#I am DEEP in the trenches you would not believe

[yallemagne]

The Morph obsession is getting to me. Most of my creative ideas right now are "I want to see x character interact with Morph" be that in written or comic format. It has gotten to the point where one of the scenarios in my head is: "I want to see Morph interact with Morph."

Which is. Which is insane.

Specifically, I am talking about TAS/'97 Morph interacting with the Morph from Exiles. Because while they are the same character, they are also quite different. Just for example: the former is nonbinary while the latter is pretty firmly a man. I wouldn't call Exiles Morph a cis man because technically he was Assigned Blob At Birth and was raised as a boy? Who knows? Technicalities.

I personally headcanon that TAS Morph shares the same base backstory as Exiles Morph: their mother died when they were 13 which led to a strained relationship with their father who later enrolled them in Xavier's school to be rid of them. Then, after graduating with a masters in computer engineering, they joined the X-Men. Little differences are that Exiles Morph led the New Mutants before becoming an X-Man and also was an Avenger for a bit, things I don't think TAS Morph would have experienced.

TAS Morph has spent the majority of their life in their public form (dark hair and eyes, resembling their mother), meanwhile, Exiles Morph has spent most of his life in his base grey form but still did have a public form as a child (blond hair and blue eyes, resembling his father). He rarely fully changes his appearance, usually keeping the grey skin and pupilless eyes when shapeshifting, while TAS Morph takes on the full appearance of other people.

And then there's the nature of their powers. I'd say TAS Morph's abilities were broad but limited before being subjected to Sinister's experimentation (for example: they couldn't morph into animals or mimic mutations prior to their death and resurrection). Meanwhile, there's no indication Exiles Morph ever went through such experimentation, so it's possible he always operated at the full potential of his powers.

Lissen. I would NOT be this insane if only there were simply more depictions of Morph. After all, I'm not like this about more popular X-Men... That's a lie. If there were more depictions, I'd be making a spreadsheet. I mean. Technically there are. There's Changeling and AoA Morph. Oh no.

[spdrvyn]

im begging for miguel x reader where he’s sick/tired/woke up from a nightmare and is in desperate need of shooting. so she takes care of him - pure domestic contentment- grooming him/washing/shaving/brushing hair/towel drying/changing clothes (and socks 🥺)/feeding him - doing everything to relax him and make him feel loved

solace in your sweetness

summary: in the deep trenches of the night, miguel wakes up due to night terrors and you're very deadset on comforting him. no matter how many times he denies you that.

tags: hurt/comfort. very sweet and fluffy. reader isn't a spider-person. fem!reader.

notes: i love this request so so much, i have been ITCHING to do it. thank you so much for requesting, i hope you enjoy reading this one!

Miguel didn't really have nightmares when he was younger. On the occasion that Gabe would bother him to watch a scary movie, there would be instances where he had them, but it wasn't a regular occurence. How naïve was he when he thought that he'd be able to leave those behind in his youth?

It started simple, he would be in the barren, empty streets of Nueva York. Before he would slowly watch every thing dissolve around him, glitch by glitch, pixel by pixel, unable to do anything but to just stand there, before he fell into the abyss and woke up.

The darkest part of his mind had always managed to make the scenario more horrifying, another time it was zombies, another time it was zombies again, but of only Gabriella. There was even a version where he was being chased by the other dead version of himself. He consulted many articles, read and bought a lot of books, and even tried meditating, but none of it worked so he just decided to live with it for a while. It wasn't like they happened every night, no big deal.

Though, it was a big deal to you. Which was his true fear, he didn't want you to fawn over something so trivial. He didn't want you to go out of your way to take care of him, despite how much it would fill the big, gaping hole in his heart.

So when he jolts awake from another night terror, he keeps himself as quiet as possible. He slowly looked over to the side of your bed, relieved to see that you were still in a peaceful sleep. He shifts silently and keeps his footsteps light as he makes his way over to the kitchen for some tea. The calming, minty aroma sweeped his senses, but it'd be better to work right now instead of relax.

He went back to the bedroom, setting the teacup down on the bedside before pulling out a small tablet. He winced as it opened, the brightness of it hurting his eyes even with glasses on. After lowering it, he immediately goes to rifle through his files.

That is until he felt the weight of your head on his shoulders, you looked up at him with a frown. "You're working."

"I am," Miguel spoke like he was caught with a hand in the cookie jar. As embarrassed as he was, it was too late. You should probably be going back to sleep, he remembered that you also had work early tomorrow. "I just got thirsty, go back to sleep, cariño."

A bald-faced lie, would you believe it or would you not? Your brows furrowed and your pout deepened, it made Miguel's palms sweat. Moments like these forced him to think if you really did have superpowers, there were too many instances where it seemed like you read his mind word for word.

"Why are you lying to me, Miguel?" Shock. It was his face, wasn't it? "Did you have any another nightmare? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Miguel's pride had shattered, you were too good at this. A little more and you'd be unmasking every single villain in the city. "You need to be up early, I just didn't want to ruin your beauty sleep." He closed his files and turned off his tablet, this was his fate now.

You all but groaned at his remark, kicking the bedsheets off of your body before stamping out of the bedroom. "Where are you-"

"Stay there, don't move an inch." He didn't want to incur God's wrath, so he obeys. Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the pillows, his smell picked up on the scent of food being freshly cooked. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but by the lord, it smelled delicious.

