Although Keith misses his parents every day, he loves hearing about Lance’s huge family—who he had met several times for some bigger, plus one events—and encourages him to speak about them whenever he can. Lance’s passion and love for them always shines through, sending swoops through Keith's stomach every time without fail.

“They asked about you a lot, by the way. Nadia, Sylvio are keen to see you again. I’m certain that even baby Elena perked up when I said your name.”

Keith’s smile arrives unbidden and he chuckles. “I miss them.”

“I bet you do,” Lance agrees, laughing lightly. “I’ve been apart from them for ten hours and I already miss them. The last time you saw them was when we moved in and they gave us all those weirdly specific gifts.”

Keith smirks at the memory. Funnily enough, though, he’s used all the McClain gifts on countless occasions. They obviously knew what they were doing.

“I’m happy you’re back, Lance,” he says. Silence settles for a little while.

Lance shifts, lifting his head from Keith’s shoulder and taking a seat in his lap, facing him. He places a tentative kiss on the corner of his lips.

“There’s no place I’d rather be, babe. I love living with you—it’s the highlight of my life so far, hands down.” Lance runs his hands over Keith’s sides. “I love being able to hug you when you’re sad and beat Shiro’s ass when one of you takes it too far.”

Keith lets out a startled laugh.

“I love it when you do that,” he mutters, leaning forward and brushing Lance’s lips with his own. “And I love you, too, so that’s a plus.”

“A big plus,” Lance reiterates.

“Huge.”

“Massive.”

“Absolutely.”

“I love you.”

“You, too,” Keith replies before he slips an inch forward and they’re kissing softly.

Lance always knows exactly how to calm him down and make him feel that much better. Keith knows he would do—that he does do—the same for him if something was ever remotely wrong. Because they’re a team. And Keith loves him.

He’ll talk to Shiro tomorrow, smooth things over, lick some wounds. Ask him if one year is too soon into a relationship to consider marriage. Maybe it is but Keith can’t find it in himself to care.

It may take them months more of emotional breakdowns on both sides, years more of comfort and cuddles, but Keith has no doubt he and Lance will get there. He already knows this is it. Keith pulls him close, a little emotionally drained but happy, smiling wide against Lance’s lips.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

hiya ! pleaseplease feel free to jus delete this or ignore but simply wanted to send an ask to say ily and hope you are v well ! 💕💕💕 i’ve been desperately trying to think of an actual relevant ikevam question as an excuse to interact my brain has nothing ahah so i hope you don’t mind my simple offering of my love and best wishes 🥺💖 pls have a lovely day & know that your blog brings much joy x

Omg I could never ignore you, sweetling!!! Ily3, I hope you’re doing well too in such troubling times! It’s okay if you don’t have anything specific to say/ask, it’s still a pleasure to see you 💖💖💖💖

How about I offer a silly little drabble below, since your message has moved me to the utmost of my uwus 💕💕💕 may my nonsensing continue to bring you joy, just as your kind words made me smile today :D

Okay so like y’all know I love Comte but I also Must Clown Him Or I Will Die. The topic came up of the residents all making bets as to when he would cave and finally go out with MC, and since I couldn’t resist here I am. I apologize in advance ahjdlfkjhgfs

Drabble below the cut! None of this is canon, just me being court jester. Also for those curious Leonardo, Sebastian, Isaac and Vincent (unofficially) won the bet:

Leonardo was leaning close to the window, the slow tug of smoke through the screen emblematic of a certain friend of his. As if it couldn’t decide to leave or stay.

When did the old coot lose his good sense...

But then, chiding him was of little use. He knew enough about love to know it was hardly ever a choice--most especially when it was this deep, and this true.

“He’s going to cave in four days, bet. Long before the door is supposed to open again.” 

Arthur twirled the rook in his hand, grinning at the strained face of his opponent. Why Theo bothered to indulge the writer in a game he would probably lose was beyond him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mozart scowled. “Some of us have the proper decency to court at a normal pace.”

“And what would you know about courtship? The only thing you know how to court is a piano.”

Flat contempt marked the composer’s face, and Leonardo interjected before another tirade erupted.

“I bet two weeks tops.” Another drag was enough to scatter some of the worry that crowded his heart. He was less worried about being wrong, and more plagued by the likelihood he’d be right.

Sebastian was offering coffee and tea around the room without so much as batting an eye at the topic of conversation, face carefully neutral. Then again, he was most likely obsessed with recording the responses of each man in the room to be present in the moment.

