#BECAUSE IT'S JUST A CLIFFHANGER LOW KEY
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my playlist for peter & harry is AMAZING but god the songs get sadder and sadder the further i get into it... that's what i get for arranging the songs in my ship playlists in chronological order along our story line 😔
#both of them kinda flirting with me then the mutual feelings between all 3 of us developing but being unable to admit them#then we almost accept it until the rift between peter & harry that tears them apart with me in the middle#going to DIE#i need to add more songs that signify us coming back together 🥴#BECAUSE IT'S JUST A CLIFFHANGER LOW KEY#💕 stick with me
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━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.
main masterlist
pairing(s) — JT COMPHER x reader (main); TYSON JOST x reader (side); COMPHER x JOST (brief)
wc — 14k
synopsis — what's a reunion without some groveling?
note — this takes place a few of years after part one, go out with a bang (post-college/college au — tyson and kate are now out-going seniors!) sorry not sorry for the length of this behemoth, i got carried away per usual <3 there are more parts to come, and i would absolutely love to hear any theories/predictions if yall have any!
specific content warnings listed below the cut.
cw — cameos on cameos on cameos, we're at a party so drinking and mention of dr*gs + yacking (no description), drinking games, sorority terms/processes, me getting too invested in multiple subplots and potential background ships, soft!service!dom!JT makes my peabrain go brrrrr, everybodies a bit masochistic because i, registered heathen, am masochistic, reader’s wearing a short skirt for plot reasons, slight compher x josty, oral (reader receiving 2x), unprotected piv (i know, i know, i know i need help), me letting my brat self take the kink reins, praise baby praise, angst AND IM NOT SORRY, + happy fluffy bits... possible cliffhanger???
Staring up at the Alpha Chi house is like stepping back in time.
Like trying on an old pair of shoes you found while deep-cleaning your closet only to find their once-perfect fit gone. Growth is funny that way; you never realize just how far you’ve come until it pinches you.
You’ve outgrown this place, though not from a lack of love or any great tragedy. It occupies a different place in your mind, just as you’re a different person than you were three years ago.
Your younger self would balk at this development, wouldn’t believe it’d one day feel too small. You can’t fault her for that near-sightedness. In college, your whole world existed on one street. You had everything you needed then between two stop signs.
But your world is bigger now, and your needs are different too.
Still, it feels good to try on your past for the night. Even if it's a tad ill-fitting.
The drive between your new life and your old one hadn’t been too bad, but that’s probably because you didn’t do much of said driving. JT got the engine going before you could even make a grab for the keys and, despite spending the last year in the literal trenches of clinical rotations and shelf exams, refused to switch at the halfway mark. Yet, your boyfriend is practically vibrating with excitement as you cross the all-too-familiar threshold hand-in-hand.
“This is so weird,” JT remarks, his lips low to your ear. His musky cologne, warm and woody, does its best to soothe your nerves.
As you survey the crowd, you nod.
He didn’t need to elaborate further for you to understand because you were already thinking the very same thing. Watching students, the vast majority as unfamiliar to you as you are to them, milling around your old haunt stirs an odd, uncanny feeling akin to a surreal dream. You’re well-acquainted with the setting, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and you don’t think you’re all that different, but everything still feels foreign.
All the right pieces are there, and you’re sure you’ve put them in their proper places, but the image won’t behave.
You quickly realize the only thing that’s misplaced is you. Grief hangs from your back like a wet blanket.
“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”
A burst of riotous laughter shakes much of the gloom from your system.
Gabe Landeskog barrels into your boyfriend like an overgrown puppy. Gray-blue eyes twinkling under the rainbow of LEDs, he embraces you both in a warm hug, not minding that the spontaneous act of affection has just cost him an entire Solo cup.
“Compher and the missus,” the blonde addresses you both with a wide grin and a big palm to a cheek each; he gives JT’s a quick pat but merely cups yours.
His breath still smells of spearmint and something spicy, an imposing combination your eighteen-year-old self could never find comforting. Just another thing that's different now. If you could package the scent for all the little moments of nostalgia, you would.
“I was starting to think we’d have to drag you from the city kicking and screaming, but alas! You've left the cozy, vanilla bubble of your own volition for a weekend of debauchery with your favorite degenerates.”
JT’s affectionate eye-roll is big and dramatic even in your periphery. The levity brings a smile to your face. It grows wider and wider, enduring until your cheeks burn. If anyone deserves some light-heartedness, it's your sleep-deprived, perpetually-stressed boyfriend.
“A night, Landy. We’ve got to be back by tomorrow night to relieve the dog sitter,” your boyfriend amends with a pat to Gabe’s flushed cheek, returning the favor.
The older man groans like the overgrown boy he is and will always be. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible. All domestic and shit. With a fur-baby and everything. I bet it’s as well-trained as your firstborn.”
Your eyes follow the line drawn by Gabe’s strong chin past the entryway through to the room used for table-top drinking games.
Half-kneeling on the rickety table you helped customize a few years back is Tyson Jost, head tilted to the sky as he guzzles down the center cup. More beer spills down his chest than into his mouth, effectively turning his white tee sheer. The crowd is comprised mostly of giddy sorority girls who don't mind a bit.
Free booze and a free show—lucky them!
Once the plastic cup is empty, he crushes it in his palm before sinking the balled plastic into the basketball hoop on the adjacent wall. The converted dining room swells with hoots and hollers so quickly you would’ve thought Tyson emerged from some mythic quagmire, blood-soaked and victorious. But there are no winners in Rage Cage; everybody loses.
Tyson’s loopy grin falters when he registers you and JT on either side of Gabe.
You would like to say nothing’s changed between the three of you over the past couple of years. That you’re just as close as you’d been in college, that distance hadn’t done as much damage as it has.
You'd be lying if you did.
You tried your best to keep him in the loop; you really did, but that didn’t end up mattering much.
JT hardly had time to socialize with you most of the time, and you’ve practically lived together since graduation. He, like you, tried, but at some point, his bandwidth could no longer accommodate Tyson’s sporadic texts and calls. Many of which came in the dead of night, when your boyfriend’s head was either buried in a textbook or in the pillow beside yours.
Whenever you could, you invited the forward to spend the weekend in the city with the two of you. You even went so far as to offer to put him up in a hotel between your and JT’s respective apartments, knowing your adult salary could stretch further than the Atomic tips he was splitting with Tyler. He always had something conflicting going on, and it didn't feel like your place to question the authenticity of his reasons, so you just kept extending the invitation, hoping things would align eventually.
After finally taking the leap and signing a lease together, you decorated the guest room with Tyson in mind. He’s yet to see it, still.
Your little Kate, on the other hand, needs a frequent flyer program.
A small part of you felt this shift was inevitable once JT went from best friend-slash-unrequited crush to full-blown, live-in boyfriend. Despite Tyson’s insistence on you finally hooking up and “putting everyone out of their misery,” his smile didn’t meet his eyes when JT broke the news that it wasn’t a one-night thing.
Maybe his “little crush” hadn’t been so little after all.
If that’s the case, you can't blame him for avoiding your slice of grown-up love like the plague. It just would've been nice if he hadn't left you in the dark, wondering where and how you fucked up enough to get iced out.
Tyson responded to every third or so text of yours, so you mostly kept up with him and his life through Kate, who briefly dated him between ill-fated Gunnar stints, and social media. You weren’t sure how often he spoke to JT; after several attempts that ended with your boyfriend clammed up and irritated, you stopped asking.
Judging by how tense he is beside you right now, you have a pretty good guess.
“Yikes,” Gabe drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”
You remain carefully quiet, allowing your boyfriend to decide what, if anything, to share. This—whatever it is —feels like it's more so between them two than Tyson and yourself.
JT clears his throat so hard it cuts through the music blaring through the packed house—some remix you don’t remember learning the words to. “Trouble? Nah, Josty’d have to give us the time of day for that.”
Gabe laughs, but you know JT isn’t trying to be funny. You can taste the undercurrent of bitter resentment. It’s impossible not to without an artificial buzz.
There’s no time to dwell because a flurry of red hair darts through the crowd dispersing out of the dining room and straight into your arms. A fresh, but faintly-candied scent tickles your nose as the cool metal of a bracelet digs into your neck.
Kate.
“Fuckin finally!” The almost-grad squeals directly into your ear.
Definitely drunk. Or high—or both.
“Don’t look at me,” you say, beaming when she pulls back. “I wasn’t driving.”
Kate swats JT’s chest with her open palm. “And this is why we don’t let you drive anywhere, Grandpa.”
The playful jab makes your smile deepen. His driving made her tardy to a ZBZ charity gala one time over a year ago when she made the mistake of hitching a ride with you, and she’s probably brought it up a million times since. Kate pretends to hold a grudge, JT pretends to find it aggravating, and you get to sit back, enjoying the warm camaraderie overfilling your cup.
The pair have been friends almost as long as you've been friends with either of them, but since your graduation, they’ve settled into something more serious and more genuine. Where your connection to Tyson wilted outside the conveniences of college, your relationship with Kate matured and flourished. She’s more than just your chapter-appointed Little Sister to JT now, having become more of a true sister than anything else. Hence the juvenile teasing.
“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”
Your little snatches your hand in hers, tugging you away from JT, who feigns offense.
“And now I’m stealing your girlfriend in retribution for making me wait. Go do… whatever it is you two heathens used to do at parties. We have a pong title to defend.”
“Excellent idea, Madame President,” Gabe declares, hands roughly massaging the male ginger’s shoulders. He tosses a wink in Kate’s direction.
Before the other ginger can drag you away for good, your boyfriend catches your free wrist, pulling you back to him so his lips can find your ear. Breath hot, he drops his voice an octave, “President’s bathroom. One hour. Nod if you understand.”
Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.
“Good girl.”
As your respective keepers separate you, JT shoots you a wink of his own. Then, you lose him in the crowd.
Kate leads you through the sea of party-goers to the living room, her grip on you tight and comforting. Her thumb rubs small circles on the inside of your wrist as you approach the table, almost as if privy to your worry. Kate is incredibly perceptive; she can read someone’s mind without even looking at them. With you, her Spidey senses transcend county lines, so it’s no real surprise she deduced your current condition from no more than your erratic pulse thumping against her palm.
When you reach the bustling folding table commandeered for the BP tournament, Kate does all the talking.
It’s not too hard to get on the bracket despite the late entry with two newly-minted Alpha Chi brothers manning the post. The absolute last thing they want to do is get on the bad side of the president of their sister chapter (Kate) and the girlfriend of a legendary former chapter president (you). The pairs for the current game are only a couple of throws in, so it’s going to be at least ten minutes before it's your turn.
“You, my dear, look thirsty,” Kate declares through a mischievous grin.
You let her pull you towards the kitchen across the hall but have more difficulty than you expect actually getting there. Every few steps, someone stops either you or Kate. Mostly the latter, but she’s quick to show you off to whoever’s trying to seize her attention. Apparently, Kate’s been building quite the mythos of your time on campus, and it’s very… dizzying, to say the least.
“Kit-Kat!”
Kate abandons the poor freshman boy shooting his shot (and missing fantastically) in favor of the feminine voice sliding into the conversation.
In the blue-ish hue washing over the small space, you’re having a hard time placing her, but she seems very keen on making your acquaintance.
“Blake Meyers,” the newcomer announces, extending her hand with a smile.
You take it, giving her your name and a matching expression in return. The flattened vowels are distinct and recognizable, as is the last name.
“Meyers?” you ask, attempting to work it out.
“Ava’s younger sister,” Kate interjects. “And one of our best steals this past recruitment.”
Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.
You remember that feeling. What it was like to have an older member, especially someone as established and accomplished as an outgoing ZBZ president, go out of their way to make you feel special. You have zero doubt Blake will be walking on air for the foreseeable future, any of the common little doubts about whether or not she made the right choice vanishing.
“I was really hoping I’d get to meet you tonight,” the freshman tells you bashfully. “Kate gave the most beautiful speech about you and your legacy on Preference Night, and when she told me you might be coming with your boyfriend, I had to put a face to the name. And Jenny was the one who pref-ed me, so it seemed like—I don’t know, a non-negotiable?”
Jenny is one of the twins Kate took her junior year, and she couldn’t have picked better. It gave you peace of mind knowing your Kate would have good people around her once you couldn’t physically be there for her.
You won’t be surprised if Jenny takes Blake as her little. Kate pref-ed her, and before that, you pref-ed Kate. It’s basically a family tradition.
Not long after you thank Kate for her generous words and Blake for her kindness, Thomas, one of the new initiates in charge of the beer pong table, flags you down for your game. Not ready to end your conversation, invigorated by the breezy, jovial chatter your new life lacks, you tug Blake along with you.
Between exceptionally beautiful throws (if you do say so yourself), you learn more about Blake and her roommate and fellow ZBZ spring initiate, Emory. They pepper you with questions: about your first-year college experience, advice on getting the best room possible on the sophomore floor for mandatory live-in, whether or not you got anything particularly valuable in the various leadership positions you held, and what fraternities to steer clear of. You’re more than happy to answer them all. Kate sprinkles in comments and jokes occasionally, but she mostly defers to you so she can celebrate the end of a smooth second term as president.
Once Kate and you have successfully defended your title, you pass the torch to the future of your chapter. Blake and Emory make quick work of the first challengers and are close to a similar sweep with the second pair when your little remembers her earlier mission: refreshments.
This time, you both keep your heads ducked as you speed through the dancing bodies and make a beeline for the dinged-up lockers propped against the wall. You can’t help but smile when you see her reach for the lock—your old lock.
Every upperclassman (and a few select friends of the chapter, like Alpha Chi Sweethearts such as Kate and, once upon a time, yourself) is assigned a secure, personal locker in the oversized kitchen for quick access to personal items. During parties, they essentially become personal coolers. At your very last formal chapter meeting, you will-ed the hunk of metal down to Kate, along with the more sentimentally valuable items you wanted to leave behind with her.
“Wait, can you even drink?” Kate asks you from where she’s kneeling. Sarcasm scrunches her brows together.
“Hilarious,” you reply with a playful glare. “And before you loudly ask about the non-existent fetus like the devious bitch you love being, don’t. Unless you want to give JT an aneurysm."
Kate fishes out two slim, chilled cans as she grumbles about how boring you two have become in your “old age.” She shoves a ratty sweatshirt—an old favorite of Tyson’s—back into the small locker, quickly refastens the lock, and scrambles the dial. Then, she returns to her full height beside you.
“So, do you want to tell me what that wink from Gabe was about?” you ask, brow cocked.
“Do you want to tell me what your horndog of a boyfriend whispered in your ear?” Kate counters.
“Touché.”
Kate cracks open a Spindrift Spiked and slots it into your waiting palm. She taps the rim with her own, then sighs back against the cluttered kitchen island. She’s going to crack, you know it. Kate, even when she has a secret she wants to keep, never stays quiet for long. Especially not when you’re the one doing the asking.
“Okay, so, d’you remember how Tyson was, like, completely apathetic after we broke up right before Heaven & Hell last Halloween?”
You nod, recalling how irritated she was over FaceTime while you helped her pick a costume out of your box of hand-me-downs. You did your best not to laugh because Kate was clearly distressed, but it was kind of hard not to when she was buried in a heap of red and white feathers, wearing a too-small tutu dotted with rhinestones.
Kate takes a sip of the spiked strawberry lemonade before elaborating, “Well, I was understandably pissed—Don’t give me that look, okay? I know I broke up with him, but he shouldn’t have been that blasé that soon—so, I hatched a plan.”
You shake your head, laughing. Kate and her schemes.
“I wasn’t planning on taking Gabe as my date, but when I ran into him at Atomic the day before… I don’t know; I just couldn’t resist. I mean, Tyson worships the man. If anyone’s getting a reaction, it’s Landy. I had to.”
“And?” you prod.
“And…” she stalls, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of pesky eavesdroppers, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. “…we might’ve done it in the backseat of his truck.”
“I’m scared to ask where.”
She buries her face in your shoulder. “The venue’s parking lot.”
Your eyes bulge so hard you, for a split-second, worry they’ll pop out of your head onto the sticky hardwood and land amongst the discarded cans.
“And I didn’t tell you because I was so scared you and JT would hate me,” Kate moans into your skin. She shifts to peer up at you, hesitant. “You don’t, right?”
“I don’t think I’m even capable of hating you, Katie-Kat, let alone for something as silly as banging a hot blonde,” you giggle, and she’s quick to join you. Lowering your voice, “Especially the hottest of hot blondes.”
“I’m so telling JT you said that,” she teases, pulling away.
You shrug and take your first sip. “Go ahead. He’ll agree.”
“And this is why you’re my favorite couple,” she says, bumping her hip against yours. “The worst part is Tyson didn’t even care about that either! At the post-game, when he saw my lipstick smeared all over Gabe’s neck, he high-fived him. Tyson fucking high-fived him for screwing me. His ex-girlfriend! How supremely demented is that?”
“I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t. I’m starting to think I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”
Kate takes hold of your unoccupied hand and squeezes it three times.
“I’m guessing things haven’t gotten any better?”
You shake your head, eyes downcast like there’s something super interesting between the floorboards. “I know he’s busy, and we’re busy, but he’s acting like our friendship meant nothing.”
“Not to start a therapy session in the middle of a rager, but did you... did you ever actually talk about That Night? I know you said JT whispered, but how positive are you that Josty didn't hear him?"
A few months after That Night, your guilt was on the brink of hemorrhaging. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; you broke down in the middle of Talladega Nights. Fucking Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. All fat tears and snotty, incoherent spiraling, your chest heaved as JT rubbed your back. He was quiet, more concerned than confused, until you calmed down enough to explain what’d been weighing on your conscience.