Miguel was left there to wait for a while, this sort of reminded him of his younger days too, granted a lot more blissful. There were times when he was younger where Gabe had nightmares too, he'd come knocking on Miguel's door, asking if he could stay there for a while or if he could play video games with him.

To which Miguel would begrudgingly agree, but he normally tried to keep Gabe as uninterested in whatever they were doing as possible so that he could fall asleep already. This usually resulted in him falling asleep then Miguel having to sleep on the couch, but it was whatever. I mean, he only stopped doing that at the young age of 11.

So now being the one taken care of, it made Miguel feel like there was an outside force tipping the scales. After being a caretaker, one way or another, his whole life, having you step in and take him for a breather was like seeing a fish head on a lion's body.

You came back soon enough with a plate and spoon in hand, it was made clear to Miguel exactly what you were cooking. Tomato sauce with meatballs, you diced a small bit of the beef with the spoon before scooping some soup up, bringing it close to his mouth. "Ahhh,"

"I can eat on my—"

"Ahhhhh."

"For shock's sake—" he quickly took a bite, his eyes lit up as he swallowed. "It's good."

You smiled knowingly, finally allowing him to feed himself as you handed him the plate. "I know," then your expression hardened. "I'd like to talk to you about what you dreamt about, if that's okay with you." Miguel sighed, reaching over to the bedside to take a long sip of his tea.

His heart told him that it was perfectly fine for you to know about what was troubling him for so long now, but his mind, his rationale, told him to shut his trap about anything that could cause you any sort of worry or distress. When he doesn't respond to you after another moment, you lean in closer.

"Miguel, I'm always going to worry about you." You whispered, "That's just how I am, but it's because I love you. I love you so much that I can feel how much you're hurting even when you're trying to hide it from me."

"I love you too," he closed the gap to press a kiss to the crease on your forehead, you released a short breath. "I just- I don't know how to say it, I guess."

You placed a hand on his chest, "I can put the pieces together, I just want you to get this off your chest." He wished he had the ability to deny you, you're his weakness, especially when you bat your eyelashes and look at him so sweetly like you have all the love in the world to give.

He tells you as much as he can about his dream, it's all a mess. There were many parts that he wished he could just go back and erase, he didn't even want to go through with this idea in the first place. But you were so... understanding of him, it felt creepy. Not creepy, that wasn't the right word, but it was unsettling.

Being comforted by someone else always made Miguel feel like the other person had a 'holier than thou' attitude, that or he was horribly pitied to the point where he didn't want to keep opening up anymore. You carried none of those qualities, you simply nodded, listened in pure silence, but you'd chime in with some remarks every now and again. He doesn't know how he got so lucky with you.

You gave him some advice. Miguel's experiences were gut-wrenching which resulted to his night terrors, but you could share the sentiment. To some degree, at least. The advice was to just talk about it, letting that feeling build over time and dreading the next time you fall asleep would result to more casualties in the long run. And that if he had no other people to turn to, you were the first on his roster (granted he'd talk to you first anyway, but that's besides the point).

After putting away his empty plate, you joined him in bed again, it's probably still very late into the night, only three hours until you get up for work, but you didn't mind as long as you got to spend it with Miguel. However he wishes to.

The feeling of yours lips on his forehead, face nuzzled into his hair while your fingers drew shapes into his back.

The way he wrapped his arms around your hips, slotting one of his legs in between yours, and the sound of your heartbeat.

He falls into a blissful sleep, knowing you will protect him from the horrors that lurk in the shadows. For once in his life, Miguel has been taken care of and he's so glad that it's you.

[bogkeep]

Would you recommend the SSSS comic? I know little of it beside the very beautiful artstyle and premise

to answer the question of if i would recommend SSSS as a comic: yes, yes i would.

a description for those who don't know: Stand Still Stay Silent is a post-apocalyptic horror + adventure webcomic set in the nordics (norway, sweden, denmark, finland, iceland) that have been isolated from the rest of the world and gone back to their old gods. the the world outside of safe zones is full of trolls and beasts - humans and mammals that got infected by a horrible virus and turned into monsters. the story follows a ragtag crew that ventures into the old world (derelict denmark) on an expedition to collect books.

the comic updated every workday until it concluded in 2022, and consists of two Adventures. the creator had plans for many adventures with these characters in this world, but ended it after two when she wanted to take a new direction with her life.

what i love about it:

- the art is GORGEOUS. it's been a huge source of inspiration for me. open any page and it's a masterpiece, and you will ask yourself "how the FUCK did she update this FIVE DAYS A WEEK"

- the characters are wonderful and endearing. i just, i love them so much. i am so thankful lalli hotakainen exists he is one of my #1 blorbos forever

- the world is so cool. the blend of chunky sci-fi and norse mythology fantasy magic slaps. it goes so hard. i fell so hard for this comic when i got to the big ferry ship with a viking style dragon head prow added to it. it's everything

- it really really gets nordic cultures. it's difficult to explain all the dynamics and nuances but it just gets it. it brings me as a scandinavian a lot of joy to read a story that speaks to my heart this way. the attitudes, the language barriers, the cultural differences... it was so refreshing to me in a media landscape dominated by american stories. when the pandemic hit, i decided to reread the comic because i found such an odd comfort in seeing how it depicted the scandinavian countries reacting to, well, a pandemic.