“He seems much too concerned with his responsibility as a host to do anything like that,” Dazai murmured cooly, “He’ll most likely keep his hands--and feelings--to himself.”

Leonardo would have agreed with the assessment--if Meli hadn’t been so forthright, that is. Left to his devices, ‘Comte’ always was a helpless sap. But she seemed all too interested in him too, making for a troublesome catalyst. 

Eyes darted to the armchair in the corner of the room, where a rare face was fiddling with his bangs. “Er, well, if I’m honest...I’m inclined to agree with Leonardo on this one.” Isaac’s voice grew progressively quieter, as though his confidence held direct proportion with his volume. “I c-can’t really remember the last time I saw le Comte so pensive...almost distracted?”

“I don’t know why he’d bother with the hondje,” There was a harsh clack of wood connecting with wood. “I like my kneecaps intact.”

Leonardo grimaced, and it wasn’t from the hiss of the cigarillo finding his calloused palm before he tossed it in the trash. The little cara did have a habit of going for the legs when she was upset...

“Broer, you still have much to learn about love.” Iridescent like the refraction of the sun in summer rain, the older brother placed a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “And Meli is much kinder than you give her credit for. Don’t speak ill of her while she isn’t here, okay?”

The heavy-set Theo flinched at the reprimand. “Okay, broer.” Were those tears in his eyes? Good grief. There were days he was less sure Comte had chosen to settle down with a family and more convinced he had joined a circus. Never a dull moment, that was for sure.

Jeanne frowned rather intensely from beside a scribbling Mozart, glaring a hole into the ground. “For her sake, I hope you are all wrong.”

Busy with solitaire, Napoleon’s eyes were on the cards as his chin rested in his palm. “Either way, most of this really depends on Meli’s feelings on the matter, doesn’t it? What does it matter what we--or even le Comte--thinks.”

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that,” Sebastian had just set the teapot down, about to leave the room. “I get the feeling Meli’s on the same page. Two weeks sounds like a reasonable estimate.”

Leonardo shoved his hands in his pockets, knowing how keen the butler was when it came to how others felt. Damn it all. He could already feel the oncoming migraine. A future of Comte’s lovesick rambling.

Better to step on a land mine before that came to pass.

Silence settled over the room, everybody considering their feelings on the matter; all of them sorting out how to respond. 

“I suppose we’ll have a good and proper okaa-san in the coming days, then.” 

“I don’t know whether to be pissed he said something ridiculous again, or even more ticked off that we can’t fathom what it is.”

“Okaa-san is the common term used to refer to someone else’s mother in Japan.”

“Tch,” A disgusted look was thrown in Dazai’s direction, but the malice had long since worn down to exasperation over the years. 

“...Do you think she’ll even want to stay with us?”

Napoleon put down the playing cards to look at Isaac, red as the fruit he claimed to hate. Even Dazai balked where he sat on the arm of Isaac’s chair, twisting to look at him as his eyebrows disappeared behind his hairline.

“By Jove, I never thought I’d see the day! Don’t tell me Newt, did Meli win your heart over too?”

Isaac’s features pinched, inches from pelting the writer with the fancy teacup. “Of course not! But I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to stay in a place full of dangerous, uncouth, loud and obnoxious--”

“I think it would be wonderful if she did stay,” Like a balm Vincent’s soft voice seemed to settle the scientist. “Let’s be ready to welcome her if she does.”

Even Jeanne had no heart to protest. Mozart’s quill quivered on the parchment.

Leonardo’s hands tightened to fists in his pockets. Maybe he’d underestimated just what the little cara meant to everyone...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A pale hand traced along the smooth, lacquered wood of the windowsill, just across from the closed door of the game room. 

The little punks.

A sigh scattered against the glass. He couldn’t stand the sight of his own face answering their predictions, betraying him. As if to join the mutiny, his thoughts drifted to the thought of that smile when he offered her the fragrant collection of yellow roses. A single white rose lingered in the center.

Did she have any idea what it did to him when she looked like that? Eyes shining with something more than excitement, apron rubbing at them as she muttered about allergies and looked for a vase to fill with water before dinner. 

Kneading a hand against his forehead, he stepped past the room and back to his office before Sebastian could find his incriminating presence. 

He didn’t want to think about what was to come.