Then, your boyfriend looked clueless—because he was. JT didn’t remember his heat-of-the-moment pseudo-promise to taint Josty’s image of you.
After a scene or two, you broached the subject you’d both been avoiding since getting together. You wanted to apologize, and not that you needed JT’s permission, but you felt it wasn’t entirely your amends to make. He agreed but was adamantly opposed to operating on assumption alone. If Tyson was truly upset by the pillow talk he overheard, JT reasoned, he was old enough to be frank about it.
You found yourself agreeing, but also not? On the one hand, you could see this being an instance of your anxious mind making a mountain out of a molehill, finding fault where there’s none. But you knew Tyson, and you knew how sensitive he could be.
Something shifted that night. You’d known then, too, even in the hazy afterglow. His despondency wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t uncommon for his dejected expression—his forced smile dipped in feigned nonchalance—to visit you in therapy sessions or in your nightmares.
But every time you typed and re-typed one remorseful novel after another, every time your gun-shy thumb hovered over his contact, every time you nearly drove out to your alma mater to track him down… You couldn’t get yourself to see it through.
At first, it was the nerves, the fear of hearing his pain and seeing his anger. Then, it was your own temper, stoked by indignation, that rose with every sign of withdrawal. Now, it’s just plain, garden-variety sadness.
It was—is disappointing how cleanly he severed ties. There one day and gone the next, no blow-out fight or melancholic hear-to-heart. Tyson was there; he was within reach, but at the same time, not at all. The casual dismissal is worse than outright rejection; the door ajar but wholly uninviting.
"In the moment, I was certain he didn’t. Now? Fuck, the percentage drops every time I replay it in my head,” you murmur, remorse bogging down your confession. "I know you made a point not to bring it up when you were together, but did he ever, I don’t know, say anything?"
Kate shakes her head. "No, sorry. But it's not like we actually did much talking anyway."
You snort despite your woes.
“Alright, that’s enough doom and gloom for one night. How’s my nephew?” Kate asks, bright smile chasing the blues away with all its might.
It’s a distraction and a good one, too. She listens intently as you prattle on about the bi-weekly training sessions you’re starting next month to help with the leash pulling and the ridiculous pet parents you’ve met at the dog park near your apartment. She inquires about the fluffy lamb she brought over the last time she stayed with you—it lasted all of a day in his over-excited grip—then gushes over another variation she saw last week while getting litter for Salem, her diabolical tuxedo cat.
By the time Kate has your phone in her hand, swiping through the designated album and asking more questions than each picture really warranted, you’re feeling a bit better.
Noticing the clock, you stumble through a totally-not-suspicious excuse to venture upstairs—alone. Kate shoots you a knowing look but doesn’t give you a hard time. To be honest, she’s just glad you came tonight. Instead of a witty jab or half-hearted guilt trip, she slips a gold foil square into your unsuspecting palm and sends you on your way with a supportive swat to the rear.
Access to the second floor during parties is typically mediated by two to three gatekeepers, depending on the scale and projected rowdiness of each gathering. Three’s the magic number tonight: two up-and-coming juniors and an outgoing senior. They grant you passage with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.
“What? No riddle this time?” you tease over your shoulder.
The senior, an engineering major with a penchant for brain teasers, answers with a hoot. Cale Makar shakes his head, both amused and flattered you remembered his signature move. His puppy crush on you is an open secret. “I was given strict instructions to ‘keep the shenanigans’ to a minimum with you, Your Majesty.”
“JT?” you venture a guess, hand paused on the paint-chipped banister. He’s the only one who still sprinkles in the silly nickname these days.
“Landy, actually.”
Well, close enough.
You shouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time the former chapter president enlisted Cale, his little, to assist in your and JT’s more salacious antics.
As soon as Gabe had the defenseman under his wing, he was putting him to work. Not that the younger blonde particularly minded, as his affinity for creative, slightly devious schemes rivaled that of Kate’s. It was Cale, you later found out, who ran interference during Semi Formal… while you were defiled on the balcony.
“Still doing his bidding, I see.”
He counters with that lopsided “Get Out of Jail Free” grin. “What can I say? The man puts up a mean bribe.”
As if cued, Cale’s companions, who you now recognize as Alex Newhook and Bowen Byram, step into view. In Alex’s raised grip is a case of Labatt Blue, and in each of Bowen’s, a bottle of bottom-shelf cabernet. You doubt the trio would notice or mind the subpar quality, though. Between their happy heads, Cale fists a bottle of champagne you know he’ll misplace before he can polish it off.
“Jesus, how drunk is he?” you tease, the follow-up to an exaggerated gasp.
Sure, the quality’s shit, but their haul is far more valuable than your appraisal of their job; it’s a frat house, not Buckingham Palace.
“Not drunk enough to not see you here with us.” Cale’s voice tapers off, his pale eyes tracking someone stalking down the hall before nervously flicking up to the ceiling, “…and not up there with JTC.”
JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.
An anticipatory tingling erupts between your inner thighs just knowing he’s up there right now waiting for you. This is the part of your “homecoming” that excited you most and had been since the moment your boyfriend pinned the invite from the alumni association onto the fridge.
As blissfully domestic as your life together has become, it lacks the spontaneity your college life had been brimming with. Your sex life could never be categorized as mundane or clinical, but you’re finding it difficult to replicate the adrenaline rush stealing secret moments inherently provided.
Sometimes, in your more (admittedly) desperate moments, you’ve caught your fingers moving beneath the sheets to mindlessly chase the thrill of those fleeting intimacies, despite how awful the constant wondering and wallowing felt then or, maybe because of it, pain and pleasure are uniquely human indulgences sought in equal measure. When intertwined, they’ve been known to satiate masochistic cravings the way a sad movie or a sprawling, high-speed rollercoaster might.
However, this time, your risk-spurned euphoria will be at your own hand. The newfound agency—the ability to choose when, how, or if any risk is involved—has you darting up the stairs with a fire under your soles.
Before you round the corner and disappear down the hall, you make sure to call out, “Thank you for your service!” accompanied by a two-finger mock salute. You don’t stick around to catch their responses, though.
As you make your way down the dim corridor, you run smack into a very giggly Sarah Jones, just shy of your destination. Eyes distant and wide, she attempts to apologize for something—Something about sabotaging the Big-Little pairings your senior spring?—but it’s more bubbles than actual words. You nod along, still not quite sure what you’re accepting an apology for but too antsy to forge ahead to play detective. Your purposeful strides went unnoticed in her cloud of intoxication and nostalgia, but Erik Johnson, who’d been JT’s vice president, mercifully ushers his inebriated fiancé out of your path by the shoulders.
You offer him a faint smile of gratitude as they head in the opposite direction.
Over the music, you faintly hear Sarah begin chattering on about something unrelated, your reunion long forgotten already. You can’t help but chuckle a little on behalf of your younger self, who would’ve gawked at snobbish Sarah Jones drunk and voluntarily slumming it in a ramshackle house on Greek Row. And sporting a rock from a Degenerate on Ice (her nickname for your brother fraternity, not yours), too? That would’ve been the icing. But, the older, more mature, once-weekly-therapy iteration of yourself is happy she’s happy.
Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.
As you reach for the tarnished doorknob of the president’s suite, the rickety door flings open to reveal your boyfriend, all flushed cheeks and frenzied eyes.
JT pulls you inside, lips easily taking possession of yours, the heel of his lived-in/loved-on sneaker nudging the door shut. The hinges groan in protest to the rough treatment. Still fussy as ever. This house is a goddamn time capsule, you muse. Neither of you has the patience for benevolence. If it jams, it jams. That’s a future-self problem. Diligence now would only slow you down.
And would a prolonged stay on memory lane really be all that bad?
Your boyfriend cages you so close that when he manages more than panted praise between hot-and-heavy touches, the words barely fit in the gap between your mouths. “I was beginning to think you stood me up, sweetheart.”
The light-hearted accusation is semi-whispered, somewhat hoarse, in the way his voice always sounded when he came home from a long shift at the hospital downtown or post-game at the height of his collegiate career. JT isn’t a hard person to read—downright wolfish when he’s homing in on a target—but the low, raspy tone makes his intent glaring.
Your body thrums with anticipation.
“Never,” you croon back. A breathy moan sweetens your voice, courtesy of the calloused hand inching up the back of your bare thigh, bypassing the hem of your skirt with no effort or resistance. Arms looping around his neck, you make an inquiry: “Is there a reason we’re in your old bedroom instead of, I don’t know, the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite you insisted we spring for?”
Tufts of faint copper tickle your cheek. Your boyfriend lands a kiss on your crowd-warmed forearm. Then, much to your displeasure, he steps out of the tight embrace.
“Y’know, I remembered something earlier when I was downstairs,” JT supplies in an apparent non-answer.
He guides you, as understanding rises in your mental periphery, through the barely-lit space toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom between this room and the next. Then, he flicks on the secondary light, the dimmer of the two, before tugging you over yet another threshold. His fingers twitch at his sides, lascivious.
You stare back at him expectantly, vision tunneling as you wait, wait, wait.
The latch might as well have been a starting pistol; the subtle click ringing in your eardrums like the sonic crack of a live round; his breath a plume of smoke from a charged muzzle well beyond its flash point. Pent-up, needy tension burns hot and burns brighter. Residue from the night prior aflame; you, a moth seduced.
JT drives forward. Stalking, like a cat on a bird, until he’s pinned you to the door. His dash was easy, made short and hasty by the starting block eagerness in your dilated eyes.
Mouth descending on your sensitive neck, hips grinding his want into your squirming form, harsh belt buckle nudging just right with each sharp rut.
“There’s still one thing left on my college bucket list.”
He sinks the candor in with his incisors. Not hard enough to break the skin, but that was never his intention. The sting is a reminder. Of your shared past, of his unwavering desire—of who is in charge.
Message received. Loud and clear.
JT leans away to admire his handiwork. One big hand poised at your jaw, and the other braced beside your head, keeping your shyness from blocking the perfect view; you’ve never been able to hide from him and never will.
His curious thumb deviates from the original objective to caress the skin, now splotched violet and angry. Softly, at first, like he’s committing the damage to memory. Then, emboldened by a sudden piercing hiss forcing itself from your throat, JT pushes down on the tender spot. The cruel, unexpected pressure pulls pitiful bleating cries from your undulating chest.
This is no longer an expedition to gather intel; it’s a primal instinct.
For a few moments, he just holds you like this. A cloistered existence made worthwhile by him occasionally digging deeper into the column of your throat, the pressure taking on a raptorial quality. Your boyfriend wears his herald grin at a rakish angle. It unfurls with refined delicacy, an effective diversion for his next endeavor. Breathe like a precision instrument; the sharp phantom-edge fans across the sucked-raw skin with unhurried ease.
There isn’t enough alcohol in your system to dull the twinge — and you’re glad for it. It’d be a crime to dilute a burn this good, this all-consuming. You crumble between him and the door, your world only this big. His name tumbles out with a pulled-candy moan, completely devoid of dignity.
JT’s chest rumbles beneath your clammy palms. “You gonna be a good girl and help me tie up loose ends?”
His strawberry-blonde crown dips to nuzzle your cheek. Hot tongue tracing an experimental line, JT groaning as it does. The muscle trawls for tears you didn’t realize you shed, humming through the pursuit. The low-pitched moan sends a chill straight down your spine right to your toes.
The hand gripping your jaw lowers so his fingers are able to coil themselves around somewhere more advantageous — your neck. Your eyelids flutter, woozy. His firm squeeze, just enough to make everything spin and keep you still, has become blissfully familiar over time, but your breath still hitches like it’s the first.
“Hm, sweetheart? Don’t be rude. I asked you a question.”
Your lips part, a barbed retort to his condescension on your tongue, but all you can push out is the strangled yelp of a wounded animal.
The hand by your temple no longer rests against the door. In the fog, it snuck up under your skirt; JT never meant to get an answer out of you; he just likes to watch you squirm. Likes to have something to reprimand you for.
His nimble fingers dance over the thin, sodden material pulled taut over your heat. Less touching, more hovering. Small, lazy movements that betray how well he can play your body. They float above the tingling bundle of nerves, further movement pending, contingent upon your obedience.
“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.
“Focus for me, pretty baby. Tell me what I want to hear. Come on, let me make things easy for you. I can feel how badly you want to — and you aren’t in a position to be difficult, are you?”
You give in, and though the words you babble are largely unintelligible, JT’s ultimately satisfied.
“Such a good listener I’ve got myself. But you’re always to eager to please, aren’t you? You might throw stones from behind that tough girl act, but it’s just that: an act. I have a puddle in my hand to prove it.”
His frankness sears your face.
You’ve acquired a tolerance for his raunchy silver tongue through months of close proximity, but the mechanism is shoddy at best. Stalls and misfires galore. Against all odds (said “odds” being his fingertips toying with the edges of fabric between your thighs), you summon up a tawdry retort from the growing arsenal. “Don’t l-let it go to waste, Compher.”
It's not your best work, but much better than the slurred gurgle that preceded it.
He loves how you manage to be any sort of cheeky with him, even with your head swimming, stuttering and all.
“I don’t think it matters, sweetheart. I know there’s no shortage. Plenty more where it came from.”
With your knee, you nudge his hard-on and supply some honey-tongued snark of your own. “Is that your ego, or are you just excited to see me?”
Your boyfriend chokes out short-lived mirth. Then, with an accompanying smile, his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Amused, but by the sting of the remark’s undeniable truth, not your cleverness. The protrusion moves just below his bottom lip as he swipes the muscle over his teeth, a half-second sardonic gesture. It calls attention to your impudence without dignifying it with a verbal reply.
His brow lifts to negate any confusion, feigned or otherwise. “Are you going to keep being a brat, or are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”
You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.
“Nothing to say now?” JT taunts. “Funny how that works.”
Fuckin’ wisenheimer. His voice is so haughty you have to bite your lip to keep your foot out of your mouth, unwilling to jeopardize your impending pleasure for short-term gratification.
Your boyfriend’s smugness—and your subsequent annoyance—becomes irrelevant when your panties are roughly pushed to the side, and his thick finger slips past your taut entrance. Tip to knuckle in one succinct trust; your startled gasp drowns out the noise rising up through the floorboards.
Hips bucking forward—you just can’t help yourself—you're in search of some friction to marry with the blinding stretch. He’s made the tensile opening accommodate far more in length and thickness, but not like this. Rarely does he create space where there is barely any, having forgone tenderness. Slowly widening a gap with gentle pressure, not demanding room like it’s already his to occupy.
Your surprise drips down his hand.
The bliss—the relief, is palpable. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, and the gravity of the situation felt for the first time.
Before, you didn’t see any substance in a tipsy frat bathroom hook-up. The older you got, the more pointless it seemed, especially with an established, long-term partner. The novelty wasn’t lost on you, of course, but that’s all you’d written it off as.
Countless collegiate nights were spent imagining one like this one. A moment where your inescapable feelings for him would be matched outright. When the pressure of his stifled emotions would build too fast to keep them from boiling over, too mighty in stature. Suddenly overcome by unrequited feelings of his own, unable to uphold all the ridiculous unspoken platonic conventions with the same authority he commands now.
This is important. For your past and present selves. The significance of this overdone, soapy teen drama scenario cannot be overlooked because it underscores the progress you’ve made together. Years of dancing around one another, the unconventional catalyst and nontraditional timeline, every hushed conversation in the wee hours before responsibilities wake, the sleepless nights and the snooze-filled afternoons—this ostensibly clichéd moment is an amalgamation of it all.
One thought rises above the frenzied rest: Was this here all along?
Is this what was waiting on the other side of the aimless pining and the confusion and the hurt?
The journey might’ve been fucking hell, but the view from here is pretty damn heavenly.
Overwhelmed by your epiphany and his dexterous motions, you moan into his skin far louder than your pride would’ve otherwise allowed outside your shared apartment.
His arrogant laughter grates before it really registers. Venom secretes from your salivary glands when it does, but the melted retribution never makes it past your lips. His second finger robs it of the opportunity, and the third sends all thoughts out your ears. The light circles over your clit cloud your vision, nails digging into his jersey-clad back—I’m feeling nostalgic, he’d said. In more ways than one, apparently.
“S’good—wanted this for so long, Compher—k-kept wishing it was you that night, not Miles.”
JT seethes at the admission, curling his fingers until your knees buckle and you’re entirely reliant on him to keep you off the floor. Even as your mind slips further and further away, your hips manage to move in time with his hand. Meeting each stroke with equal hustle and vigor, a clear end goal on the horizon.
Then his thumb drops away, his hand coming to a halt, and he steps back.
Away.
Frustration pushes the amassed tears waiting in the wings down your cheeks. Emotion runs down your face; a heavy spill indeed.
“I don’t ever want to hear another man’s name outta your mouth when it’s my fingers buried in your pussy.” His jealousy is well-polished. Manicure-smooth, like he’s been maintaining its luster in preparation for this very occasion. "—'specially not the motherfucker that made sure I heard all your pretty sounds through the walls.”
You’d grin if you weren’t so miserable.
That’d been your intention. It wasn’t anything Miles had or did that made him different from the rest of the chapter (who all, at one point or another, tried their luck with JTC’s hot best friend), just simply when he decided to shoot his shot. The only reason you’d been out in the first place was because you reached your breaking point, no longer able to stomach what you felt for JT, and you made sure Miles knew this before you let him call an Uber.
Despite playing for the same team, the pair shared a touch-and-go rivalry. You never knew if the intensity would result in a sweeping victory or an in-house, all-out brawl. If they ever saw eye to eye, you’d of never known. Miles needed no convincing to push JT’s buttons.