- there's kittycats

what i don't like about it:

- the most glaring and obvious flaw is that everyone in the comic is white. there's not a single character of color anywhere, not even i background shots or the prologue. there's no mention of the saami people (the indigenous people of northern europe), either. i believe this was done in ignorance more than malicious intent, but the implications are Extremely Bad and it's been bothering me (AND MANY OTHERS) since day 1. that is the number one caveat i will give to anyone wanting to check this comic out. i've been in the discourse trenches and i am not going to excuse this. it's just bad!

- you can tell in the middle of adventure 2 that the creator has kind of lost interest in the work, around the time when she found jesus i guess. like, very few people can keep up work on the same creative project for years and years and years and i think it's fine that she wanted to drop it, but it's a bit sad to see the comic dragged to its end like a limp corpse, and feeling like the creator no longer really cares about the characters.

- minna sundberg has said and done some questionable things, presumably gotten somewhat radicalised over time, and has also converted to hardcore christianity which is what her new works are about. there's nothing about this in SSSS - there is a moment of christianity represented in the story in a sort of mythological sense, just like the other religions, but this was written before minna's conversion. her new works... are a Choice. i have much to say about them, and i have, and im not gonna rehash it now.

SO YEAH hopefully this will help you take an Informed Choice! i got into this comic in 2015 and was deep in the fandom and it's for better or for worse part of my soul foundation now.

i also recommend A Redtail's Dream, minna's "practice comic" before SSSS, based on finnish mythology and the kalevala.

[thewickedjazzy]

⌞𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰⌝

Part III : 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙈𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙚

Pairings: Chuuya x fem!reader x Dazai (platonic)

Warnings: NSFW mdni, angst, super fluff, mention of abuse, mention of other dimensions (could trigger DP/DR), minor dni, let me know if I forgot any Xx.

Author's note: Missed you all *kisses* buckle up cause this is probably the longest part I've written, I spent a whole week writing it and had to drink countless cups of coffee to keep going :D. So prepare your favourite drink, snacks or whatever, get in a comfy position and enjoy it Xx.

Word count: 12.5k

↠Part 1

↠Part 2

❝Maybe I simply discovered you in the wrong universe. This, as some would say, is the darkest timeline. But in another, we might be together, as we were always meant to be.❞

Y/N’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible situation. This was Chuuya, but something was wrong—everything was wrong. He wasn’t the mafia boss here, and the way he looked at her wasn’t the same as before. There was recognition, but it wasn’t the deep, soulful connection she was used to. It was almost as if…he saw someone else when he looked at her.

Chuuya took a step forward, his brows furrowing. "Why did you call me boss?" His voice was tinged with confusion, the confident authority of a mafia leader tempered by an undercurrent of unease. "You’re the boss. You…you died. I had to take over after—" His voice cracked, the words choking off as if he couldn’t bear to speak them.

Y/N's eyes widened in shock. She was the boss in this world? And she died? Her heart clenched as she realized the implications—this Chuuya had loved her, a version of her, just as she had loved him. But they weren’t the same people anymore. The loss, the love, it was all tangled up in a web of timelines and realities that made no sense.

Before she could speak, before either of them could make sense of the emotions that churned between them, a voice cut through the clearing, dripping with sarcasm and a familiar, biting wit.

"Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Chuuya Nakahara, keeping me waiting for a good fifteen minutes. What were you doing, having a fashion crisis? And who’s this—" The voice faltered as its owner stepped into view, and Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Dazai.

But it wasn’t the Dazai she remembered. He was still tall, still infuriatingly smug, but he looked different—lighter, somehow. The black trench coat was gone, replaced by a beige one that seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. His hair was less disheveled, and—was that a smile that didn’t seem entirely sarcastic? And his eyes—his eyes were both visible, no longer hidden by the bandages she’d grown so used to seeing.

Dazai’s gaze landed on Y/N, and for a split second, all the sarcasm and playfulness drained from his face. His eyes widened, genuine shock washing over his features. “Y/N…?” His voice was a whisper, filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t heard in so long—not since before he became the boss in her world.

“Dazai…?” she breathed, her voice trembling. She couldn’t believe it. Dazai was alive. He was standing right there in front of her. But how? In her world, he was dead—Chuuya had taken over after his death.

Dazai blinked, regaining some of his composure, though the surprise hadn’t entirely faded from his expression. He smirked, though it lacked his usual edge. “Oh, this is rich. Two Chuuya’s, two Y/N’s, and somehow I’m the one caught in the middle of this multiversal drama.” He sighed, scratching his head in exaggerated frustration. “Why am I always the one cleaning up everyone else’s mess?”

Y/N took a step forward, her legs feeling like they might give out beneath her. “Dazai…you’re alive. How…?”

Dazai’s smile softened, a rare look of genuine warmth crossing his features. “ I could say the same." He sighed his gaze softening. "I'm alive in this universe, yes. And it seems you’ve come from a place where I’m not.” He paused, his gaze drifting between Y/N and Chuuya, as if trying to piece together the puzzle himself. “Which means…you’re not the Y/N we lost.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched at that. “You mean…she’s from another dimension?”

Dazai nodded, his eyes dark with thought. “Wasn’t that obvious?" He tsked shaking his head lightly. "The question is, how did you get here, and why? This kind of thing doesn’t just happen on its own.”