[escapewithbts]

Take Care, Always - Hoseok

This is soooo fluffy, like teeth rotting fluff :)

———————————-

Yet another coughing fit escaped from your lungs before you curled further into the depths of your couch, wishing the cushions would just swallow you whole.

You hated being sick. So until this pesky cold was through, on the couch you would stay, away from the world, away from all other people.

Or so you thought.

You suddenly heard a knock come from the front door of your small apartment. You groaned. Who on earth would be coming to see you while in a state like this?

You swung the blankets off your aching body and stood up slowly as to not feel too dizzy, then you ambled over to the door.

When you peered through the peephole you saw your friend standing there, a brown paper bag in his hand.

“(Y/n)-ah,” you heard him call, his voice muffled from the door between you two, “I know you’re in there. Please let me in.”

You sighed.

“But Hobi, I’m sick...” you replied, voice deeper than usual and full of congestion, letting out a cough to help your point.

“I know silly goose. That’s why I’m here.”

You watched him shuffle impatiently. You wanted to let him in, but you would feel horrible if he fell ill because of you, and in just your year or so of friendship he had never seen you like this.

“But Hoseok I’m also so... gross and ugly right now,” you complained, leaning your body against the cold door.

You heard him scoff.

“You’re always beautiful, don’t even give me that,” that made you smile and a blush creep up on your cheeks, “Just let me in, pleeease!” he begged in a sing-song voice.

You sighed and stood up straight. Then you combed your fingers through your hair quickly before complying with his request and opening the door.

When he saw you a small smile appeared on his face that he attempted to hide by quickly changing it into a frown.

“Ahhh don’t look at me like that!” You whined, hiding your embarrassed but smiling face in your hands and turning back toward the couch.

Hoseok shut the door behind him and followed.

“Like what?” he asked innocently, unable to hide his big heart shaped grin behind his hand.

You sat back on the couch and curled your legs underneath you, wrapping yourself back up in the blanket like a burrito so only your face was peering out. Hoseok sat at the other end and placed the things he brought on the floor.

“Like I’m the most hideous and pathetic looking person you’ve ever seen!”

You dramatically threw your face against the back couch cushion.

Hoseok let out a high pitched laugh and you felt his hand rest on your knee.

“You are neither of those things. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you cuter than you are right now.”

Hoseok often called you cute, it was just his nature, but still every time it made you blush and feel giddy.

Though you looked back up at him in doubt.

“You’re so full of shit, Hobi.”

He shook his head.

“Nope, I’m not. Also,” he reached into one of the bags and pulled out some containers, “I had my father make you some seaweed soup. We had it all the time growing up. And then my mother insisted on making dumplings to go with it, so I have those, too,” he paused, “want me to heat them up for you?”

You cocked your head at him.

“Don’t you have, like, a shoot or dance practice or interview to be at?”

He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, giving you a warm dimpled smile.

“My only job today is to take care of you.”

You brought your knees to your chest.

“But what if I get you sick?” you questioned worriedly.

He stood up.

“Aiisshh I’m not worried about that. I never get sick,” he walked into the adjoining kitchen and opened the microwave, “and after this soup and a bit more rest you won’t be either.”

He nodded his head triumphantly, his yellow bangs bouncing against his forehead.

You had to admit, the soup felt amazing against your sore throat, and the warmth spreading through your body was an instant comfort. When you finished, Hoseok took your bowl, washed it in the sink, refilled your glass of water and came back over to your laying form on the couch. He gently lifted your legs and took a seat, letting them rest across his lap.

“Mmmm I feel sleepy, Hobi-ah...” you mumbled from the pillow.

You felt him rub yours legs before responding, “Good, get more rest. I’ll be here.”

You weren’t sure how long you were out before you awoke to the feeling of being lifted and cradled in strong arms. Your eyes fluttered open, noticing there was no longer any light pouring in from the windows. Then you looked up and was met with the outline of Hoseok’s strong jaw and dark eyes above you.

“Hobaaa...” you murmured in a half asleep daze making him glance down at you, “where are you taking me?”

He smiled down at you.

“To your bedroom where you can get proper sleep,” he replied.

You mumbled a sound of approval and nuzzled your face further into his strong upper arm.

Then he laid you down softly on your bed and pulled the covers down for you to climb into. After spending the past couple days on the couch only, the comfort of your mattress was a much welcomed feeling.

You suddenly felt Hoseok move a piece of your hair out of your face and instinctively leaned into his touch. You opened your eyes to find him smiling down at you.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be just in the other room, okay?”