There was some heavy petting, nothing more. The only time Miles saw you undress was to change into the pajamas he lent you before knocking out on his futon, leaving you to take the bed. But JT didn’t know that. If sitting in their chapter house’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning didn’t raise suspicion, the non-Compher borrowed t-shirt and ruffled hair certainly did.
Back then, he refused to ask. Even though you could see how badly he wanted to pry. Miles didn’t have anything he worth sharing, so JT was left to fill in the blanks.
You’d tell him the truth later, but right now, you wanted to see what milking his assumptions could get you.
“Did you like what you heard?”
His jaw ticks. Your hips push against his with a knowing simper.
You lean forward, closing the space he forced, lips barely brushing his ear, “Did you get off on it? Fuck your hand picturing yourself in his place… wishing it was my pussy instead?”
You hear the thud before you feel your head against the door or his hand back around your throat, his fingers deep between your walls again. The everywhere-throb makes you laugh. Giggle, really.
He squeezes until you’re no longer capable of mockery. His pace hastens, leveling out only once your thighs have started shaking around his wrist, knees cutting off his circulation elbow-down. Somehow, he keeps going despite the icy tingle. His determination overrides physical discomfort, knowing how close you’re getting. Feeling it in the distinct fluttering around his digits, seeing it in your trembling, swollen bottom lip.
“You’re so full of shit.” His mouth twitches at your throaty moan. A defiant hint of levity circles his pupils; he never stays riled up for long when it’s you yanking his chain. “You’re lucky I love you.”
You kiss him then, messy and crude, love-drunk. He tastes like your chapstick and gin, with a biting citric aftertaste —Grapefruit, maybe?—and you suck it in like you haven’t had a drop of water in days. And, in turn, he drinks down every choked sob and nonsensical half-thought you babble, every drop shooting straight to his loins.
He drives into you with fervor, humming as his tongue slips against yours, iron bulge omnipresent. The hand around your neck loosens but never leaves its post, thumb stroking your pulse point. I know everything about you, his movements whisper. Over and over, in and out. He, just as much as you, gets lost in the repetition.
“Don’t want him, never wanted him. Jus’ you—Always you.” It comes out slurred, mushy like your head, like your heart.
JT’s cock isn’t immune to affirmation and twitches through his too-tight jeans. Groaning, “Go on, sweetheart. Scream my name. I want every single person in this house to know exactly who’s fucking you this good.”
You do just that, writhing on his hand, eventually burying your face into his warm neck when it gets to be too much. He continues fucking you, and you continue crying for him, the pathetic little whimpers muffled now by his body.
JT guides you through the rest of your orgasm, as he always does. He watches your face carefully on the comedown, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort. When he finds none, he cradles your shaking form against his solid chest, the hand that, only moments ago, tore you apart, soothing you back down to earth. Once you’ve settled, he walks you back and away from the door.
A startled yelp falls from your lips when you feel the chilly edge of the countertop. You pull away from your boyfriend, brows furrowing with confusion.
His hand taps the outside of your thigh. "Up."
You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open, let alone stringing thoughts together, so the command is met with inaction. Impatient as ever, JT wordlessly hoists you where he wants you and sinks down to his knees, big hands cupping yours.
“What’re you doing?” Strained, barely above a whisper.
He stares up at you with dopey, lovestruck eyes. “Come on, Compher. You can gimmie another one, can’t you?”
You aren’t an idiot. Often sleep deprived beyond belief and, more often than not, fucked-out on JT’s… Well, anything—but definitely not an idiot. You knew exactly what that loaded gun of a pet name implied the moment he used it. It first slipped out during a frantic supply closet rendezvous midway through your company’s holiday party, then a few more times in the months after.
It hasn’t lost its sparkle. It does make you more and more impatient each time he flashes it, though.
Fuckin’ tease.
Your fingers burrow in his hair, tugging from the root until his eyelids flutter prettily. “As long as you let me return the favor after—need to taste you so bad.”
“Deal,” he mumbles into your skin a half-second later.
His hands push your already-short skirt up, bunching it atop your hips and out of the way. Your boyfriend takes the time to remove the fabric barrier this time, and you don’t miss the way he tries to slip them into his back pocket without you noticing. Likely because it’d normally be a tease-able offense.
But not tonight, not right now.
Instead, you let a shiver speak for itself. The risqué gesture reminds you of the pair he used as a pocket square when his parents took you two to a celebratory dinner following his white coat ceremony. The rumble of his chuckle tells you his mind went there, too.
JT leans in, big eyes never moving from yours, his warm exhale fanning over your swollen folds. The tooth-marked bruise forming on the side of your throat pricks in tandem response. The action, a repeat of your boyfriend’s earlier antics, naturally yields similar enough results. He catches on, inching forward to—
Something bangs against the door.
His face falls; your heart seizes.
“Occupied!” your boyfriend barks, hands paused but gripping you tightly. He looks like he’s on the verge of exploding.
A full, lilting sound barrels into the door—too-good-to-be-true laughter. His breathy timbre is an unsteady balance of cocksure and skittish; a preference for one side or the other is blurred by the wood in its way. “It’s me, dickhead.”
Then, the curtain is lifted. A pocket of silence ushers in a stillness that cracks like a bolt from the blue.
Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel right now. You most definitely suffered a concussion somewhere in all JT’s reprimanding; you’re hallucinating right now. That, or the singular seltzer in your system magically turned psychotropic after consumption.
Waiting in the threshold is Tyson Jost. A quarter-drunk fifth of Jack in one hand and that goofy, irrepressible smile plastered on his face. Almost frozen in time—good-humored, untouched. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Suave, and standing there like he hasn’t ignored you for months on end, like your and JT’s absence in his life wasn’t felt the way the Tyson-sized void in yours was.
Idle and morose, his eyes are the only defectors to his blasé demeanor. Timid and downturned, akin to a kicked puppy, they beg you and your boyfriend to assuage his guilt. An olive branch, a white flag in the wind. Amid their vulnerability, they still manage to cut into you in a way that feels too intimate, too honest—too much.
The worst part of this charged maelstrom is knowing Tyson isn’t capable of being cruel on purpose, then or now. It's bittersweet.
Careless or callous, it hurts all the same. It’s difficult to sift through the muck and decide which feelings should guide your actions when there’s no easy place to lay blame.
A gnarly, muddy morass of emotion climbs out of your gut and fills your throat, threatening to make an appearance each time you dare to exhale. You’re nervous and confused, elated and optimistic, angry and reproachful. The burn of betrayal rushes up your neck and across the bridge of your nose, but all the words you’ve stockpiled for this rainy day stick to your tongue like tar. Dark, thick, and flammable—your silence is probably for the best.
Bronze eyes, somber beneath the fan of flaxen lashes, adopt a strange aloofness that doesn’t suit his face. Lacquered just so as to protect the gooey softness beneath, the finish does nothing to obstruct or disguise his desirous longing or a brand of blues you’ve never seen in him before.
The intensity of your braided gazes is sanguine at best, duplicitous at worst, but disorienting all the same.
Anxiously, you chew on time; you’re trying your best not to swallow minutes and hours in big gulps. Your attempts to savor their confounding guilty-pleasure flavor are as futile as hoping the animosity would dissipate on its own. Or wishing the distance was just a nightmare you were on the verge of waking up from.
JT’s pulse races against your skin. He’s just as affected, just better at hiding it.
“Took you long enough,” is what JT says in greeting from the floor, dry words flung over his shoulder to curb the growing tension. Blithesome and biting and far more hospitable than you imagined.
All you can do is blink, slack-jawed; there are pieces you’re missing.
JT chuckles at your expression. He pecks your inner thigh to regain your attention. “Fuck now, talk later. Sound good?”
His words crack any and all inhibitions. Like opening the door to a cage, his reassurance grants your mind and heart the permission to succumb to the wave of emotions—lust overtaking the pack with ease.
Eyes still stuck on the ghost in the doorway, you nod your head in agreement. It’s as if you’re afraid your voice might rupture the bubble.
“Figured you’d be a little parched, baby.” Tyson, voice becoming jocular as ever, wags the bottle as he shuts the door behind himself. His tone might be light-hearted, but his gaze is anything but. Starved is the only way you can think to aptly describe the shadow. “And we can’t have that, now can we?”
You barely register JT vacating the prime real estate to accommodate his best friend, and subconsciously, you scoot closer to the edge. You knew you missed him, but you underestimated how needy you’d become if he ever stood before you again.
Both men notice.
Grinning, Tyson takes hold of your jaw. His hand emits a small tremor of unease, hesitant where JT had been demanding. The accidental brush of his fingertips over your boyfriend’s trailed claim rattles free a melancholic whimper. Your eyes glaze over, watering as your neck cranes up at him. He gently tilts your face to the side to assess the damage. You can feel his eyes raking over the marred skin, a sensation akin to your boyfriend’s weaponized breath. Goosebumps rise in their wake.
In reference to the Neanderthal surveying you over his shoulder, Tyson sniggers. “Filthy bastard.”
Charming as ever.
“She deserved it.” JT’s nonchalant shrug is more dismissive than his verbal nod.
Wicked eyes twinkle. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
You pinch his side, offended. Nevertheless, you purr at the certitude dripping from his husky vibrato.
He yelps and bats your hand away. “Got you good, didn’t he?”
You nod.
The baby talk-adjacent voice is demeaning, but with your only shield burning a hole in your boyfriend’s back pocket, lying about the effect it's having would be pointless.
Propriety is becoming increasingly moot, as this conversation circling around you carves space for new possibilities.
“Poor thing,” Josty hums, his thumb coasting back and forth over your jaw. His breath is smokey-sweet, honeyed. “M'gonna make it all better. Open up, baby.”
It’s something straight out of an early aughts raunchy teen comedy, the way he holds your mouth open to pour whiskey straight down, doing so without the lip ever touching either one of yours. The thin stream drags slightly as it goes down, but you’d never know watching the pillowy spirit disappear into you. You’re too eager to impress them both to give in and react—to the burn in your throat or the circumstances of this affair. You guzzle the oaky vanilla-clove flavor, smiling dumbly at the toasted aftertaste, all too happy to take anything and everything you’re given.
Still, either by virtue of Tyson’s lingering tipsiness or your inattention, some of the amber liquid escapes over your bottom lip, dribbling over your chin and down in between your cleavage. There isn’t enough time to consider wiping it off; Josty’s mouth is sucking you clean before the bottle even hits the counter beside you.
“Would be a shame…” Tyson starts, briefly interrupting himself with a succession of wet, open-mouthed pecks he’s decided to spoil your décolletage with, “…to let it go to waste.”
JT’s begrudged scoff cuts through the trance. “Jesus, kid. Where’d you learn that? What the fuck have you been doing? Or should I be asking ‘who' you've been doing?"
Tyson flinches at the coarse overtone the questions carry. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of reaction only you’re close enough to feel. He just laughs into your neck rather than humoring JT or feeding into whatever he’s implying.
You’re too woozy to toss in your two cents in favor of either side.
Cold countertop lapping up your wetness, the burning palm cupping your face to aid the pursuit of sugary lips, the memory of his tongue gliding over your sticky skin—your boyfriend a few paces away, watching. That’s more potent than any liquor, mixed or straight. It doesn’t take long for you to pull away, in a there-but-not state of mind, to slouch against Tyson’s chest. Head heavy, warmed and spinning.
Happy.
“Somethin’ special, aren’t you?” Tyson muses as he kneads the tender spot where your hairline meets your neck. You peck his forearm.
“As sweet as this reunion’s been, you came up here for a reason. Get to it; we don’t have all night. I imagine La Tornade will be wanting his bathroom back eventually.”
You whimper at the sharp edge of his voice, even though you weren’t the intended target.
JT’s dark drawl was laden with protective affection for you, his devotion hardened by a hue of discontent reminiscent of a paternal chide. An outsider looking in might not see beyond the mediator-in-shining-armor ruse, mistakenly pruning away JT’s thorny pain and rotted grief, but you know better. The situation and him. While genuine, his defense of your bruised feelings is a trojan horse for his own. He’s conveying his rage how he can: under the guise of selflessness.
Tyson gulps, eyes downcasted, then nods. He understands as well as you do. When he finally looks up, the shadow’s fallen over his face once more, cloud drooped low overhead.
“You’re scaring me, Josty.”
This makes him laugh, his mood brightening a tad. “If anyone should be scared, it’s me.”
In your periphery, you catch JT urging him to continue with a stiff glare.
“I-I’ve been such an ass. I—I just care so damn much. About you. About Compher, and our friendship. When you graduated, m-my whole world changed. Like someone gutted my life, scooped out all the good, comfortable stuff and left me with the shell. I felt like I lost my people. Like I was left behind. And then I had to watch you two get closer than ever—without me. It fucking sucked, and I didn’t cope well. Didn’t cope at all, really. Kate’ll tell you, she took the brunt of my tailspin.”
You can’t help but snort despite the thick emotion welling up behind your eyes. The boys smile, too. Things look up.
Tyson takes your hand in a tight squeeze; his pulse jumps into your palm. “But that’s no excuse for what I did—didn’t do. How I treated you. You were trying so hard, and all I did was punish you for it. For constantly reminding me you guys are there and not here. For moving on with your life like you’re supposed to.”
He claims JT’s old spot knelt between your parted knees. “And I’m sorry. So deeply sorry, baby. Please let me make it up to you—let me apologize properly.”
Tears of his own shine up at you from his flushed cheeks. Gently, you take his face in your hands, rubbing away the spilled emotion with the soft pads of your thumbs.
A silent pardon.
The walls throw back the echo of his low, audible content—of relief.
“Is this okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, dwindling to a hush as the question tapers off.
Too determined to quiet his audible fear of rejection—and to have his mouth on you as fast as humanly possible—to bother with words, you nod immediately.
“With how much she’s been dripping onto the counter since you walked in, what do you think?” JT interjects, mood vastly improved.
Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.
The younger forward chuckles, hands massaging up and down your sensitive thighs, gripping them as if holding himself back from lunging too soon.
A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything. Didn’t want to embarrass her.” He winks up at you, confidence rising to the surface once more. You have to fight to maintain eye contact; he’s that stupidly attractive. “ —was try t’be a gentleman.”
You’re a flurry of butterflies, a whimpering mess.
Tyson wants to tease your body; it’s in his nature. But he won’t. Namely, because he can’t. No matter how good some old-fashioned edging would eventually make you feel, he’s already on JT’s shit list as is.
Besides, he’s only been fiending for a taste since you introduced yourself to him. And there's no time like the present...
Your guttural scream—an appropriate, albeit mortifying reaction to his baby pink lips enveloping your swollen clit—pumps his chest full with pride. Tongue flat, he charts the length of your heat with a gentleness you hadn’t thought your collective excitement would allow for. His hands coast over your legs, syncing with his mouth, until he physically cannot wait any longer. One final pass, one so agonizingly slow your greedy hips thoughtlessly vie for more of anything, brings his wistful, fidgeting digits to rest at the apex of your thighs.
“Pause.”
JT’s clipped command is a bucket of ice water.
Your vocal annoyance is matched by Tyson’s, but you both know how delicate a game you’re playing.
With his thumb still lazily swirling to your clit, Tyson’s inquisitive head begins to turn around. Before he gets anywhere worthwhile, it’s swiftly spun back into place by your boyfriend’s firm hand.
You can’t even convey how hot you find JT’s fingers casually twisting in his friend’s curly mop—just the way you love; all you manage is a warbled, mostly airy cry. Your distressed state worsens watching the show unfold between your lax, parted knees: reluctant, fluttery lashes over neon cheeks; a rosy, glistening bottom lip sacrificed to cage mousy whimpers, his ragged breathing betraying all effort toward feigning indifference to JT’s self-assured manhandling.
Your boyfriend snickers at your expression, a fish lingering open-mouthed for a surface sip, an ill-attempt to supplement a natural mode gone inadequate. No matter how much oxygen your widened jaw draws in, it never feels sufficient. A bottomless pit, a balloon with a fatal puncture wound. Gone before your depleted brain could make use of it.
“Have to make sure he does it right, don’t I, sweetheart?” JT’s voice is smooth and low, charring by the second; he’s enjoying the view as much as you are.
Tyson rolls his tawny eyes. Half-hearted annoyance. “Controlling much?”
“I know what my woman needs.”
The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.
And the growl JT hurls back, a low-pitched rumble permeating the tight space with little effort on his part, is just plain mean.
His attitude could not be more arrogant. The cavalier persona makes you shiver, and Tyson’s breath hitch. Humming, your boyfriend tugs on his curls until the two’s eyes are locked. Inescapable. The brunette gasps as he tries desperately to hold his eyes open, waiting with bated breath.
JT licks his lips, triumphant. “Open her up for me, will ya?” Mischief catches in the light as quickly as it falls into your boyfriend’s lap. His grip tightens, and Tyson whimpers like a naughty puppy caught red-handed. “Don’t screw around, ‘kay? She needs all the help her tight pussy can get, and we don’t have all night.”
Panting, his nod is the only affirmative he can muster up. And the only one his limited range of motion will allow for. Smug and pleased enough, JT all but throws his friend into your fire, his nose bumping where you’re most sensitive.
You actually yelp.
Holding your torrid gaze, Tyson dips his marriage and middle into you. You groan out what you meant to be his name—But who knows? And who fucking cares?—unable to control yourself while he’s finally touching you like this. Finally back.
Tyson finger-fucks you at an even pace, steadily pushing you up the hill. His satisfaction is tangible when he pulls out and away, so very delighted by your wonton hiss of annoyance. Even more so when the volume hikes up in response to the slippery pads of his fingers circling your clit. Your lewd whines harmonize with your audible arousal as he works it back into your fragile skin, playing with your wetness, utterly fascinated.