Y/N shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know. One moment I was…he was…dead.” Her voice broke. “And then there was a rift, and I just…I walked through it, and now I’m here. But nothing makes sense. You both are alive...and different.”

Chuuya stepped closer to her, his hand hovering near her arm as if he wanted to reach out but was too afraid to touch her, as if she might disappear if he did. “Y/N…in this world, you were the boss. We were close. More than close. And then…” His voice trembled. “Then I lost you.”

The pain in his voice mirrored her own, and Y/N felt her heart breaking all over again, not just for the Chuuya she’d lost, but for this one too—the one who’d lost his version of her.

Dazai cleared his throat, stepping forward with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “We need to figure this out. If there’s a rift between dimensions, it could mean trouble—not just for us, but for every dimension. And you,” he pointed at her, “I have a hunch that you might be the key to solve it.”

Y/N stared at Dazai, her mind spinning with the enormity of what he had just said. She was the key to solving this? But how? None of it made sense. She had been thrown into a reality where the people she knew were different versions of themselves, and she was expected to fix it?

She shook her head, trying to grasp the situation. “How am I the key? What’s happening? This doesn’t seem real—it’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. Alternate universes? I’ve never even considered that something like this could exist. Who’s behind all of this?”

Dazai's gaze softened, and he took a deep breath before responding. “I know it’s overwhelming. But the fact that you’re here, that you crossed the rift… it can’t be a coincidence. There’s something about your presence that’s destabilizing the boundaries set between these realities. The fact that you survived crossing over without… any obvious consequences suggests that you’re more connected to this than anyone else.”

She felt a wave of panic rising in her chest. “But I don’t know how! I don’t even understand what’s happening. How am I supposed to fi—”

Before she could finish her sentence, a deafening roar echoed through the forest, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The sound was unmistakable—a deep, guttural noise that sent chills down her spine. She knew that roar all too well. It was the same beast she and Chuuya had fought in her world—a dragon born of twisted abilities, a monstrous entity that was as ancient as it was powerful.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Fuck!… it can’t be,” she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Chuuya and Dazai both tensed, immediately recognizing the danger in the sound. Dazai’s eyes narrowed, his usual aloofness replaced by a sharp, calculating look. “I guess it didn’t take long for the mess to find us,” he muttered, glancing at Y/N. “This dragon—is it something from your world?”

She nodded, holding her gaze forward with a stoic expersion on her face as she forced herself to stay calm. “Yes. It’s an amalgamation of abilities, a dragon created by the combined powers of several gifted individuals. We barely managed to defeat it in my world, and that was with Chuuya’s help. How did it get here?”

Chuuya’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer to her, his fists clenching at his sides. “Doesn’t matter how. We need to stop it before it destroys everything. We’ve done it before in your universe, I'm sure we can do it again.”

She nodded, somehow drawing strength from Chuuya’s determination, but she couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at her. How did the dragon cross over into this world? And if it could, what else might have followed?

As the ground continued to tremble beneath them, Dazai’s voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. “We don’t have time to figure out the details right now. We need to move. Y/N, you know this creature. You’ll have to guide us through this fight.”

She smirked, her confidence returning as she recalled the dragon's weak point. But as she prepared to activate her ability, something unexpected surged through her—an overwhelming rush of energy that made her gasp. It was as if her power had been doubled, intensified beyond anything she’d ever experienced. The raw force coursing through her veins was exhilarating, but it also set off alarm bells in her mind. This wasn’t normal.

She glanced at Chuuya and Dazai, both of whom were already preparing for the fight. They hadn’t noticed the change in her, but she could feel it in every fiber of her being. This new power—it was dangerous, unpredictable. And in the middle of a battle, it was too risky to test.

“We need to act now!” Dazai’s voice cut through the chaos, his usually playful demeanor replaced by a focused urgency. “Y/N, what’s your plan?”

“I need to test something first,” Y/N said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “I know how to fight the dragon, but I need to do it alone.”

Chuuya and Dazai exchanged worried glances, their concern for her evident. “No, that’s too risky,” Chuuya said, his voice filled with anxiety. “We’re stronger together. You don’t have to—”

“I’m the only one who knows how to fight it effectively,” She interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “Trust me. Please.”

Chuuya's voice cut through the tension, his concern laced with an edge of desperation. “Last time I trusted you to handle things alone, you ended up dying on me. I will never let history repeat itself.”

Her heart ached at his words, a poignant reminder of the tragic parallel between their worlds. In her universe, she had trusted Chuuya with her life, only for him to die in her arms. The weight of that memory threatened to pull her under, but she couldn't let it. She knew the stakes, and she had to act now.

Without a response, she turned and sprinted toward the source of the roar. The forest was alive with the thrum of the dragon's power, the ground shaking with every step it took. Her mind was focused, her determination unshaken despite the pounding of her heart.

As she closed in on the dragon, she could feel the energy within her intensify, a volatile surge of power that had her senses on high alert. She needed to act quickly and decisively. With a deep breath, she activated her ability. Her eyes glowed blood-red, a sign of her heightened control over her Malevolent Marionette.

"How is that possible?" She muttered to herself unable to comperhend how she could easily float like this and be in complete control of her ability.

From her outstretched hands, a massive, shimmering axial fiber erupted. This was no ordinary string; it was a time-proof cable, its interior packed with countless connected vacuum capsules. Inside each capsule were gluons, particles designed to tunnel and bind. The cable snaked through the air, wrapping around the dragon with an almost mesmerizing precision.