He started to walk away but you reached out and grabbed his hand making him look back at you.

“Nooooo, Hobi… Please stay with me.” You whined, patting the large empty space of your double bed behind you.

“Are-Are you sure?” he scratched the back of his head, “I don’t want to disturb you.”

You nodded against the pillow and moaned out,

“Mmhmmm.”

You heard him stroll over to the other side of the bed and felt his weight dip beside you. A small sigh escaped from his lips and you allowed your heavy eyelids to close again. You liked him being close to you.

“Thank you for coming to take care of me, Hoseok,” you murmured lowly.

“Of course,” he responded quietly, “I just want you better.”

“And I want to take care of you,” you told him, your brain already beginning to drift off to dreamland.

You heard him chuckle.

“But I am not sick.”

“I know,” you mumbled, “I just mean always. Like, I don’t know, if you had a bad day or you want a home cooked meal or you need to be held for a while. I want to be there for you... you know?”

He didn’t reply right away and you had pretty much fallen back asleep completely until he finally said, “Go to sleep, (y/n)-ah, I’ll see you in the morning.”

The sunlight poured in from your bedroom windows making you squint your eyes upon opening them. The only sound in the room was that of the birds chirping outside; that is until you heard a loud sneeze come from behind you making you jump. You turned onto your other side and was met with the puffy face and shirtless body of Jung Hoseok laying next to you.

“Ohhhh shit,” he groaned when he noticed you were awake. He rubbed his eyes with his palms and looked back at you , “I feel like shit.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Hobiiii-ah, this is why I told you not to come!”

He sneezed again and then sniffled, finally turning to look at you.

How could someone be sick but still look so freaking handsome??

“But how do you feel?” he asked.

You hesitated, debating about lying to him so it wouldn’t make him feel worse.

“I feel so much better, honestly…” you mumbled, hiding most of your face under the covers.

Hoseok smiled.

“Then I have no regrets.”

You blushed and scooted further down.

“Do you… have anywhere to be today?” You wondered, worried his illness would affect his busy idol work schedule.

He shook his head.

“No,” he sniffled, “Since Festa just ended we have some time off.”

You suddenly threw the covers off and jumped out of bed, feeling the best you had in days.

“Good! That means now I get to take care of you,” you headed to the door of the bedroom, “first I’m going to heat up some of that soup your dad made because there’s obviously some special healing powers in it or something.”

But Hoseok’s voice stopped you in the doorway.

“(Y/n), wait.”

You looked back at him.

He had sat up, his blonde hair tousled messily atop his head, the necklace he always wore shining against his muscular chest, his pale skin illuminated by the light of the sun. He looked like an angel.

“I also want to take care of you.”

You cocked your head and furrowed your eyes in confusion.

“But I feel a lot better now, I’m not sick anymore.”

He shook his head gently and curled his lips into a small smile, his deep dimples becoming prevalent on his chiseled face.

“I know,” he said, “I mean all the time. If you have had a bad day or want dinner at home or you just need someone to hold you for a while. I want to really take care of you... you know?”

Suddenly it was all coming back to you now… he was repeating almost the exact words from your confession last night. You swallowed hard feeling your heart thump against your chest.

“Hoseok, I-I…”

But you were at a loss for words. You couldn’t say you didn’t mean it because, well, you did. You really really did. Maybe you could just apologize, say it was your sick and half-asleep brain saying nonsense. Or say you were dreaming. Would he believe that?

Before you could make up your mind however Hoseok stood up and sauntered over to you, not stopping until your bodies were just inches apart. You could feel him peering down at you but you were too embarrassed to meet his gaze. So instead he placed his finger under your chin to tilt your head up gently, a warm smile still across his lips. He blinked slowly at you in adoration

“Do you know what I’m saying, (y/n)?” He murmured softly.

You shook your head, biting your bottom lip and staring into his dark brown eyes.

“I’m saying… I love you.”

Your heart suddenly felt like it could burst out of your chest, happy tears welled up in your eyes, a huge grin spread across your face.

“Hobi-ah,” you whispered, “I love you, too.”

He moved a piece of your hair behind your ear and rubbed your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“I would really like to kiss you right about now,” he said, “but I don’t want you to get sick ag-“

You didn’t even hesitate as you placed your lips on his in a loving and tender kiss, not letting him finish the sentence.

You didn’t care if you caught another cold. You had each other. And now, there would always be someone to take care of you.

*

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