“What d’ya think, baby? Think you’re wet enough to take another finger?” JT’s tone is as cocky as his stupid rhetorical question. He, however, made no move to conceal his growing impatience.
“Mhmm,” you murmur, head like a rubber ball hitting the pavement. Still, you remember your manners. “Please—c-can I? Can I have another?”
His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.
JT’s reverent eyes stay with you, but his words pour down over the eager man on the floor as he coaxes you halfway to heaven. “You heard her, kid. Give the lady what she deserves.”
Kid—Tyson hates when people call him that, but he especially loathes JT's usage. There’s barely an age difference, but with the way everyone acts, it might as well be decades. It seems like no matter what he does to prove himself, he’s still the baby. Every additional candle is like an annual slap in the face, a mockery that won’t end.
He can feel anger and frustration curdling low in his stomach just thinking about all the attempts that fell flat, and he decides to put the grumbling to good use. The vibration is red-hot and deliberate against your responsive, slick center, irritation like lighter fluid.
He gives you more than just three fingers. He splays all three—wide. Even as they stroke your soft inner walls, Tyson keeps you stretched so as to leave no slack. Your boyfriend wants you open? Tyson will fucking tear you apart, happily. (Yes, spite is a factor.)
Highly sensitive and spread to the limit, you ascend far quicker than usual. Fisting a bushel of golden-brown curls, nails digging rapt half-moons, you guide his willing face to the necessary places to see yourself through. Every slight adjustment has your entire body jerking haphazardly as it struggles to process the rocketing shockwaves.
JT’s hand retreats—only slightly—to make way for yours, to give you more leverage to fuck yourself through it. Less than a foot away, your boyfriend’s chest heaves in time with yours, his eyes pits of lust you dive into with clumsy enthusiasm.
During one particular, delicious pass, the tip of Tyson’s tongue catches your strained entrance, and when you unexpectedly gush against his mouth in response, he begins lapping over and around your carnal connection.
“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “
The denouement of your climax is nothing short of glorious, as rude of a sentence interruptor as it was. Half-mewls and purred praise rain down from your loosened lips, eyes screwed shut.
Tyson melts over the way you take control of your orgasm, so unabashed and authoritative. You go after what you want; he respects that majorly. And getting to feel and taste what makes you tick doesn’t hurt either.
Neither do you and your pretty, throbbing walls cutting off blood flow while your boyfriend tugs his hair from behind.
“Just like that, keep fucking her through it. Did so good—doin’ so good for us.”
JT’s praise sends the brunette’s unoccupied hand right to his bulge.
This is the best he’s felt in months.
There’s the mythical balance of bliss-to-tension to key up his senses, shooting white-hot tingles of want from his head to his feet and flaming between his ribs, affection for you. You forgive him, JT forgives him, and, most importantly, he forgives himself.
He feels buoyant with his face coated in your climax, so much so that it runs down from his chin to his neck, staining the collar of his beer-soaked tee; he hopes you might return his favor later.
Josty’s guilty hand is knocked away by a firm toe.
“Y’haven’t earned it, bud,” his mentor chides.
The delinquent appendage flops lamely at his side for a split second, then lifts beside his nose to join its partner at your slick core. As if remembering there’s work to be done, a goal to attain. Beneath this new asset, your achy, spent clit pulses, egging him on with every thump, thump, thump.
Tempting him to do something, to take it further…
He thinks about it. Fuck, does he think about it—you can see the tape winding in his eyes.
JT can read Tyson’s mind through his skull, apparently. “Don’t even think about it, kid. Her last one’s mine, but you’re more than welcome to watch from right here.” —Your boyfriend points to the remaining space between the sinks, knowing it’ll be close quarters for you both— “Just remember: I only said watch. This is groveling, not a treat.”
And Tyson does. Without question or complaint, he’s just fine sitting next to you, sitting pretty.
He’s always been the perfect teammate. Always willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the role. The only difference is he no longer wants his anxiety to be the sole motivator behind said selflessness.
Finally ready to play fearless.
JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.
Immediately, your attention fractures. Split between messy brown curls and lust-blown pupils and your own disheveled appearance: smudged makeup, knotted hair, mauled neck, and spit-stained, bruised lips. Thank fuck you’re graduated and gone. Otherwise, you’d never live this down—Kate might treat you to a taste of would-be campus humiliation later if she’s feeling particularly charitable, though.
Your boyfriend’s grip is heavy on your hips. Happy to have you back. You feel one hand coast over your lower back and down to grope your ass as if trying to keep you in the palm of his hand. White-knuckle hold withstanding, JT presses his chest flush to your backside and uses his free hand to yank every remaining hindrance to your navel.
He wants you on display.
Your gasp is rivaled only by Tyson’s pitiful whimper and twitching, touch-happy fingers.
The ginger’s chuckle is molten and deep, mouth barely a breath from your ear, his eyes pinning Tyson still.
Your mind rewound back to when he made this proposition, wondering how the hell you got from there to here.
“Bend over, sweetheart. Arch that back nice and pretty so we can show Josty what a good girl he’s been missing out on—what a filthy thing you’ve turned into.”
As soon as you’ve done just that, your boyfriend drives home. It’s fast and dirty; primal. He knows there’s no need, but JT marks his territory anyway.
You watch Josty’s mouth part like he’s about to ask you something. Staring through his eyes as if ducking into his pesky daydreams and up-too-late musings, all specifics watery and indistinct.
Ultimately, you wind up disappointed by silence. But, with the slow return of your boyfriend’s bare cock between your soft inner walls, it dawns on you; JT had used a condom last time. Even made Tyson retrieve it for him. The depth of your relationship is sinking in; that’s what you’re now watching. He’s mulling over the information, caught somewhere between wanting to swallow his guilt one go and choking on his own assumptions.
JT follows your charged concern, performs a similar triage, and then gives you a concise nod through the fogged-up mirror.
I’ll handle it.
At that, your walls noticeably ease, and he shudders, groaning as even more of him sinks deeper to occupy the newfound space. He gets a few strokes out before Josty slots his body between your palms to lean in. Here, he does something that collapses the simple but effective status quo.
“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”
Keep rubbing your clit.
Keep playing with you.
Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.
Be present.
Be here.
“Such a fucking mess, baby. Don’t know how Compher gets anything done with you there, sweet and ripe for the taking.”
The two halves of Tyson’s demeanor are antithetical, and infuriatingly so, a saccharine smile split open by filth. It paints a sordid picture that must stand for itself, as you find it impossible to pluck out of thin air any coherent thoughts.
Be that as it may, your friend did not set out for a reply. At least not one other than the befuddled stuttering you’re doing.
A familiar palm shoots to your raw neck—tender, inside and out—lightning quick. You're yanked up before you can blink. JT mercilessly nips at the gaps in between his tight grip, hips pushed just as firm against the swell of your backside.
Still, he furthers their madcap banter. “I dunno either, Josty. And, believe me, the little vixen sure as hell doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I think she’s tryna milk me dry for good.”
If Tyson Jost were ever going to cream his pants—post-pubescence, it would be now.
Like, right fucking now.
The proclamation of your third orgasm is wondrous. Proud. Grateful. One of your hands flies back to catch the nape of JT’s neck to steady yourself as he continues pistoning in and out of you. Tyson's generous touch stays, too.
Your back arches this go around, head rolling against your boyfriend's shoulder before slipping back down towards the counter, free palm absorbing the impact of the abrupt sway. Too much, too much—it’s all too much for your tender muscles and soupy brain to handle. You surrender to the plethora of sensations, each more overwhelming than the last—half-collapsed back against into your boyfriend, half-crumbled forward into his best friend’s damp, tented lap.
“Not gonna last, sweetheart—y’feel too damn good, s’tight and warm, always strangling my cock—know you’re close, too. Gonna give me what you promised, Compher? Please, pretty girl—need to feel your perfect pussy squeezin’ me dry.”
It's refractory; your world goes from washed-out to vivid and back, over and over, as though impatiently flipping between channels.
You’re a tangle of sticky limbs and physical reverie, blanketed by a warm afterglow and cleared air. Body scaffolded by muscular forms on either side, your mind gives your body permission to slacken at last. JT’s arm winds around your midsection when it becomes clear the all-consuming exhaustion is giving way to the relaxation that eluded you for so many months. Tyson massages your arms, your hands still cemented to his knees. Your head drops to his shoulder, too heavy for your bruised neck.
For a long while, no one says a thing. Not intentionally or for fear of disturbing the peace; there’s simply no need. No words exist to shoulder that much weight, none able to capture precisely what emotions swirl between you. Silence says enough—silence says it all.
Banging cuts through your sex-drunk stupor. Again. The abrupt sounds function like metaphorical smelling salts, restoring consciousness and rousing decorum laid dormant. Your mutual, unadulterated bliss circles the drain in the absence of a psychological plug, ripped free, half-baked.
JT reluctantly leaves you empty and dripping, tucks himself away, and cracks open the door—only as wide as is necessary. Behind his imposing physique, you remain hunched over Tyson, waiting for your boyfriend to make the problem go away; you’re too tired to take any initiative.
Golden hair and familiar grey-blue eyes fill the gap, shining in your periphery. Barely a sliver, that’s how much of this your boyfriend’s willing to share with the world. You like that, and judging by his lopsided grin, so does Tyson.
“Paging Mrs. Compher!” Gabe hollers over JT’s head. “Clean up on aisle ‘Kate.’”
Just hearing her name puts you back in action. Damn you, maternal instincts.
You scramble to right twisted fabric and smeared makeup to a soundtrack of expletives. It’s pointless, though, because nothing settles how it should. No amount of smoothing, brushing, or tucking seems to help. Hazy vision and the legs of a newborn fawn don’t exactly lend themselves to effective primping.
And it’s not like you’ve got a hickey-remover magic wand stashed in your purse, either.
Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.
Tyson does a piss-poor job muffling his laughter, which lands him a crisp swat to the chest.
As you stumble over, you catch the end of your boyfriend’s irritation. “—and you’re sure there isn’t anyone else to hold her hair back? Why can’t you do it?”
The gears in Gabe’s skull clank so loud you can hear them over the audible chaos seeping into your haven—he’s intoxicated, not stupid.
“CupKate wants her mommy.” The blonde winks at you over JT’s shoulder. His tongue gives a knowing click of approval at Tyson’s equally disheveled state. “And what do you care, Compher? Smells like you three already made your express trip to Pound-town, USA. How was it? I hear the weather’s hot and steamy this time of year.”
“Real mature, Landy, real mature,” JT scoffs.
The sound just revs him up. “Says the fucker who’s locked in a frat house bathroom with his girlfriend and his best friend. One of whom, might I add, looks like they got mauled by a hormonal freshman after a high school dance.”
“Can you two go measure your dicks, I don’t know, anywhere but in the way? I have a child to tend to.”
You almost have to laugh. At the situation and at the words coming out of your mouth. At Kate, sick to her stomach like a kid who ate too many sweets on a holiday.
Years have passed, but you’re all still the same.
“Me-yeoh!” Gabe sing-songs while miming what you assume are claws scratching at nothing.
Again, his drink is the sole casualty of his jubilation. A golden wave sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. The spray makes JT’s jaw tick.
The former winger offers a sheepish grin in repentance. “Whoops?”
Your boyfriend steals a glance to check that you’re decent, then side-steps out of your way with an exasperated sigh. His dilated gaze flits over your ruffled appearance, shamelessly drinking in the state of your throat but tripping over the questions dancing in your eyes.
He juts his head in Landy’s direction with a sardonic eye-roll. “Go on. Save your damsel, Mother Hen. I’ll fill you in on in the Uber back to the hotel.”
“Meet you out front?” You ask, and he nods.
You dart back to Tyson, plant a chaste peck on his flushed cheek, and then repeat the gesture with JT and his peeved lips. It’s faint, but they instantly soften for you.
Before they know it, you’re slipping out the door. Gabe gets an affectionate pat on the shoulder as you squeeze by him before you disappear in the direction of the Girls Only bathroom; no significant differences, only marginally cleaner and occasionally stocked with helpful accouterment—chivalry isn’t dead!
Lingering in the wake of your departure, Gabe sways like an inflatable man on the curb of a car dealership. A smirk twists his lips. “Nicely done, boys. Nicely done. Can’t say I thought we’d see the day—or that either of you had it in ya—but I feel like a proud father.” He wipes a phantom tear, the final straw. “Makes you wish you listened to Daddy Landy sooner, huh? Think of all the lost ti—”
JT slams the door in his face. Through the wood, Gabe cackles.
The two men slip back into sync as they wordlessly scrape themselves back together with the time and privacy you were not afforded.
As JT yanks his jeans back into place, his belt clanking around like a bell’s hourly chime, a black velvet box tumbles to the floor, and Tyson’s stomach along with it.
The air shouldn’t, but it turns on a dime. Their progress is seemingly more fragile than expected.
“If—uh, wow.” A crunchy, anxious bark of a laugh cuts his thought in half.
JT doesn’t interrupt; he holds space for the blossoming discomfort.
Tyson rubs the tense knots along the back of his neck as his eyes drill into the floor. “If I’d known this would be our swan song, I would’ve tried to enjoy it more. I don’t know—savored it, I guess?”
“This,” JT says, scooping up the dud he hopes isn’t hanging fire. “— is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”
Before they got into it in the garage, before they’d been forcibly separated by Erik and Nate. Before they, punch-drunk and drunk-drunk, teetered between tears and anger in the shadowy, too-quiet backyard.
They spun in circles until they had nowhere to move but on. To make amends, to stumble through chary half-apologies that mean more than they say.
JT’s alleviation was short-lived; his calm trepidation squashed before it could fly. Tyson now understands why.
Tyson balks. “Me?”
Your boyfriend sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge. He’s bidding time. Digging for the right words but knowing there are none.
“I love her—and I know you do, too. I’m not upset; she makes it hard not to fall for her.”
Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.
JT continues, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. Without making sure you’d be okay. Eventually. The last thing I wanted was for you to be blindsided or to feel even more left out.”
Tyson can’t help but snort at the sheer absurdity. “Left out… God, how pathetic am I? Getting all butt-hurt over a relationship that isn’t even mine.”
“Pathetic was going AWOL.”
Josty winces. He doesn’t argue because he has zero ground to stand on.
“But feeling something? Far from it.”
“I didn't—don’t want to take her from you. You have to know that, Compher.” The hurt’s been hammered from his voice. Left behind is softened sincerity.
JT’s smile is just as downy. “I do, and you’d be wasting time by trying.”
Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.
You love JT Compher so openly and ardently it might as well be a neon sign plastered to your forehead. He’s always been it for you. There’s never been any competition, Tyson Jost included.
“Thank god we got this ironed out before the wedding,” the older forward chuckles as he leans back against the counter.
They’re side-by-side, as they should be.
“Why’s that?”
JT digs into his other pocket and pushes something into the palm of his best friend, whose cheeks flame tout de suite in response. With a bump of his shoulder, your boyfriend tacks on, “Something to remember tonight by.”
Tyson shoves the memento into his own pocket, then raises a quizzical brow.
Your boyfriend grins.
“The best man pining over the bride while giving the groom the cold shoulder would make for an awkward wedding, don’t you think?”
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#in conversation: go out with a bang#in conversation: swan song#in conversation: sharing is caring#sharing is caring verse#jt compher x reader#jt compher smut#jt compher fanfiction#jt compher x reader x tyson jost#jt compher x y/n#jt compher x you#tyson jost x reader#tyson jost smut#tyson jost fanfiction#tyson jost x jt compher#hockey romance#hockey smut#nhl smut#hockey rpf#nhl rpf#nhl fanfiction#nhl imagines#nhl fic#hockey fic#nhl players x reader#*ೃ༄ by holy pucks
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Okay. I’ve had time to process the spoilers for chapter 407: Paranormal Orphan.
Here are my thoughts:
-WTF?! They are twins?! What is it with Japanese mangaka and having unhinged twin relationships?! I’m looking at you, Nightow.
-AFO was born with his Quirk activated. Stealing nutrients from his mother then desperately feeding off of her corpse. Stole her Quirk too and seems to have some sentimental value in it as he still uses it often to this day.
-Low-key, I think there’s a hint here that the genetic change in babies and pre-pubescent kids started as some sort of STD that evolved considering their mom was a prostitute and “contracted” an illness. That’s just me, though.
-The first person he ever had was Yoichi and he held his hand right after birth. Also: JFC THAT’S A BIG BOY
-AFO is a victim of his Quirk like the other villains(Toga, Touya, Tenko). He was born wanting to possess things. I don’t like the whole “he was born evil” narrative. Yeah, he looks like a crazy ass Omen baby, but it makes sense he’d think the way he does.
-AFO is also an unreliable narrator here as this is all from his POV
-He says something to the effect of (we’ll know more once we get the scanlations) how, even though Yoichi can’t give him anything like he wants from everyone else, he’s still “his”.
-So, did he just get up and start walking and taking care of his brother out of sheer will when he was still a baby or did someone pick them up and raise them to the point when AFO wanted something from them and killed them when he didn’t get it?
-Yoichi still believes there is some good in his brother because he held his hand as a baby. 😭 Poor kid
-Poor wittle Yoichi getting kicked because he threw something at AFO. For how they’ve had to live, it makes sense AFO would react that way…in a manner of speaking.
-Yoichi learning to read from comics he finds in rubble/a dump. AFO takes notice and sits next to him. He then likes the part where the author says “One for All, All for One.” He should have had a name prior that he must have given himself as Yoichi has one. Though it would make sense that AFO named Yoichi himself as “first gift” since he was the first thing he ever had.
-AFO being jealous of the Glowing Baby is pretty spot on. All of this seems to hint that AFO and Yoichi were the first to have powers considering how AFO talks about the Glowing Baby and the 50 kids born in India.