The dragon roared in fury as the fiber made contact, but her control was absolute. The cable tightened around the beast, its structure akin to a tube filled with these tunneling particles, clinging to the dragon’s entire body. The creature writhed and struggled, but the cable held firm, rendering it immobile. The dragon was ensnared, its massive form unable to move a muscle, like a puppet under her control.

She felt the intense pressure of the situation bearing down on her. The dragon's enraged roars reverberated through the forest, each one a chilling reminder of the chaos it could unleash. As she maintained her focus on controlling the dragon with her time-proof cable, a blinding flash of heat and light erupted from the creature’s mouth—a massive fireball hurtling directly toward her.

Instinctively, she braced herself for the impact, but a familiar gravitational force yanked her to the side. She stumbled as she was pulled away from the dragon’s fiery attack, her heart racing. She landed with a thud on a nearby floating rock, quickly regaining her balance.

Turning, Y/N saw Chuuya floating a few feet beside her on a massive rock, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. His eyes were narrowed, and his posture radiated annoyance.

“Tsk, still as stubborn as ever,” Chuuya said, his voice carrying a familiar edge of exasperation. “Can’t believe you’re still getting yourself into trouble like this.”

She managed a strained smile, her emotions a whirlwind of relief and frustration. “I could've managed it by myself alone.”

Chuuya let out a frustrated groan, shaking his head in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Chuuya, I—” Y/N started, but the roar of the dragon and the blinding heat of its attack cut her off. She tried to refocus on controlling the dragon, her heart pounding as she tightened the time-proof cable around the beast. It was a struggle to maintain control with the sheer force of its thrashing.

As Chuuya hovered beside her, his eyes blazing with determination, they both heard Dazai’s voice cutting through the chaos from below. “Chuuya, you know the drill. Get into position.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in horror as she saw Chuuya’s expression change. He closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration crossing his features. “No!” she screamed, her voice breaking as she realized what was happening.

Chuuya took of his gloves, began reciting the incantations, a process she knew all too well. His body started to shift, his form contorting as the dark, ominous power of Arahabaki began to envelop him. The familiar sight of his corruption mode made her heart clench in her chest.

But before she could act, Dazai’s voice rang out, calm and reassuring, despite the chaos. “Y/N, focus on holding the dragon. I’ll handle Chuuya’s corruption. We need you to keep that beast under control.”

She glanced at Dazai, a profound sense of relief washing over her. In this universe, he was here to help, to manage the risk of Chuuya’s corruption. The weight of responsibility that had felt so crushing was now shared, and for the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope. The knowledge that she wasn't alone, that there were allies ready to support her, was a comfort she had nearly forgotten.

Focusing on the dragon, she tightened her grip on the time-proof cable. The dragon’s roars were deafening, its immense power straining against her control. With every ounce of her concentration, she held the beast captive, despite its furious attempts to break free. The strain was immense, but the steady rhythm of her breath kept her grounded.

Chuuya, floating beside her, unleashed jet-black void orbs towards the dragon, his eyes blazing with fierce anger. The orbs struck the dragon with explosive force, causing the beast to roar in agony. The ground shook violently, and a brilliant explosion erupted from the dragon’s core, sending shockwaves that threw both Y/N and Chuuya downward.

As the explosion rippled through the forest, Y/N crashed to the ground, her body slamming against the earth with a jarring impact. Pain radiated through her as she lay there, disoriented. The time-proof cable had snapped under the force of the blast, and she could feel the remnants of her power dissipating.

Struggling to regain her bearings, she looked around in a daze. Panic surged through her as she scrambled to her feet, calling out for him. “Chuuya!” Her voice trembled with fear, her eyes scanning the wreckage.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Dazai kneeling beside Chuuya, holding his wrist firmly. The sight of Chuuya’s body, still and vulnerable, made her breath catch in her throat. Dazai’s expression was one of intense concentration as he used his ability to nullify Arahabaki’s power. The dark red aura surrounding Chuuya slowly faded, replaced by a calming normalcy.

Seeing Chuuya’s familiar, uncorrupted form brought a rush of relief to her. She staggered over to them, her legs weak and trembling. “Is he—?”

Dazai looked up, his usual smirk replaced by a rare, reassuring smile. “He’s fine.”

Chuuya’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at her, confusion and relief evident in his gaze. “Y/N…” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with genuine warmth. "I hate your stubborn ass"

She couldn't help but chuckle at his response watching him drift in sleep.

Dazai looked at her with a satisfied nod, brushing off his hands. “Well, we’ve managed to subdue the dragon. Now we just need to figure out the cause of these interdimensional rifts and how to fix them. Also—”

Before he could finish, Y/N’s eyes welled up with tears of gratitude. Without a second thought, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice quivering with emotion. “I never thought I’d see you again, let alone have you save Chuuya.”

Dazai was taken aback, his usual nonchalance replaced by genuine surprise. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, holding her gently. This was the first time he’d seen Y/N so vulnerable and so genuinely happy. His own feelings were a tangled mess, but seeing her like this, with a rare smile that spoke volumes, made him feel a deep, unexpected warmth.