-The last page is quite a cliffhanger and it sucks we have to wait 2 weeks for the next part(there’s no way this isn’t a two parter).
-How AFO is thinking about Yoichi leaving him is intensely possessive and reminds me of how Vader choked Padme when he thought she was betraying/leaving him. This also ties into how AFO didn’t know he had killed Yoichi.
-My guess is that AFO lashed out and sliced off Yoichi’s hand in a possessive rage. He was so startled by his own action that it gave the 3rd user time to grab Kudo and Yoichi then speed out of there.
-Is it just me or does anyone else hope AFO kept Yoichi’s hand? Parallel to Tomura having all of his family’s hands. I sure hope he did because I need even more twisted twin obsession.
-It’s most likely Yoichi lived long enough after this(and maybe with his blood) transferred OFA to Kudo. He then died from his blood loss and that’s why AFO didn’t know he had killed him.
-AFO crying over Yoichi’s death maybe the first and only time he’s ever cried. Yoichi did mean something to him, maybe even more than a “thing”, but he didn’t realize it until that one moment. He blames Kudo for his death because of the mental gymnastics he has to go through to convince himself that there’s no way he would have hurt the only person he’s ever actually loved—possessive as it may be. If Kudo hadn’t have taken him from the vault, he wouldn’t have reacted and cut off Yoichi’s hand, and therefore, Yoichi would still be alive.
-If he takes OFA with Yoichi’s soul in it, then Yoichi will be his again and “I totally didn’t kill him. See! He’s still alive!”
-The internet’s hot-takes that AFO is homophobic because he went full possessive Vader over Yoichi is weird. I said it.
-A part of me wants there to be a cliffhanger where we think Bakugo may have defeated AFO. We then get the intense fight between Tomura and Deku. Deku is about to win, however that’s going to happen, but then AFO shows up around the age he was when he kicked Yoichi, and he’s holding Bakugo as a threat, demanding Deku give him his brother back. But that’s just me. Again.
Anyway, I can admit when I’m wrong about a villain’s backstory. It wouldn’t be the first time and I honestly should have expected something like this considering Horikoshi going full on horror during this Final War arc. However, I don’t think AFO being born with his Quirk activated and “wanting to take” necessarily makes him “born evil.” The twins still had to survive on the streets as orphans, anti-meta people believing AFO is a diseased heathen and never wanting to help either of them. So, he took on exactly what they thought of him. It’s actually quite sad when you stop to think about it.
I’m going to be frothing at the mouth for the next two weeks to see how this backstory ends. Since it started with AFO going nuts and thinking Bakugo is Kudo, I’m assuming we’ll get further context of AFO’s thoughts when he’s crying.
#all for one#afo#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#yoichi shigaraki#bnha afo#bnha spoilers#2nd ofa user#mha kudo#mha407#mha407 spoilers#chapter407#spoilers
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Purification and Order in a plave no diffrent then hell~
Part 02/??
(Think I be continueing the story nonethenless, idea is just to good to be thrown away)
... You were shocked,.. The Angel of Light himself.. Archangel Micheal... but.. he doesnt look really as mighty as many have said.
You:..But I am not dead... why am I in heaven now? I mean I wouldnt mind dying soon and met the Lord, just that a Angel? .. Took me by firstly hitting me unconcious I thought that was suposses to be diffrent..
Micheal just looked at you.. with his wings behind him and a cold glare on you... he then spoke..
Micheal:...Mortal.. are you in the knowledge of the current situation that we all find ourselves in?..
...
You:...No? I mean I regualry pray to God to stay up to day and keep myself in touch-
..
Micheal: Mortal, God has left heaven.
...
You just looked at him and were like.. what? How, this aint possible. God cant just disappear out of nowhere.You then spoke..
You:I.. disagree, who have I been talking to then in my prayers? I feel his presence... and I keep myself in touch with him every single day.
Micheal just continue to glare at you... but suddenly took his sword and tried to hit you with it... but you were once again protected by a blinding light..
Micheal:....How.. How is the creator of the universe with you?! I can cleary feel the power of God, going through your body.. it cant be but it has to be.. the Holy Spirit...
He fell down on his knees.. with his black hair and began to softly cry. You were astounished at the sight before you... I mean how couldnt you?.. The literal Archangel Micheal was crying before you! And told you that God left heaven... but.. you were so confused.. because you always were in his presence... but then you felt something.. he has gone up to your lap.. and cried the words.
Micheal:..Holy, Holy is our God...Lord have mercy on me.
...
Now you were just unfazed, what happend that a Angel would cry in your lap for the forgiveness of God?.. Oh boy.
You:..Why,what happend? It cant be just that the Lord disappears when I am constantly in contact with but you Angels arent? What happend?!
...
Micheal:God has left heaven! Do you not get it Mortal?!
As he said those exact words the cries have stopped and he had a tight grip on your tight.
Micheal:I cant think of even 1 good reason why God's presence is with you... The Holy Spirit of God.. within you .. but if the his presence is withhin you... you might be a key figure of finding out where he is....
At that moment he stood up and ripped your Shirt off.. he took his sword and sliced his hand and branded your chest.
Micheal: Dont even think of running away, for if you try to escape heaven all the other low ranking Angels wont hesitate to devour you... the only thing that keeps all of them away from you.. would be me.. so be a good little mortal and just listen to me.
And with that, he bowed slightly down and with a cold stare left and slammed the door and left you once again alone in that room of yours in which you still had a chain around your wrists... you were to perplexed.. and tried out but ... you thought..
You: I stil gotta pray..
So you went down on your knees and prayed the "Our Father in Heaven Prayer".
You: Our Father, Who art in heaven
Hallowed be 'Thy Name:
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass
against us:
and lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil. Amen.
Right when you finish your prayer.. the door was slammed open.. and another figure appeared...
???:...How is it possible?.. After so long.. has he finally appeared once more?
When you saw the now you know Angel.. he had.. blonde hair and red eye with badanges all over him, and one over his eye.He ran directly to you and began to tightly hug you and he started to softly cry.
???: OH Lord.. where has thou been.. let this humble Angel Raphael feel your presence once more...
As he hugged you... you werent really suprised no more...Another Archangel.. and this time its Raphael. But the Angels wings, wrapped themselves around your small figurtivly small body and he began to just let out everything out...
To say that now you were fazed would be a understatement, like WHATS GOING ON, WHAT HAPPEND HERE, WHERE IS THE LORD AND WHY IS A LITERAL ARCHANGEL IN YOUR ARMS...
But .. seeing him in a state like this you couldnt help.. but feel bad for this Angel, you wrapped your arm around him and hugged him,completly forgetting your shirt was ripped a second ago and that you were "branded" by Micheal the Archangel.. but you just looked at the one in your arms and said said..
You:...Psalms 34:18.. "The lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
When he.. Raphael heard those words.. his tears began to become even heavier... you took him onto the bed and simply held him while he just cried all his pent up stress into your arms and after some time.. he fell asleep in your arms... it was safe to say,that this whole situation.. is just to weird and now that he wont possible let you go now that he has you in his embrace, after some time, you also went to sleep with him in your arms. Oh well holding someone like Archangel Raphael in your arms was something you never thought of ever doing.
You simply never thought you would ever do this.. comforting a Angel.. a Archangel much less .... Ha.... will this be a big mess to fix.
(Cliffhanger~)
So, the idea of this as a whole can be made into a story, which I naturally intend to do, but a little spoiler in my idea is. One day you be meeting the MC, of the game version for this is something I can assure you, MC and you are 2 whole entire diffrent people my dear readers so stay tuned as I plan to literal milk out this idea that I was blessed with.
#whb x reader#whb#whb x mc#what in hell is bad x reader#what is bad in hell purification#what in hell is bad#x reader#x malereader#x female reader
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Ha, exercising endorphins are crazy effective motivators apparently. Anyway, here's some yandere Dabi.
Warnings: yandere, homestock syndrome, codependency, implied abuse/a romanticized view of one's abuse, dubcon/noncon, implied breeding kink, cliffhanger ending
Pairing: Dabi (Touya Todoroki) x reader
Codependency, what a horrid drug that was.
Toxic and lethal, disgustingly sweet and impossible to give up. What a fucked way to say ‘I love you, I need you’, it's the only way they knew how to though.
And what a fucking mess that was too.
For her to love him, to need him as desperately as they needed air to live. A man who couldn't possibly know the meaning of, or reason why he loved her.
To love a monster who kept her under lock and key, who stole her from everything she once knew and loved.
What a mess.
She thinks she should hate him.
He's littered her flesh with marks, bruises and burns, evidence that he's touched her. Evidence that he's far too rough, too unstable to love as gently and sweetly as she deserves. She still runs her fingers along fresh marks as if they were trophies. Proof he loved her, just a touch too passionately.
She thinks she should run the next chance she gets, but she never takes it. What would she do if she left? He needs her to keep him sane, he's said so, told her over and over again. She needs to stay, she can't leave him!
She should say no, should hold her legs tightly together, but she couldn't help the way her body and heart betrayed her.
Couldn't help the stuttering gasps as long slender fingers entered her.
“Say it Doll, you know what I want to hear”
His voice is low with an almost pleading tone like he was the one begging for the pleasure of sweet release. Fingers moving painfully slow as he stared down at her withering form.
“Please T-Touya, l-love you!”
She pleads in response, desperate for him to believe her, that she wants to stay by him because she is just as in love with him.
His fingers speed up for a moment, hurtling her toward her orgasm only to stop abruptly. Pulling a whine from her and a confused look.
“Do you?”
He’s unreadable. Flat-toned and blank gaze as she struggled to sit up only to be pinned down by too-hot hands that threatened to burn her again.
“I do! I-I love you! I—”
“You'll make me a father then?”
Her eyes widened, he wants kids? He couldn't be a father, could he? She shouldn't let him, but, maybe a baby would be nice. Maybe it'll give her a real reason to stay maybe it'll make him better.
“P-please! Give me a baby!”
She pleads and he's quick to respond and push into her wait entrance.
Groaning at the warmth enveloping his cock and savoring it for a moment before starting a ruthless pace, only truly chasing his own pleasure, toying with her clit almost as if it was an afterthought.
#dabi x reader#touya todoroki x reader#touya todoroki x reader smut#todoroki touya x reader#todoroki touya x reader smut#touya x reader#touya x reader smut#tw yandere#tw abuse#tw dubious consent#tw non con
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Writing Webnovels 101
There is one key difference between printed/ebooks and a webnovel: you need to adapt your writing for a highly distracted audience.
Unlike a traditional reading experience, people reading on the web have a gazillion other tabs, windows and notifications demanding their attention. So, here are some things to keep in mind when you’re writing for a digital platform.
Short, To-The-Point sentences
Keep your sentences short so that the reader doesn’t lose themselves in the middle.
Keep descriptions short and to the point while focusing on the action of the story.
Fast-paced
Each chapter must have significant action that contributes to plot progression.
Use well-placed cliffhangers that wouldn’t lose the reader in between chapters.
Trope-Led Story
The function of tropes is to provide a distracted reader with a ready-built framework to understand the story.
Using the right tropes is also important to attract your target audience since it tell up upfront about what kind of experience they’re going to have.
Emotion-Led Story
Deliver emotional highs and lows right off the bat, because big, intense emotion is what the readers are looking for.
Emotional information is easier to digest and retain than technical description.
Big emotions are easier to hook into and relate to.
Linear Storyline
Keep flashbacks, flashforwards, time skips to a minimum.
For a distracted reader, a straightforward timeline is a lot easier to understand and return to after a hiatus.
Focused Plot
Having multiple subplots weaving in and out of each other is probably not the best idea.
Keep delivering the emotional experience that the reader is looking for and provide only relevant information.
Technicals
Choosing the right platform
There are so many ways you can write online, from building your own website to writing short episodes on social media platforms.
You can use: novelfull.com, readlightnovel.me, Ltnovel.com, Wattpad, Webnovel, Wuxiaworld, etc.
Before you start posting on a platform, research into the kind of readers it has, what are the most popular genres, etc. Make sure you are pitching to the right audience.
Promoting Your Work
Many writers now promote themselves through newsletters, Instagram, YouTube, etc. but for someone just starting out, creating digital content on top of writing can be tough.
Join a webnovel community and get to know some of your fellow writers! The goal here is not to span other established works to links of your site. As time foes on, linking to one another and making recommendations would come naturally.
Set a Realistic Posting Schedule
Your posting schedule determines how often your readers get to interact with the story world and with one another. It’s how often life gets breathed into your story.
However, going for five days a week isn’t going to be sustainable, unless your story is already finished.
There is no magic number, so figure out a consistent, regular schedule that you can stick to. At least once a week is recommended.
If you like my blog, buy me a coffee! ☕
References:
https://creators.wattpad.com/writing-resources/write-your-story/what-is-a-webnovel-indepth-guide/
https://www.drewhayesnovels.com/blog/2014/1/25/shit-i-wish-id-known-before-starting-a-web-novel
#writer#writers#creative writing#writing#writing community#writers of tumblr#creative writers#writing inspiration#writeblr#writing tips#writers corner#writers community#poets and writers#writing advice#writing resources#writers on tumblr#writers and poets#helping writers#writing help#writing tips and tricks#how to write#writing life#let's write#resources for writers#references for writers
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carry them home (5)
warnings: magical oaths, mentions of past harm/captivity, miscommunication/lack of communication, PTSD, food scarcity, cliffhanger
-
From a very young age, Janus’s life had been nomadic in nature. He had traversed all kinds of terrain, with all kinds of people, in all kinds of conditions. Whether fleeing or pursuing, when it came to travel, he was confident in his experience.
The gaggle of children he was currently stuck with were decidedly not expert travelers.
They clearly all had some level of skill in surviving on their own; being what they were, they wouldn’t have gotten this far without knowing that much.
Most changelings did. Naivety didn’t tend to linger long in those that were hunted simply for existing, especially as beings that didn’t truly belong to one realm or the other.
The wisdom required to hide from an Iron Guard member and the knowledge required to set up a functioning campsite were two very different skills, however, and Janus’s current accommodations proved as much.
The sun was setting, and the children had essentially come to a stop where they were and planted themselves in various nooks and crannies, getting comfortable in the cold, damp woods the way only fae could.
Janus, as one of those pitiful creatures that was more vulnerable to the elements, was left decidedly less comfortable.
To the surprise of precisely no one, he hadn’t managed to convince Vee to allow him to unbind his hands, or even have his bound hands held in front of him, rather than behind.
In fact, he was fairly certain he’d ended their first day’s trek with double the restrictions he’d started with.
“Be quiet, you’re too loud. Are you trying to wake the whole forest?”
“Stop lurking. Stay ahead of me— not that ahead!”
“Don’t talk to him. Actually? Don’t even look at him.”
The most galling part was that most of the orders weren’t even fueled by malice. They seemed more compulsive than anything else, following a strange sort of logic: everything he did was suspect in Vee’s eyes, and so everything he did had to be restricted.
Such measures might have seemed reasonable to the twitchiest changeling he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, but they were horrible for Janus’s burgeoning headache. The more rules he had to keep track of, the more likely it was that he would accidentally slip and earn himself a jolt of nerve-burning pain.
Particularly after Vee had snapped, red-faced, for Janus to stop making faces whenever the group’s progress was stalled by yet another bout of bickering.
Talk about cruel and inhumane. His mocking expressions were a key part of his personality, thank you very much.
All in all, it was a welcome change when Logan approached to take his own turn guarding the hostage. Janus had to work to not shift too visibly when the change in watchers took effect, the low buzz of pain from so many overlapping orders sloughing off his shoulders like shedding a heavy cloak.
It wasn’t anywhere near debilitating, but he hadn’t missed the sensation, and was glad to avoid it as much as possible.
Vee had slouched off resentfully, but Logan was still standing there, surveying him with a curious frown. His wings were folded neatly against his back even though there was nobody present to keep the secret of them from.
“How may I be of service,” Janus asked, wrangling his tone into something only slightly sardonic through pure force of will.
A small, familiar voice in the back of his mind suggested that maybe he could just ask them not to use so many overlapping commands at once. He ignored it as thoroughly as he did all ideas that might involve unnecessary vulnerability, and resisted the urge to smile sarcastically only because he didn’t want his ability to emote revoked again so soon.
“How did you break my charmspeak?” Logan asked, voice kept low enough not to disturb the others.
(Not that it seemed necessary. The only one within hearing distance was Patton, who was already sound asleep, going by the gurgly snoring. Vee had sulked off to the nearby shadows, and the two nature sprites had, oddly enough, vanished the moment they’d decided to stop for the night.)
Janus raised an eyebrow, thankfully painlessly. “Subverting magical compulsion is something I’ve trained extensively in.”
Of course, that ‘training’ wasn’t generally willing, but that was beside the point.
“Why?” Logan asked, not even seeming to realize that he was leaning in slightly.
“I like to be prepared,” Janus lied, because none of them had thought to order that he be truthful. It was a common flaw with fae and fae-adjacent– bald-faced lying was an abstract idea to them, rather than an automatic instinct the way it was for Janus.
The answer didn’t seem to satisfy the siren, going by his frustrated scowl and the ruffled feathers Janus could spy along the curve of his wings. They seemed oddly ragged, for someone as precise as Logan.
“It wasn’t your magic at fault,” Janus added, throwing the kid a bone. “All magic has loopholes. You must know that much, or you wouldn’t have taken the precaution of binding my hands.”
He wriggled his fingers in example, a mostly pointless gesture since his hands were hidden, wedged between the tree he leaned against and the rest of his body. “Speaking of, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me a little more freedom of motion? I have sworn my harmlessness under blood oath.”