As they held each other, Chuuya's snores beside them only made both of them chuckle. With Dazai’s help, they carefully moved Chuuya’s unconscious body toward the well-known mafia headquarters. The journey back was a blur of exhaustion and relief, but her heart lightened with each step closer to familiar territory.

Upon arrival, the sight that greeted Y/N was both heartwarming and surreal. Her subordinates, who had thought her lost forever, were in shock. The once-intimidating headquarters seemed to take on a different aura—one of disbelief and awe.

Akutagawa was the first to react. He knelt before her, his expression a mix of reverence and astonishment. “Boss?” he uttered, his voice filled with an emotion Y/N had never heard from him before. In her own universe, Akutagawa had been a member of the Armed Detective Agency, not the Port Mafia. Seeing him like this, so dedicated and loyal, was both strange and comforting.

As she looked around, she saw familiar faces—Hirotsu and the rest of the Black Lizard, all of whom were still alive. A joyous, disbelieving giggle escaped her as she took in their shocked but hopeful expressions. Without hesitation, she rushed forward, embracing each of them in turn.

Her tears of joy and the genuine smiles on her face were a stark contrast to the stern, reserved boss they were used to. This display of affection was a new experience for them, and they embraced it wholeheartedly, their own faces reflecting the warmth of their boss’s rare display of emotion.

After a while, Dazai and Y/N carefully carried Chuuya to his grand quarters, laying him gently on the bed. His breathing was steady, and the signs of the recent battle had left him exhausted but unharmed.

Once they were sure Chuuya was settled and resting comfortably, Dazai led Y/N to a nearby balcony. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the intensity of the fight. The city below was bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, and the distant sounds of the bustling metropolis created a sense of normalcy amidst the surreal circumstances.

She leaned against the railing, her face still holding that familiar stoic expression. She took out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of her lighter. The thin stream of smoke curled upward as she took a long drag, her gaze fixed on the cityscape.

Dazai observed her with a soft, almost incredulous gaze, still grappling with the fact that she was alive. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of their conversation. “So,” he began, attempting to fill the silence, “it looks like our worlds have their share of differences, but also some striking similarities.”

She exhaled slowly, letting the smoke disperse in the gentle breeze. “Yes. In my world, Chuuya took over as the mafia boss after you died. He’s been in charge ever since, but…” She turned to Dazai, her expression softening. “I never thought I’d find you alive in this alternate universe. It’s… alot to process.”

Dazai rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating, really. Two universes, with their own set of rules and relationships. And yet, here we are, dealing with the same threats.” He looked at her, his expression serious. “But if you’re here, there must be a reason. We need to understand what caused the rift and how to fix it.”

She took another drag from her cigarette, her eyes meeting Dazai’s with a steady gaze. “I agree."

Dazai leaned against the railing beside her, his eyes fixed on the cityscape below. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I couldn’t help but notice something. You’re significantly more powerful here than the Y/N I knew from my world. The way you controlled that dragon—it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

Her gaze softened as she flicked the ash from her cigarette. "It’s complicated. When I first came to this universe, I felt an unexpected surge of power—something beyond what I had in my own world. At first, I was overwhelmed, unsure of how to control it. It wasn’t always this way. My ability evolved, and with it came this increased intensity."

Dazai’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. "And you haven’t figured out the source of this surge?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not entirely. The power seems to amplify itself unpredictably. I’ve been trying to understand it, but it’s like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. The surge I felt today was more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. I’m afraid of what might happen if I can’t get a handle on it."

Before Dazai could respond, his phone rang, interrupting their conversation. He glanced at the screen, a frown creasing his brow. "Ranpo," he muttered, answering the call.

Ranpo’s voice crackled through the receiver, urgent and strained. "Dazai, we’ve got a serious problem. Someone has taken hold of a page from the reality book and is reshaping the universe according to their will. It’s causing different universes to merge with each other, and their goal is to eliminate all ability users across these universes."

Dazai’s expression darkened, his earlier curiosity replaced by a grave concern. "How many universes have been affected?"

"Several, so far," Ranpo replied. "The rifts are spreading, and it’s becoming harder to contain the chaos. You need to act quickly. We’re dealing with a dangerous adversary who’s manipulating reality itself."

Dazai hung up the phone, his face reflecting the weight of the news. "Looks like we finally knew what's happening."

Her expression hardened as she listened to the news. Her heart pounded with the gravity of the situation. "Reality manipulation," she muttered, her voice cold and determined. "That's beyond dangerous. If someone is messing with the fabric of reality itself, the consequences could be catastrophic."

Dazai nodded grimly. "It’s exactly what we feared. We need to find this person and stop them before it’s too late."

As the conversation ended, Chuuya stirred in his quarters. His eyes fluttered open, and he slowly sat up, groggy but alert. Seeing Y/N and Dazai in the balcony, he rubbed his eyes and made his way over to them.

Dazai glanced at Chuuya and then at Y/N, understanding that this was a delicate moment. “We’ve got a major problem,” he said. “Someone’s tampering with reality itself, merging universes and targeting ability users. It’s causing chaos everywhere and that's exactly what brought Y/N to our universe.” he sighs, "We need to act quickly to prevent further disaster.”

Chuuya's eyes widened with realization. “And what do we do about it?”

Dazai took a deep breath, his expression softening as he prepared to give Chuuya and Y/N some space. “We need to strategize. I’ll start gathering more information and see if we can pinpoint the source of these rifts. I suggest you both get some rest and prepare. We’ll need every bit of strength and focus we can muster.”