Logan straightened up slightly, expression flattening back out. “It would be inadvisable to leave you unbound to exploit any more loopholes,” he replied tartly.
“If you keep turning my helpful advice against me, I’m going to stop giving it,” Janus told him, and then rode out a wave of sharp oath-induced discomfort before sourly adding, “That was a joke. Far be it from me to stop giving you advice. Loopholes are one thing, but an oathbreaker, I am not.”
“We’ll see.” Logan had returned to the curious frown; Janus must have reacted a bit more to the oath’s sting than he’d thought. What a shame, for the infamous Silvertongue’s poker face to falter from something as banal as disuse.
The words slipped out, sharper than he’d meant them to: “I’m sure we will. Now, are you finished, or is sleeping another basic privilege that you plan to strip from me?”
A flicker of panic shuddered through him, an automatic reflex from years of paying the price for sass. It was never a good idea to insult their pride and give them ideas in the same breath, especially not while under oath.
Logan, however, only stepped back slightly, feathery ear tufts flicking as he cleared his throat. “Right, of course. We can speak more while traveling.”
“Of course.” Janus managed a stiff nod, still half-braced for retaliation as he tried to drag his mind back into the present. There was no reason for them to lash out in such a way, particularly since depriving Janus of sleep would only lessen his use to them.
(There had been no real reason for them to do it back then, either. Amusement and ego were reason enough, for some.)
It took him far too long to recover, even after Logan had awkwardly retreated to a nearby perch and turned his attention to keeping watch. He felt a burst of frustration as he leaned his head back against the tree trunk and forced his eyes shut.
He’d truly grown too soft, if hardships as simple as these had him in such disarray.
–
The next few days passed in a similar manner, his metaphorical leash swapped between Vee and Logan with just enough irregularity to keep him tense, though he doubted it was on purpose.
He liked to believe he knew the difference between psychological tactics designed to unsettle and the improvised planning skills of a tween, anyways. Even if his shoulders had firmly transitioned from aching to numb by this point.
It wasn’t like they had much of a reference for human durability, even as changelings. There was a big difference between living with humans and living as a human, after all. Janus was mostly just impressed they’d remembered to feed him.
Vee, of all people, had been invaluable in that regard. Patton seemed confused about the logistics of raw versus cooked meat, Ro barely understood what it meant for something to be ‘inedible’, and Remus was actively and blatantly trying to poison him. Eating seemed to be an afterthought to Logan, to the point that Vee was likely the only reason he hadn’t wasted away.
That wasn’t to say meals were pleasant. Vee provided him with the bare minimum as though daring him to say something about it, a challenge that Janus wisely refrained from rising to. The lack of complaint only seemed to make the kid angrier, though, so there was no winning.
He wasn’t allowed to forage for ingredients, despite the fact that his oath wouldn’t have let him attempt to poison them if he’d wanted to, so it was only natural that the issue of rations would come up sooner rather than later.
“There should be a town nearby. I have enough coin to buy provisions, and could likely barter for anything else we might need,” he mentioned, already anticipating the wall of suspicion his words would be met with.
“As if you could be trusted to wander around a human town,” Vee snapped. “Do you think we’re stupid?”
“Of course not.” Janus barely held back an eyeroll. “I’m simply beginning to wonder if you actually understand how a blood oath works.”
“You–!”
“It’s an unnecessary risk,” Logan cut in, effectively ending the discussion. “We’re getting by fine as it is.”
Humans needed to eat more regularly than most fae, which meant that Janus didn’t particularly agree with that assessment of the situation, but he wasn’t about to say as much. The only one who seemed to know anything specific about human needs was Vee, who had already made it quite clear that he didn’t care to fulfill Janus’s.
Janus set his jaw, and didn't contradict him.
So be it. It was only for a little while. He’d endured much worse for much longer.
Things proceeded like that for another few days, with Logan plotting out a new and improved course towards the mountains and Vee herding the other changelings away from Janus like an agitated sheepdog at every opportunity.
They might have continued like that for weeks, held fast to an uneasy, meaningless truce all the way until the end of the oath period, if Logan hadn’t fallen ill.
#sanders sides fic#ts janus#ts virgil#ts logan#ts roman#ts remus#ts patton#carry them home#cth#my writing#writing
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DEFINE ME | Neymar Jr. x OC
Summary: Famous Singer and Actress, Gabriella Hamill, travels to Qatar after being invited on live television by her favorite player, Lionel Messi. Despite the invitation, Ella tries to avoid the cameras and hide in plain side, wanting to enjoy the games without the chaos that comes with being in Public places and it all seems to be going well until she meets Neymar Jr. in this bad boy meets good girl story, the definition of good and bad is lost between the lines and redefined by the past and future.
« Previous chapter:
Chapter 5: scared by definition
Chapter summary: just when Ney is getting closer she pushes away but how long can they stay away from each other.
Warnings: the most annoying cliffhanger in the history of cliffhangers 😂🤣
Writer's note: i hope you will all have an incredible new year's eve.
Taglist; @xngelsau @sirensanction @reneyahh @thegrinch101 @geekwritersworld @chaotic-taco-collector-blog
@blondedjoys @maneaterss @inthemoonlightblue @iluvneyney @woozarts @missamericana69
Apologies if i forgot to tag anyone pls comment and I'll tag you on the next one!!
During the drive home Gabriella was singing Muchachos on top of her lungs and shaking Maggie who was sitting next to her, watching as she celebrated Argentina’s win against the Netherlands. A part of her wishes she could have gone and celebrated with the team but she also knew that it was dangerous, especially after the trick she pulled with hugging Neymar in the middle of the field.
Mid-verse she looked at Maggie who was scrolling on her phone.
“Would you stop worrying about that? There’s nothing connecting me to the figure. People don’t even know I’m in Qatar.”
“I’m still trying to understand what you were thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking, that’s the point.”
“The point of why you should stay away from him?”
Gabriella snatched the phone out of Maggie’s hand and held it up, so she wouldn’t reach it. “Enough with this please. I’m happy. I’m a nobody here. Yes, it was a mistake but you should have seen him.”
“I did see him.” She reached to get back her phone “He had the same look in his eyes that you had- “
“Maggie-“
“No, listen to me. I’m happy that you are happy and as much as I complain seeing you like this makes me proud. But I have a responsibility to handle the consequences. If the same shit happens, its gonna be on me.”
Gabriella let out a weak sigh and looked out her window. Her eyes melancholically searching for something to hold on. As they reached the house she noticed a figure, dressed in black, sitting on the steps, head low to his knees. She must have opened the door to ran to him before the car had even stopped because she tripped, scraping her knee against the pavement. She got back up quickly and reached his broken figure.
“Neymar” she called but got no response until the 5th time she tried. She slipped her hand under his chin, to force him to raise his head. His glowing eyes landed on her, red and hurt. She cupped his face, mumbling words to bring him to his senses but it got nowhere.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Said Maggie, standing behind her. She pulled out the keys quickly and went to open the door. Then she stood next to Neymar and helped Gabriella pull him up to his feet. Maggie tried to get him to lean more on her than Gabriella but he seemed to be preferring her warmth. They almost fell about three times while trying to get him up the stairs, stumbling on the steps or their own feet. “Why not just leave him in the leaving room?” asked Maggie. Gabriella didn’t answer.
They laid him on the bed. He’d whisper words in Brazilian that Gabriella wouldn’t catch and reach for her whenever she’d move away. She sat on the edge of the bed holding a wet towel on her hand and placed it on his head, patting his entire face with it. He moved a few inches trying to get away from it. Then she had him sit up with his back on the head of the bed, drinking an entire water bottle, despite his complaints or him pushing her hands away from his lips. He seemed to be getting back to his true self, his eyes focusing on her a little easier. She used the wet blanket again to stroke his head, then passed it over his eyes and his nose. As she passed it over his re opened his eyes, that stared at her and the towel reached his lips, where she kept it a little longer before pulling away. He reached quickly for her hand, even in his state, Antonella was right, when he wanted something, he needed no encouragement. She smiled weakly at him.
“This shit hasn’t stopped ringing.” Maggie said, walking inside the bedroom, handing the phone to Gabriella. Thiago Silva was calling him. She stood up to go in the hallway, he tried to reach for her again but his hand fell short on the mattress.
“I just need 2 minutes” She reassured him and went outside, signaling Maggie to stay with him for a while. She answered the phone, feeling a little awkward. “Thiago?” she asked. The other line stayed silent for a few seconds.
“Who’s this?” he asked, a little angry and angry.
“We met in the changing rooms after the game. I was with Neymar.”
“He’s with you?”
“Kinda. Yes.”
“What do you mean kinda?”
“He’s pretty out of it. Very drunk.”
She heard him cursing in Brazilian and closed her eyes, knowing that Neymar would probably be in trouble tomorrow.
“You want me to come get him?”
She didn’t expect that question. She didn’t know how to answer or what to say. If he asked Maggie, she’d say yes, no second thoughts. Maybe that was what was best for him. But Gabriella wasn’t sure, then-
“It won’t be necessary. I’ll take care of him and bring him in the base tomorrow.” She said, only understanding what she said after she heard herself saying it. She closed her eyes again, like she had let something wrong slip and she wanted to take it back. Thiago thanked her and hanged up, letting her return to him.
Neymar was now sitting on the edge of the bed, Maggie was standing a little farther away from him, trying to pull him up be the arm.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s about to throw up in your bed- “
“Am not!” he argued. Gabriella replaced Maggie, who after that left them alone and sat next to him.
“Don’t leave me alone with her again, she’s mean.” He mumbled, sounding and looking like a 5-year-old boy. Gabriella couldn’t help but laugh at that. Her smiled faded away to quickly when he saw his expression changing, like he was actually going to throw up. She helped him up and he ran in the bathroom of her room. Gabriella stayed outside as he practically closed the door on her face. She leaned on the doorframe, rubbing her eyes together while he was probably regretting all his life choices over the toilet. “There are extra toothbrushes and toothpaste on the second drawer.” She said loudly when there was silence from the other side. A few seconds later, she heard him opening the drawers and then the sink and then the sound of him brushing his teeth. When he came out, he looked more tired than before, leaning against the door, but somehow he managed a smile. It was weak bit it was a smile nonetheless.
“Do you have any pain killers?” he asked.
Gabriella’s heart sunk. She shook her head quickly “no!”
He seemed weirded out by her reaction but he didn’t have the strength to keep the conversation going.
“This is usually the part they say they’ll never have another drink ever again.” She said in a whisper, trying to lighten the mood. He scoffed and let his head hand; he didn’t even have strength to keep looking at her. “Come on” she prompted and helped him get back on the bed. When he sat down, she noticed his shirt was wet and dirty. Without really thinking about it she reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. He held his arms high, to make it easier for her. She gulped when she saw his bare chest and his six pack, standing frozen with his shirt on her hands. He caught her staring and smirked, slowly held her hands to take the shirt away from her. That movement awoke her and she looked in his eyes instead of his chest, seeing his naughty look. She pulled her hand away “Sleep” she ordered. She pulled back the sheets of the bed so he would lay under them. To her surprise he obeyed and laid down, his head sinking in the pillows. She covered him with the sheets, when she pulled them up to his chest, he held her hand again, this time interlocking their fingers.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Gabriella shook her hand and sat next to him, looking at their hands.
“It’s ok.” She strokes his skin with her thumb. “But you should have been more careful.”
“I know” he said in the same way she had said it after his loss. In a way that meant I don’t give crap anyway. She smiled incautiously at that. He moved their hands towards her direction, pointing at her. “Did they win?” he asked and only then she realized she was still wearing her Argentina hoodie. She wanted to slap herself in the face and he must have understood that because he was quick to tell her that it was fine “just tell me. It’s ok.” She nodded, unable to hide her smile and he smiled back, an honest smile “Si! Joder Leo!” He called, seeming happy for a few seconds. Gabriella was in awe; despite his loss he was still able to celebrate for his friend. “Was it a good game?”
“It was a mess” she answered quickly.
“Tell me about it.”
Gabriella hesitated “are you sure?”
He nodded. Gabriella started telling him about the referee that was giving out yellow cards like it was an UNO game during the match. She got up at some point to go and change and she’d tell him about all the fights that escalated between the two teams while she was in the bathroom. She told him about it seemed like a clear win for Argentina in the first half but everything changed in the second half.
“The penalties were fucking nuts as well-“she said coming out of the bathroom, that’s when she was faced with his sleeping figure. He looked so peaceful in her bad. She walked on the other side to lay next to him but over the cars, using her shirt as a cover instead. She stared at him, the lines on his face and his lips, rosy and kissable. If she let in her intrusive thoughts, she would have kissed him by now but instead she let herself fall asleep in the sound of his heartbeat and his breathing.
During the middle of the night Neymar woke up. Saw her laying next to him but as far away from him as she could and over the sheets. He moved as gently as he could so he wouldn’t wake her and pulled the sheets over her, the second she did that she moved in her sleep, closer to him and snuggled herself with the covers. He smiled and fell back asleep.
The two of them woke up again by the sound of loud knocking. She stood up quickly, scaring him and opened the door while he was trying to open his eyes. Rubbing them. He could hear yelling from the other side of the door, he sat up, feeling dizzy and confused and reached for his phone which was blowing up with massages from his PR manager.
Costas: GABRIELLA HAMILL?
That message alone was bad and enough to wake him up. He stood up and opened the door, the two girls were arguing in the hall but stopped when they saw him. Maggie glared at him, reminding him that he was shirtless.
“What happened?” he asked, walking over to them.
“You happened.” Said Maggie bitterly and walked down the stairs. Ney looked at Gabriella, who just handed him her phone.
“Puta...” he mumbled, reading the tweets.
“A fucking pair of shoes.” She cursed “I need coffee.” She went to the kitchen. Neymar went to quickly put on his shirt and went behind her, stumbling on some of the steps. She had already turned the coffee machine when he reached her.
“Gabriella- “
“Do you want coffee- of course you do, you’re hangover-“ she was moving around the kitchen like a robot, avoiding him in any ways she could. He couldn’t understand if she was angry at him or the media. “Sugar?” she asked, just when he was about to speak. He didn’t answer “I’ll leave it black.” She said then, pulling two cups and filling them “FUCK!” she cursed when she spilled some of it on her hand and let down the kettle, breathing loudly.
“We can play it off and ignore it. It will go away.”
She laughed at that. Sniffed her nose “caramel or cinnamon?” she asked. Neymar was completely taken aback by her reaction. He tried saying her name again but she asked louder “Neymar do you want caramel or cinnamon?” he didn’t answer. She waited for a few minutes before pushing the coffee away from her on the counter “it’s ready then.”
Neymar moved closer, taking hold of his cup. He watched her, putting sugar in hers.
“If we don’t say anything- “
“They’ll just find something to say themselves. Don’t act like you don’t know them.”
“Is it so bad to be seen with me?”
“it’s not about you Neymar!” she snapped, glancing up at him. “Not everything is about you.”
He scoffed, moving away from the counter and walking towards the kitchen table. She was back into being feisty with him and with everything that had happened he didn’t know how long he would be able to pretend its ok but he ignored her comment. Then she started speaking, keeping her gaze on the coffee, her back on him “Now that they know that I am in Qatar, they’ll never let it go. Same way they didn’t let it go in the past”
“But you’re here for your father-“
She halted her movements. Raised her head to look at him, her eyes shooting daggers. He was confused at what he said that was so wrong to her.
“How do you know that?”
He hesitated “You’ve talked about them in interviews-“
“I’ve never spoken about them on Camera! They’ve torn my life to pieces to find that information! You don’t know them! So don’t talk about them- “
“I think I know you enough!”
“You don’t!” she snapped, her voice loud and bitter “And I don’t know you that’s the problem but now we have to deal with this because I was goddamn stupid-“
“que passa Gabriella?” he asked, raising his voice and feeling a little annoyed by her outburst.
“Why are you digging into my past?”
“Why did you run on the field yesterday?”
“Because I felt sorry for you!” she said coldly. He knew she didn’t mean it but it still stunk. He looked at her hurt but she looked away.
“Wow” he exclaimed in disbelief. Lowering his head and clicking his tongue.
“That’s all it was. Same reason I took care of you last night.” She added, her sharp words cutting deeper.
“You know what, I’m gonna go. I’m sure you and your bodyguard will figure this out.” He left his cup down and stormed out of the house. Gabriella threw her spoon across the counter, letting it hit on the wall with a loud bang and slapped her fresh made cup of coffee on the sink, letting it break in pieces. Maggie appeared by the entrance, watching her. Gabriella took a towel to clean the spilled coffee.
“That wasn’t fair.” She said, making her look up confused.
“Since when are you on his side?”
“I’m not! But now that he’s part of this you might as well let him help.”
“He can’t help.” She shot back quickly and sat on the kitchen table, hiding her face in her palms. “He should stay as far away from me as possible.”
Maggie pulled back the chair next to her and sat down. “You have two choices. One of them is do what he said, ignore it and keep hiding but you risk making a bigger story that way. You look guilty. The other is going out, showing your face, making it seem like you just wanted to keep a low profile and you were never really hiding- hey look at me, it’s not going to be like 2020. It will be a small story about Qatar and it’s not going to get into politics.”
“I can’t go through the same thing.” Her eyes began to stink with tears. Memories of crowds outside her hotel and the headlines, the news like a mob surrounding her. Like she had done a crime, she hid deeper in her palms.
“You won’t. People are gonna be more interested in you and Neymar than Qatar and you don’t have to answer to anything. I’m not a fan of you being connected to him but what is done is done. Look at me-“ Gabriella uncovered her face, to look at Maggie. “Don’t let them define this for you…” she stroked her face “We’ll get through this. We’ve been through worst.”