With that, Dazai gave them a reassuring nod and turned to leave, giving them the space they needed to discuss their next steps.

They both stood in silence, the weight of their shared situation pressing heavily upon them. The night air was thick with unspoken thoughts and feelings, a reminder of how different yet fundamentally similar their lives had become in this alternate universe. They both felt the loss of their own versions deeply, knowing that the path forward would be fraught with challenges.

Finally, Chuuya broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with determination. "We need to get hold of the page from the reality book," he said. "That’s the only way we can start to reshape our universes to what they were before all this chaos began."

She turned to him, her eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and resolve. "You’re right. If we can retrieve that page, we might be able to fix everything."

Chuuya nodded, his gaze darkening with a grim determination. "We need to act quickly. If this person has control over one of the reality book's page, they could erase any chance of fixing things if we wait too long. Our own versions—our friends, our lives—they’re all at stake. We have to do whatever it takes to bring them back."

A heavy silence followed for a while heavy with the weight of their shared mission and the memories of their own worlds.

Finally, Y/N broke the silence, her voice tinged with curiosity and a touch of melancholy. "Chuuya, can I ask you something? How was the other version of me—my counterpart in your world—so different from me?"

Chuuya looked at her, his gaze thoughtful. “The other version of you… well, she was similar in many ways, but also quite different. She was much more detached, more reserved. I suppose, in a way, she had to be, given the circumstances she faced. But she was still a formidable force, one who commanded respect.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, considering his words. “I see. And how was she… with you? Was there something different in how you two interacted?”

Chuuya sighed, looking out over the city. “Yes, there was a difference. In this world, our relationship was more professional, more about duty and respect. I could sense there was something deeper, but it was never fully expressed. I suppose we both held back because of the circumstances, the constant pressure of leadership and the danger that surrounded us.”

She took a deep breath, her gaze following Chuuya’s as they both looked out over the city. "In my universe, I was similar to the other version of me you described. I kept my emotions well-hidden, especially in my role as your right-hand. It was a necessity; showing vulnerability could be seen as a weakness, and I had to maintain a certain image of strength and control."

She paused, her expression softening as she glanced at Chuuya. "But with you, it was different. I let my guard down. Around you, I could afford to be myself—well, a bit more of myself. Our moments together, away from the pressures of the job, were the rare times when I didn’t have to constantly be on guard."

Chuuya looked at her, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "I had no idea you felt that way. I always thought you were simply more private, more reserved. It’s strange to hear that, in your own world, you had a different way of managing your emotions, but still allowed yourself some form of release when you were with me."

Y/N nodded. "Yes, it was a form of balance for me. I needed that space to be honest with myself, and you were the only one I felt I could truly be open with, even if it was just a glimpse of the real me. The others saw the facade, but you saw a part of me that was usually hidden."

Chuuya’s gaze grew more thoughtful. "Oh.. well the Y/N I knew was more of a wall, even when we were together. It’s clear now that it was a part of the role she had to play. It makes me wonder how different our relationship could have been if she had been more like you."

Her lips curled into a small, tender smile. "Maybe the differences in our versions were shaped by their circumstances, but I can’t help but feel grateful for the connection we had, even if it was fleeting. In my world, those moments with you were the few times I felt truly at ease."

Chuuya tilted his head to face her, his gaze lingering on the familiar features he had always admired. "I always admired your strength and composure, but hearing that you felt you could be yourself with me means more than I can put into words."

Her heart raced as she absorbed the weight of Chuuya’s words. Driven by an impulse she couldn’t quite control, she reached out and pressed her lips to his with sudden, tender urgency. Chuuya’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a brief, electrifying moment, he returned the kiss, his emotions crashing through him like a tidal wave.

But then, he pulled back abruptly, his face a mix of conflict and regret. “I… I can’t do this,” he said, his voice strained.

Her breath hitched in her throat. “Why?"

Chuuya remained silent, his eyes fixed on her with a gaze that was both judging and pained. The intensity of his stare seemed to weigh heavily on Y/N, as if he was trying to reconcile the reality before him with the memory of the person he had lost.

"What do you mean you can't? Don't you want to pull me into your arms and lose yourself in me?” Her voice was cracking as she moved closer to him.

He looked away, a pained expression on his face. “Stop it,” he said, his voice rough.

But she wouldn’t relent. “Why, Chuuya? Why when I finally kiss you, you pull away like this? Even though I know you’ve dreamed of this moment, why can’t you let yourself have it?”

Chuuya’s gaze hardened, and he cut her off before she could continue. “You're not her.. I can’t do this with you.”

Her eyes widened, her voice trembling. “But I’m still me, Chuuya. I may be different, but I’m still the person you knew. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“No,” he said, his voice harsh with denial. “It’s not you. It’s not the same. I can’t— I can’t accept this. The version of you I knew is gone. I owe my loyalty to her.”

Y/N felt a sting of hurt at his words, but she nodded, understanding the weight of his struggle.

Chuuya’s gaze softened as he took in every detail of her—her features, her figure, her voice, and her scent. Regret surged within him, realizing that while she wasn’t the exact person he had known, she was still her in so many ways. His voice cracked as he spoke, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She looked away, silently refusing his apology. After a few moments of painful silence, Chuuya realized the truth: she was indeed her, in essence.