Gabriella nodded “I know… I know… I just really wanted these two weeks to be normal...” Maggie held her hands smiling.
“I think that ship sailed when you met Mr. trouble.” She laughed. Gabriella wiped her tears, sniffing back her sobs.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to him the way I did.” She groaned, rubbing her face “he lost a game last night and no he has to deal with me and this…” she mumbled.
“I mean… You can always apologize.” Maggie whispered, looking down.
“you’re actually encouraging me to go speak to him?”
“never said that.” She smiled.
BRAZIL BASE – QATAR
Gabriella walked out of the base, hoping that she would find him there. Instead, she met Thiago, who seemed in a rush. She reached her hand to him but his bodyguard stopped her so she called his name, making him turn and look at her. He signaled his bodyguard that it’s ok and walked over to her.
“Is he upstairs?” she asked.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said bluntly. Then motioned his head for her to follow him and snuck her in the hotel.
“Why is everyone packing?” she asked, seeing all the suitcases on the hallways and the players carrying them outside.
“Most of them are going back home tonight. The others have to move somewhere else now that we lost.”
She wanted to ask what was Neymar doing but she didn’t. Thiago led her down the hall to Neymar’s room, careful not to be seen by anyone. He knocked on the door twice. Neymar answered in in Brazilian that he was coming and later opened the door, holding it a tower of shirts on his hand. He was also packing. He froze when he saw her and for a moment Ella thought, he’d shut the door on her face but instead he opened it wider, let her in.
“You have 10 minutes.” Warned Thiago to which Neymar nodded. Gabriella looked around the room, one suitcase was closed and the other half full. Neymar walked past her to continue.
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
“Yeah. No need to feel sorry anymore.”
“I didn’t mean it.” She responded. Neymar kneeled on the floor, placing the shirts on the suitcase. He didn’t answer anything to her. So, she moved closer, sitting on the bed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok.” He whispered.
“Ney please look at me, I’m sorry.” He stood still. Moved his head just a little so she could see his face. “Can we go somewhere? Talk alone?”
“We are alone.”
“Thiago will come in here any minute now.”
“It’s not like we are gonna be naked if he does-“
“Neymar!”
He sighed, turned his attention back on the suitcase “Let me pack and we’ll go.”
She couldn’t help herself so she asked “why are you packing?”
“I have to move to another apartment until I get back to Brazil.”
“So, you’re not going back right away?” she asked, hopeful. He must have heard the hope in her voice because he smiled and gave her a knowing look.
“No, I’m not.”
After Neymar packed, she got in the car with him, music playing to fill the silence as the sun was going down. He stopped the car on the same hill they were a couple of nights ago. The music fell short as the engine turned off as well. She wanted him to speak first, it would make her feel more comfortable but he never did and she couldn’t blame him considering the way she had reacted before.
“I don’t like people talking about my parents.” She finally said “Not unless I’ve spoken to them about it myself. I deliberately never answer questions about them… still the media has found a way to make stories about them. People think they know them and my relationship with them. It’s annoying.” She explained, all the time looking away from him. He stared at the steering wheel, holding it tightly. “That’s why I snapped.” She waited for him to say something but he never did so she finally looked at him. She couldn’t quite translate his expression, if he was sad or angry or if he was accepting her apology. “Please say something.” She prompted. Neymar turned her gaze to him.
“Why are you so terrified of the headlines?” he asked her. “You should be used to it by now.”
“I wasn’t always like this.” She explained “It was after…” her voice trailed off “after the incident that I even considered on letting go of my career completely. Having people share their opinion about you twenty-four seven is one thing but… I was used as a political weapon. That was completely different. I don’t want to go through that ever again. It came with a lot of consequences.” She shivered just remembering the yelling.
“Who leaked the information about the abortion?” She looked at the street. Peter’s face came in her mind like a glimpse. She trembled at the thought. Then she felt his hand on her thigh and she turned to look at him.
“It doesn’t matter who leaked it. What followed was hell. I was used by the republicans to attack the democrats, meanwhile I was trying to recover emotionally and physically… the man I loved ha turned his back on me and couldn’t get out of my house because I was followed and attacked wherever I’d go. Shit like that messes with your head really bad, you know?” she hadn’t realized she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips “and they didn’t know… none of them knew what I was going through, or why…” she took in a deep breath, sobbing in between her sentences. There was so much more she wasn’t saying to him about the rehab center, about the months she spent locked in her house and how she was just rebuilding her life and her career “When the worst was over, I kept a low profile. They still found a way to make my life a story. Any men seen around me is my boyfriend or a one-night stand.” She wiped her tears “Neymar, I’m scared-“
“Is it because of my past?” he wondered leaning closer.
She laughed in between her sobs “You’re not exactly the most uncontroversial person in the world.” He let his head hang. Out of instinct, she cupped it in between her hands, she felt the need to look in his ocean eyes. The eyes that had hypnotized her in these last few days to do things, she’d never actually do. She wanted to kiss him, everything in her wanted to kiss him, become his, sink in his touch and his perfume. “It’s not just about you. It’s about me too… I have a feeling that if we start this it’s gonna go crazy fast. I’m not gonna be able to control it. Think about what is going to happen in just a few days when you go back to brazil and I go back to work. They’ll eat us both alive-“ she looked at his lips.
“Why should my past define whether I can have the future I want?” he asked, leaning his forehead on hers.
“What is that?” she asked whispering, knowing what her breath on his lips was doing to him.
“You.”
Can you smell the smoke? It's the steamy next couple of chapters 👀 comment to unlock them!!
#neymar#neymar one shot#neymar imagines#neymar jr#neymar x reader#neymessi#mbappe imagines#mbappe x reader#football writing#football requests
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Pairing: ceo!Jongin x journalist!Reader
Genre: CEO AU
Rating: T for language
Summary: You confront him and find you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
Word Count: 1.6k 😭 he said fuck a drabble
Warnings: invasion of personal space with no clear consent as well as a kiss, ends on a cliffhanger because I'm putting the smut in its own post, they low-key admit to stalking each other, it's a messy situation but I promised i'd share so here we are.
If it hadn’t been for the flash of headlights when he unlocked his car, you wouldn’t have spotted him. Your source swore on his mother’s grave the rumor was true, that he’d seen it himself, and now you owed him five hundred bucks. All in the name of journalism.
One of the more infamous Kims, Jongin was a master of deception. He avoided the paparazzi with ease and turned down all attempts to interview him. But not tonight, not this time. You double checked your recorder was ready and left your hiding spot in the shadows.
“Mr. Kim!” You jogged over, careful not to touch his shiny Maserati lest he accuse you of vandalism on top of harassment. “Fancy seeing you out this late. Got a minute?”
He looked around bewildered until his gaze landed on you and his eyes narrowed as he kept eye contact. “Whatever it is the answer’s ‘no’, ‘no comment’, or ‘fuck off.’”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” you muttered as you scrambled to put yourself between him and the driver’s door. “Like what you’re doing here at Oh Sehun’s penthouse at,” you checked your watch, “two in the morning. Wow. Kinda late for any business meetings, isn’t it?” You looked up at him with a smirk. “But then again, aren’t you two ‘sworn rivals’ who refuse to work together?”
“Get out of my way before I call the police.” His voice was monotone, utterly bored even though the show had barely started. “I’ll make sure to have my attorney contact your boss about personal space and stalking.”
“Look, I’ll cut the shit if you do to the same.” You shifted your weight to your other leg as you pulled out a stack of polaroids your source had given you. “It looks like some secret love affair between rivals, but I know better. I’ve seen the numbers after these little visits. Tell me you two aren’t secretly working together to maximize your company’s profits.”
He blinked a few times. “What?”
“Stock manipulation is fraud, Kim. This is so close to insider trading I can smell the SEC crawling out of their sewer hole.” You palmed the recorder hidden in your pocket, reassuring yourself you could do it. You could go in for the kill. “All I have to do is turn in my findings and they’ll jump at the chance to bring you both down. Imagine what it’ll do to your company, your reputation.”
He was quiet as he processed your words, eyes still focused on you. You could almost see the gears in his head turning. When he spoke, his voice was low, just above a whisper that you weren’t sure would pick up on your recorder. “Are you sure you want to go that route?”
The threat left you uneasy, but it wasn’t unexpected. You knew this could happen given who he was and the money he had at his disposal. “Are you? I admit, I’m just one person. If I disappear there’s not many who’d miss me. But once the accusation’s out there, no one will ever let you forget it, especially with the evidence I’ve gathered.”
He blinked a few times as his head slowly tilted to the side. It was possible he’d get violent. You weren’t even sure he was unarmed. You’d had the sense to send a backup of your files to your coworker, Minhee, along with a scheduled email to your supervisor, but you hadn’t processed that meant you wouldn’t see either of them again. A slow smirk curved his lips and he took a step forward into your personal space.
“You’re so brave, you know that?” He put a hand on top of his car over your shoulder and leaned in. “And so smart. Anyone else would keep their distance and make wild assumptions, but not you. Oh, no. You were a good girl and had to be thorough.” One of his cold fingertips traced your cheek. “I have to admit, I admire that level of dedication.”
The switch in his demeanor was sudden. It felt like your head was actually spinning. “I’m sorry?”
“You don’t get to where I am without knowing everyone, _____. And I’ve known about you for a while now.” He reached into your pocket, closed his hand around yours, and pressed stop on the recorder. “I’ve heard all about your exceptional detective work, about your award winning articles, and your addiction to danger.” He bit his bottom lip. “Can I let you in on a little secret?”
Mindfuck couldn’t even begin to cover your mental state at the moment. All you could do was nod dumbly.
He leaned against you, slotting his thigh between yours, and said, “This is the most trouble I’ve ever gone through to get closer to someone.” His fingers lightly traced over your coat before settling on your waist. “Will you make it worth my time?”
You blinked away the stupor and leaned back to look up, bringing your faces mere inches away from each other. “I’m not stupid enough to fall for your schemes. I know what I saw and what I’ve found.”
He nodded. “And I know people who can hack networks and databases and manipulate the information you find. I know your most trusted source would say anything for the right amount of money. For fuck’s sake, I’m the king of the fashion industry. If anyone knows how to set the stage, it’s me.” His hands moved up to your waist and gently pulled you back to him. “Everything you think you know is all a part of my show.”
For the first time since you’d stepped out that night, you felt the cold. The chill seeped through your gloves and boots and into your skin, right down to the bone. “B-bullshit. You’re full of—”
“I could be, sure. You’re more than welcome to file a report. Go public and tell the world how I’m a wolf in sheep’s skin. My PR team and lawyers will have it all swept away by the time you go to sleep.” He shrugged. “Whatever makes you feel better. I won’t hold it against you. As long as you’ll reward me for working so hard.”
You put a hand on his chest with barely enough push behind it to keep him from getting closer. “Reward you? How would I—”
“Come home with me, pretty girl.” His voice dropped to a murmur as his thigh moved higher. “Just give me one night. Need to see you spread out on my bed, tangled in my sheets. Gotta know how you taste, what sounds you make.”
You grabbed his arms and squeezed. “You want me to believe you risked your reputation just to get me in bed? That’s outrageous!”
The lust in his eyes gave way to a confused frown. “I take it flattery doesn’t do it for you?”
“Not when it’s obvious bullshit. I’ll take my chances.” You pushed a little harder and he took a step back, putting his hands into the pockets of his slacks to adjust them. Popping a boner to sell his story was a bit much, but maybe he was really committed to the lie. You’d heard of stories of millionaires getting into kinky, stupid shit because they were bored and could wipe their ass with money. If this wasn’t some clever way to cover his ass and keep the SEC out of his business, it was entirely possible he’d really orchestrated everything. But for you? Nah.
Unless…
“Can you prove it?” It took a lot of willpower to look him in the eyes and not shy away. “Can you prove everything you’ve done? To trick me, I mean. Prove to me you’re not committing fraud.”
That smile returned. “Of course. I accounted for your skepticism, and since I was already leaving a trail for you to follow, made a backup on a flash drive. Of course, that’s at my place.” His eyes trailed down your body and back up. “It’s just a short ride from here.”
“You want me to follow you to your place?” You poked a thumb in the direction of your car.
He shook his head. “It’d be much easier if you just rode with me.” He gestured to his car. “Just hop in and we’ll be on our way.”
You threw up your hands. “If you’re gonna kill me, just do it here and be done with it! Or let me go home so you can pay someone else to do it.”
“I already told you. How many other ways do I need to spell it out for you?” He took a step forward. “I’ve had my eyes on you.” Another step. “And l want you bad enough to go through all this trouble,” he caged you up against his car, “just to get you right here, just like this. I wanna kiss you so bad, pretty girl. Bet you taste better than I imagine. The innocent ones always do.”
He leaned in and you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore the growing spark of desire he’d ignited. His lips were cold, but the way he moaned upon contact with yours was enough to forget the sensation. His hands cradled your head, keeping you in place as he ghosted his lips over your mouth. A quick swipe of his tongue left a chill over your bottom lip before he pulled away.
“Don’t make me get on my knees and beg, baby. Get in the car.”
⟨⟨ Series ML || Group ML || Next ⟩⟩
#exo-writers-net#kvanity#exo ceo au#exo as rich kids#exo imagines#exo scenarios#ceo!jongin#jongin x reader#jongin x you#exo smut#jongin smut#kai x reader#kai x you#kai smut#exo kai#exo jongin#this ran away from me#it had hands#he doesn't allow me to drabble
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I may have ultra binged SSSBMTY in 2-3 days and i’m. IM NOT OKAY WITH THE CLIFFHANGER BUT ALSO IM VERY THANKFUL THIS IS SO FUCKIN GOOD!!! I’m also nonbinary and I really love seeing Ed navigating the Trauma ™️ and just, how everyone supports them and even how villains can be respectful about it. Ed’s chaotic ass but also their resolve is beautiful. Thank you so much for this work of love, but also: that fucking cliffhanger is going to make me reread this fic until it updates.
One Piece villains condone murder and torture but draw the line at homophobia. You heard it here first folks.
Low-key I just got tired of doing the “yeh these are my pronouns thanks” song and dance every time they ran into someone new (also low-key because it’s exhausting in real life, other nb people the struggle is REAL) so now you just get to assume on the poster along with their list of crimes it says “NOT A WOMAN NOT A MAN BUT A SECRET THIRD, WORSE, THING” and that’s just something everyone has to live with 😌
Y’all are soooooo mad at the cliffhanger lmaoooooooooooo. Shit time to finish ready babe you did it to yourself ❤️
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A LOVE LETTER TO THIS IS US 🍋💌☁️
/for full ambiant experience click on the audio before continuing\
I still can't believe two summers ago I decided to give This Is Us a try, fell in love and binge-watched the whole 5 seasons available.
Every night, I would get to cooking in a very romanticized fashioned way à la Nancy Meyers main character, pour myself a nice fresh drink as people still enjoyed the warmth of the early evening hours.
By the time dinner was ready, world would accordantly settle for peacefulness as I made my way to the couch to get all cozy and snuggly.
Here would begin, the events I was truly not prepared for..
In just under 2 episodes, I was now finding myself unexpectedly and completely invested, all thanks to the writers for having done such a terrific job on the dialogues, cliffhangers and time traveling. For approximately the next two weeks following, my nights were paced up by This Is Us and driven by my own hunger to find out: what on earth happened to the Pearson family?
From the very first episode, --- which features one of the most beautiful closing scene I've seen on television along Labi Siffre's song "Watch Me" --- up to the last episode of season 1, emotions would come to the surface, hitting a specific spot within me...
By episode 14 from season 2 it was clear, if not clear then, that the tissu box would be kept close by for the remaining time of the entire series.
Imagine some stranger dropping on you some hard facts about life, death, society issues, love, mental health... to sum it up: YOURSELF.
precisely, accurately and totally out of the blue. 😃
As the seasons went on, I was admiring how the flashbacks and foreshadowing started to merge all together into one. It would only get all the more brilliant with each new episode I was discovering.
The show succeeded in giving its audience a range of life observations to think about. Therapy-wise, if you couldn't afford a therapist, This Is Us was there for you. I still rely on and appreciate many of the thoughtful and life inspiring excerpts.
Moreover, it delivered the people with a brand new music playlist. Yes, another key element to all this greatness is the symbiosis between the storylines and the soundtrack. Hold my Spotify, to this day I still listen to the score in my bed, to meditate, to get dreamy. I've also come to discover wonderful artists and can hardly detach their songs from the show as it gave their melodies a new sense of clarity and depth.
When having finished the fifth season, I was desperate for more but afraid to google the show and potentially find out it had been canceled.... which is NOT what happened of course because we're talking about thee show that has garnered over 17 million views in less than 3 days for its trailer alone. alright lovelies?
And so just like that, comfortable in my bed and all up to date, the sixth and finale season of This Is Us was premiered in early 2022.
Only couple of months after having cried an ocean over its past seasons, -- if reminder was needed --, I emotionally began this last chapter of what felt in some parts like my own life portrayed on screen. ✨hopes were high - tissu box storage ran low.✨
Season 6 would open to a flashbacks filled episode echoing Season 1, already preparing us for closure and ultimately heartbreaks. Eventually some people were a bit disappointed by the simplicity of the final episode, but the last minute or so really brought it all up for me. It was ending, right there before our very eyes and it was beautifully executed. The ultimate disappointment would have been to not experience any shivers, but that never happened, the show always got in my feelings in one way or another.
The empty boxes of kleenex that I've been sitting on can testify, your honor.
Last but not least, an aspect of the show that I've truly enjoyed is that all characters and actors were given dedicated moments to shine.
The chemistry between them was real, felt and seen both on and off the big screen and that's precious. I miss this cast.
This year, just a few weeks away from my birthday, there'll be no new Jack Pearson butt to be seen, no mothering singing Rebecca, no anxious Randall, no queen Beth, no indecisive Kevin, no self sabotaging Kate and oh do I miss them all. But I am so grateful for the people behind this project and their creative genius that bought us such a magnificent television program. I had low expectations, it now holds a special place in my heart like no other tv series.
This Is Us did not just narrate a story about some random family, it narrated life authentically at its worst and finest. With poetry and grace, it presented different storylines for each and every single one of us to identify, it offered us our very own reflection, and an opportunity to change, learn, heal or grow. This is the reason why so many of us worldwide described it as close to home,
because This Is Us.
🎂 And a very happy (late) birthday to our boo
Milo Ventimiglia (08/07/1977) 💘
#milo ventimiglia#mandy moore#this is us#tiu#tiuedit#i am so grateful for this#filmedit#doyouevenfilm#my gifs#mental health#televisongifs#jack pearson#rebecca pearson#Spotify
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Twenty Questions
Thank you @cupofteaandstars for the tag!
1. How many works do you have on AO3? 16, plus a Spanish translation a friend did of one of my works.
2. What's your total AO3 word count? 73,165, for now.
What fandoms do you write for? Exclusively Stranger/Secret Forest and related crossovers, although there was that one Andor one that I just had to put out there to cope with the intensity of my feelings about the cliffhanger season ending.
What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
It's a close race among some of these, but:
gamsa
chilyo
chib
heonsin
haengbok (with maengse only one behind at the moment)
Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
I do, always! I'm honestly always so astounded and delighted to think of someone reading my work while I'm just out here having a normal Monday or Tuesday, and want to express that delight.
What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
Oh boy, just you wait.
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Since all things Si-mok and Yeo-jin related (or Stranger-in-general-related) are usually bittersweet, probably inyeon, a relatively recent one. However, the one that leaves me with the warmest feeling at the end is actually pyeongsaeng.
Do you get hate on fics?
Fortunately not! I've gotten a few weird comments once or twice but nothing mean-spirited.
Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
I do not, and the few times I've been tempted I have realized swiftly that I'm not cut out for it.
Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
Only within the Stranger/SF multiverse so far - in other words, AUs for Stranger/SF that are based on Bae Doona and CSW's other works, which I think of as other lives of Si-mok and Yeo-jin.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Ditto Cup, not that I know of. I would go absolutely off-the-charts feral in order to get the copycat fic taken down.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
I have! My IRL best friend of many years graciously wrote me a Spanish translation of chib.
What's your all-time favorite ship?
Eh, I'm not really a shipper...? HOWEVER, @ohyangchon has given me massive Changjae feelings and I love their relationship so much.
What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?
Scenes just sort of seem to come to me, and once they're there I don't stop until they eventually coalesce into a complete story, no matter how long that takes to find its shape. I do have an extensively Yeo-jin and Si-mok inspired novel (low-key sci-fi? space opera?) that has been nagging at me for years, but I don't think that one will ever amount to anything.
What are your writing strengths?
I'd like to think I inhabit the voices of the characters well.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Pacing, probably?
Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
Similar to Cup's thoughts, this is difficult because I feel like sometimes names, titles, and terms of address in particular just don't have the same nuance and feeling translated from Korean into English-- especially the terms of address that Si-mok and Yeo-jin and others use for each other. Therefore, sometimes I do transliterate. Also, as I become a little bit more comfortable IRL speaking Korean, where practical I sometimes find myself wanting to mimic the Korean clause order/speech patterns of sentences even while writing in English.
First fandom you wrote for?
I think it must have been a gift fic in the Redwall fandom (never made it to AO3, but a cozy and comforting thing to work on)
Favorite fic you've written?
I love all my children equally!!! But I do think I did some really great character work in bohoja, one of my works on a more underrated duo (Si-mok and Mr. Kang). I usually am pretty self-critical, but there are a few lines in there that I always read and think "damn, who wrote that???" XD
Who hasn't been spoken for? Tagging @gottagobuycheese, @inkingtwice, and @michyeosseo as well as anyone else who's interested!
#my original fic#stranger#tvn stranger#forest of secrets#secret forest#stranger 2#tvn stranger 2#forest of secrets 2#secret forest 2#*gasp* personal information about me????#only Cupofteaandstars and ohyangchon could have dragged this out of me
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youtube
Mobile Suit Gundam SEED Freedom 4th Official PV
Reactions to each scene:
So why Kira was surprised on Lacus' decision to fight with him?
Why did Kira also handover a new Torii to Lacus?
Gotta admit I like Luna's shot in this trailer
Agnes irritating Shinn. Mocking him maybe?
Apron Lacus is 😍. Waifu mode ON. Surely Kira and Lacus are living together based on number of plates and other utensils right?
Those Foundation brats are up to something.
New ship alongside with Archangel. Design look like Minerva but yeah was kinda hoping it would be like the Nahel Argama.
That Kira monologue at the end. What are you gonna do Kira?
Translations on this trailer:
Lacus at the beach: "I too want to fight alongside you."
Kira monologue at the end: "There's no end to this battle, What I can do is..."
(It's a cliffhanger guys)
Thoughts:
I think my question of Kira being surprised on Lacus decision and his monologue of what will he gonna do, That's where the movie's climax would revolve around to.
So what do you all think what Kira's gonna do? Me think this is the part where he fall into darkness and do something extreme or he is doing borderline suicidal action either to his cause or to save Lacus or he will do something akin to the Zero Requiem of Code Geass.
Also this affiliation chart:
Looks like Blue Cosmos is doing its usual war crimes. Interesting though the Foundation requests a team up with the Compass in order to stop Blue Cosmos. But I think Foundation has that hidden agenda that will lead to the downfall of the Compass. As I thought Athrun is somehow a spy sent by Orb and I think he will be assisted by Meyrin. Maybe they are spying on the Foundation?
Good thing Bandai has released this so we can have a hint on what is going on in Cosmic Era.
Highlights of the Trailer:
This Apron Lacus. Pretty sure she is living with Kira which it is also mentioned on the first OMAKE quarters drama. Good to see her being a woman doing some household chores. Can't wait to see how Kira behaves on their home.
And also this:
This is Lacus the politician. We can see how hardened she is here compared to the Apron Lacus. I really think that only Kira understands who she really is and as a woman. I'm interested to see how shaken will she be if there are misunderstandings with Kira. I'm really interested on how she will let go of her politician ego and just become a woman that shows emotions to the man she loves. In the end though I just want these two to retire and be with each other with the rest of their lives because they deserve it.
Bring on the drama!!!
Final Thoughts:
As I mentioned on my previous post, this movie is a love story of Kira and Lacus. It is the plot they first planned back then and was scrapped because of the delays and moved on that they prefer a plot that matches up to the conflict of modern times. But yeah still glad that Fukuda went back to this. All those years of rewatching the series, I really want a story that focuses on Kira and especially Lacus because they kinda lack on DESTINY. That's why people misunderstood her and don't really have that much fanfics with her.
I'm low key hoping that there would be a part 2 of this movie based on how thick the script is. The scripts are two A4 phonebook thick. But yeah I'll take what Fukuda has cooked for us.
Cant wait for the movie, I'm more hyped for it than the upcoming Christmas. It is less than 70 days away now 😁
#gundam seed freedom#gundam seed#gundam seed destiny#kira yamato#lacus clyne#shinn asuka#lunamaria hawke#athrun zala#mobile suit gundam seed#mobile suit gundam seed destiny#mobile suit gundam seed freedom#Youtube
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Submariner Summer 23
Hey hey everyone its time for #SubmarinerSummer read through, part 23. Diving into Tales to Astonish #90: To Be Beaten By BYRRAH! The cover paints quite the tableau, too. Byrrah, a Golden Age rival of Namor, now makes his Silver Age debut to bedevil our sea prince once more.
On the Title page, we are quickly reintroduced to him just as his long-laid plans to destroy Namor are ready to begin. The fiend! Truly an appropriate antagonist for issues with art by Bill Everett, and I'm sure that's no coincidence. Also dig those Forbush water ballets! 🤭
Fair warning, I'm likely to get a little ranty since this ish leans on a key element of Namor lore that deserves highlighting. Case in point: racism. Namor has faced it his whole life from other Atlanteans, including and perhaps especially from other royal Atlanteans
Being mixed-race has been a challenge he's had to struggle with; his arrogance, insisting on his own worth and excellence, is a *response* to that struggle. He'll show them who's a "mongrel" "half-breed"; and of course, his physical power has been his avenue to that validation.
Of course its no easier for him on the surface; he doesn't even pass for *human*, let alone white (he's typically described as looking asian, traditionally, if he's described in human terms). He is absolutely always an outsider there. So why is Namor so angry all the time?
Lol. Rofl. LMAO, even. Why *wouldn't* he be?
ANYWAY, back to Byrrah, blond racist of Atlantis. He's been biding his time, using his aristocratic influence building up trust and influence with people and connections that will help him take control for his own selfish gain
Now he sees his chance, and starts a full public relations campaign, painting himself as peace-loving and Namor as a warmonger, as well as a "freak" who's just dumb and strong because again, metaphorical racism. And it seems to work well as people start to call for a plebiscite
Of course, he's pulling this little Game of Thrones move while Namor is away. Luckily, Lord Vashti comes to let him know. Namor doesn't believe it could work, but Vashti disavows him of that, so Namor returns to Atlantis to try and counter Byrrah.
Byrrah had planned for just that, and takes the opportunity to demand a royal challenge for Namor calling him a coward. This seems counterintuitive, since Namor is more powerful, so Dorma is suspicious, as is Vashti, but Namor is Namor, and Byrrah knows him well...so its on!
Incidentally, this is like the third trial by combat we've seen; seems pretty ingrained in Atlantean culture. Makes for exciting stories of course, but also lends context to Namor solving things by insisting on fighting about it since he sees himself as embodiment of his culture.
At any rate, it doesn't take long for Byrrah to start using loopholes to gain an advantage on Namor. Namor has advatages of his own, of course, but Byrrah was two steps ahead, and doses Namor with a strength-draining chemical applied via saw-fish. Ah yes, oldest trick in the book, saw-fish injection
Now weakened, Namor is unable to take down Byrrah, who takes the offensive and delivers the knock-out blow on Namor. Imperius Rex?
Namor is devastated, of course. But not because of his loss so much as that the people have turned against him and cheer his enemy. Dorma and Vashti try to comfort him, but Namor is worried that all his enemies will now team-up, dooming Atlantis and then the rest of the world!
Call me crazy, but I like the internal Atlantean politics stories, bringing back the racism against Namor that would pop up in the Golden Age and will pop up in future stories, delivered by a Golden Age adversary that's fun to dislike as a low schemer in Byrrah.
The art really works for the story too, Everett hasn't lost a step. The man knows Atlantis, and he adds in little details that remind me of the Golden Age Atlanteans/"submariners", which is cool to see if you've read Namor's oldest stories.
But, our cliffhanger left Namor at this low point, and NEXT we'll see what happens in the reign of Prince Byrrah of Atlantis in Tales To Astonish 91: Outside The Gates Waits Death!
#submariner summer#submariner#namor the sub mariner#namor#namor the first#namor of atlantis#byrrah of atlantis#lord byrrah#byrrah#lady dorma#dorma#lord vashti#vashti#trial by combat#to be beaten by byrrah#tales to astonish#marvel comics#marvel#silver age comics
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Do you suspect that we'll soon see Madam Red AKA Rachael's sister Angela, as a bizarre doll acting as a nun doctor/nurse at the F.O.L. orphanage?
Madam Red at F. O. L.?
No. And not just because I don't think she should be brought back as a bizarre doll.
Storytelling-wise, it won't help anyone for her to be at the orphanage. Makes sense for Doll to end up there, since this might give Snake some closure... while it emotionally scars him. And one bizarre doll there is enough.
But Snake never met Madam Red, so she would mean nothing to him. Finny did briefly meet her, but he has no personal ties to her... and he knows she's dead, so seeing her there would probably make Finny go into berserker mode or something. Automatic red flag 🚩 for sure! If someone he knows is dead shows up there, it would take all his attention away from Doll, and that could be disastrous.
Besides, which blood type would Madam Red require... or would she be more like Agares at Weston? There already isn't enough blood to go around for the lords of the stars. And, unless Layla/Al needs to be replaced, there's no need for another advanced bizarre doll. Madam Red could only replace Layla/Al if their blood types are the same. We also have to keep in mind the fact that these assignments are happening at the same time:
Mey-Rin and Ran-Mao are dealing with Jane and Heathfield, who each mention the idea of reviving the dead with souls of the same shape. Blood is definitely being collected. There's no reaper present, and everyone survives. Jane leaves but gives a cliffhanger that she might return. Heathfield is arrested. Polaris gets the details and reports back to Undertaker and real Ciel.
Baldo and Lau are getting help from Ada and a reaper (Ronald) while dealing with a bizarre doll (Layla/Al) and delivery people for the blood that's obviously being collected. So far, the only deaths have been those delivery people sent by the Aurora Society (and a couple unfortunate pigs). William shows up just in time to help Ronald with Layla/Al. But there is a huge cliffhanger here, because we don't know:
If Ronald and William get Layla/Al to the reaper organization.
If Baldo and the others get out of and completely away from the sanatorium before the Aurora Society finds out and sends someone, like Polaris, after them.
What report will be made to Undertaker and real Ciel, by whom.
Finny and Snake should get help from someone (not sure who just yet) to deal with Doll (and possibly someone else on the staff). We haven't met the head chef and some of the other staff members, and there's still a chance for a reaper to show up. If we don't see a reaper, chances are good that everyone at the orphanage survives (except Doll, but only by default). I'm hoping that Finny and Snake can save Ginny (the Corgi girl who isn't fond of horses) from her premature fledging day. But there's so much going on here, and I'm not sure how Theo holds the key to it all... unless he starts talking about Doll's other "friends", since he's already shown discomfort when Doll refers to Snake and Finny as her friends. There might be another major cliffhanger, or we might get an outcome with a report. Idk 🤷🏻♀️
Our earl and Sebastian are at the resort hotel in Brighton, and all we know is that the person who runs it is associated with the Aurora Society, the quality is top-notch while the rates are low, and some people supposedly like the place so much that they extend their holidays to stay. Honestly, I think that's (mostly) a lie... and that the truth is more like people are being kept against their wills (kind of like all those maids being drugged at Heathfield's manor) for blood collection. They might not keep everyone, but they must be keeping quite a few beyond their original plans. Those who are still there of their own accord, however, probably are quite pleased with the services. Some might be giving blood willingly, believing it's a health benefit.
Again, all of these assignments are overlapping in the timeline. That means Finny and Snake are at the orphanage and already interacting with Doll before Ronald and William capture Layla/Al. At this time, no one knows that Layla/Al might be incapacitated. So, there's no known need to replace a lord. And I doubt Undertaker keeps backups ready to go. Not when we are talking about such advanced bizarre dolls.
Only the last assignment, with our earl and Sebastian at the resort hotel, might continue past the other three. Reports might reach them about the other assignments while they are still there. Undertaker and real Ciel might show up at the end of the Brighton assignment, forced to confront our earl and Sebastian directly, because the other three facilities have been shut down by our earl's other helpers.
By then, what point would there be in someone saying to our earl that Madam Red's reanimated corpse showed up at the orphanage in Norfolk? No point at all. I mean, I guess he'd be shocked, since he attended her funeral and, presumably, also her burial. So, it would anger him that Undertaker would either dig her body back up or bury her casket without her body inside. But... it truly might not hit him too hard without seeing her himself. So. Really not much point, story-wise, for her to be at the orphanage, where our earl doesn't see her with his own eyes.
#black butler#kuroshitsuji#madam red#angelina dalles#angelina durless#fol orphanage#orphanage#bizarre dolls#minnesotamermaid71#asks#i answer#answered asks#feb 19 2023#timeline#overlapping
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I'm sorry but- A GENUINE HOLY SHIT FOR THAT ENDING!?
Now you're making me wonder how Leon would've reacted to the gun (considering that his reflexes are probably pretty sharp or something now) or how Nora would grow up? 😨 CLIFFHANGERS MAN
The small timeskip, the talk of Ada giving a gun, SIMMONS AND WESKER LOW-KEY WORKING TOGETHER? LEON CALLING OUT ADA'S BS? AND L U I S? Love Luis man, always will be alive in my head!
Ugh, the idea of Plagas Leon speaking through your head and just slowly getting more monstrous? Gold, amazing, chef's kiss, I LOVE THAT ABOUT YOUR PLAGAS LEON WRITING?? How he just honestly becomes more fucked up 😭 LIKE IT'S REALISTIC??
AHHH, THANK YOU FOR WRITING SUCH GOOD ASS SHIT THOUGH OMG?? OWNDOEJEJ
Sorry, I'm just really happy cause I loved the finale :(( I wonder what else you'll have in store for us! Can't wait to be able to read more of what you write! (I forgot if you said you also wanted to finish another series this year but I forgot 😭 Not in a pressuring way just genuine curiosity cause forget a lot of things </3)
TAKE A BREAK!! So happy I got to finish it and that you got to finish it!
Did someone cut onions in here? No? Oh... 😭
Jokes aside, sincerely, thank you. This winter was especially hard on me and there were points it was next to impossible to find motivation to write because I didn't feel like my writing was worth it.
Clearly, I was very wrong to think that.
He Comes Alive is something I'm seriously proud of and I learned a TON while writing that. I'm hoping to take what I learned and apply that to There's Nowhere to Run and finally get that finished up, too
After that? Who knows, I've got other ideas bouncing around in my head, just gotta find one that sticks.
Again, thank you!
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