Unable to resist any longer, he moved closer, gently caressing her cheeks and compelling her to meet his gaze. Then, he kissed her with a fervor that spoke of all his conflicted emotions, tasting the softness of her lips and feeling a surge of desire.

'So this is how she tastes like' He thought to himself. His hands roamed over her waist, pulling her closer into his embrace, savoring the sweetness on his lips. His tongue traced her lower lip, drawing a gasp from her as he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth to intertwine with hers. Tilting her head to gain better access, he explored every inch of her mouth, tasting her fully and passionately.

After a few intense moments, he pulled back, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper, “It’s okay. I get it.”

With that, her hands cupped his face, pulling him into a desperate kiss, as Chuuya’s hands explored her waist, pulling them closer until there was no space left between them.

They could feel the heat radiating off each other, the world outside fading away as they surrendered to the moment. With a swift motion, Chuuya lifted her, wrapping her legs around him as he carried her to his vast bed.

He laid her gently on the bed, eyes dark with longing. “We can stop if you want.” he whispered.

She tugged at his bolo tie, pulling him closer as she whispered back, "I've always wanted this." That simple admission sent a thrill down his spine, awakening a primal need within him.

He took a moment to admire the way she looked—so perfectly inviting, like a work of art waiting to be unveiled. He climbed over her, "S'pretty, s'utterly beautiful " he says with a hoarse voice, his hands exploring the soft curves of her body through the fabric of her clothes, tracing the lines that had driven him wild since forever.

Before she could say a word, she was breathing heavily through her nose as they exchanged deep, open-mouthed kisses. The kiss was intense and ravenous, and soon her coat was on the floor, quickly followed by her shirt.

"Mmph," she murmured against his lips, her fingers sliding to his chest before clutching his white dress shirt and giving it a firm tug. "Take this off."

"Who are you to order me around hmm?" Chuuya snarled rolling his eyes.

"Your boss?" She chuckled lightly her fingers unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt before he pulled his dress shirt up not letting her unbutton the rest.

"Last time I checked I was 'your' boss" he scoffed but didn't waste time pulling her pants down and tossing them aside on the ground.

"Stop testing my limits." She said as her fingers brushed against the muscles of his lean torso gaining a breathless gasp from him.

"Stop talking too much" He leaned closer pressing her against the cool silk sheets beneath her, his mouth travelled across her neck leaving a trail of hot open-mouthed kisses.

Hearing her soft moans and whimpers, he pressed his crotch against her now damp panties.

She gasped feeling his deliciously huge size through his pants rubbing against her. She tugged on his belt trying to unbuckle it.

"Impatient, are we?" He tilted his head slightly to get a better look at her flushed face.

"Shut your mouth a—" He smashed his lips against hers silencing her with his soft lips. He tugged on her hair causing her to whimper into the kiss.

"If you want me to fuck you that much, then stop being such a brat" Hearing him commanding her that much only made the desire in her stomach to grow more.

She bit her lower lip, nodding reluctantly. His breath caught at the sight of her obedience—something he rarely witnessed. He unbuckled his belt and removed his pants swiftly along with his boxers, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her eyes widened seeing his now-freed cock, his length was certainly impressive, but his girth? It was almost unimaginable.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, captivated by his size. Slowly, she looked up at him, voice trembling with desire. "H-how many inches...?" she asked, her words barely a whisper, her heart racing.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned in closer, his voice low and confident. "Eight," he replied, eyes locking with hers. "Why? Curious about what that feels like?" His tone was teasing, yet there was a heat behind his words that made her pulse quicken even more.

"Fuck—" She cursed softly under her breath, barely able to process anything before his hand moved with practiced ease. In one swift motion, he unclasped her bra, letting it fall away. The cool air against her bare skin sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't help but gasp, the intensity of the moment overwhelming her senses.

He took in her bare form with a gaze full of admiration, his eyes lingering on her perfectly sized breasts, her flawless stomach, and the curve of her waist. His hands roamed along her body with reverence, eventually resting on the waistband of her panties. The touch was gentle yet deliberate, as if he were savoring every inch of her skin.

She whined softly as his skilled fingers rubbed against her wet folds through the fabric of her panties. The touch was electrifying, making her body shiver and her breath hitch. She struggled to maintain her composure as the sensations intensified, her hips instinctively moving closer to his hand.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “I can feel how much you want this.” His fingers continued to tease her, applying just enough pressure to heighten her sensitivity. His touch was deliberate, alternating between slow, gentle strokes and firmer pressure. He watched her reactions intently, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on her, his voice dripping with teasing satisfaction. “feels good, mm?” he murmured, his hand never letting up.

She instinctively closed her thighs around his hand, trying to create more friction. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and pushed her legs open again. “Such a needy whore.” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You'll have to wait until I decide you're ready." His ring and middle finger pushed aside her panties before slipping into her aching cunt, amplifying her need for release.

He moaned with pleasure, his voice laced with praise. “You feel s'good tightening around my fingers,” he murmured, his breath catching as he increased the pace. His fingers moved swiftly, thrusting in and out, each motion drawing soft gasps from her lips. He watched her closely, clearly enjoying every moment of her response to his touch.

She cursed under her breath, frustration evident in her voice. “Damn you for teasing me so much,” she muttered, her body trembling with need. Despite her words, her voice softened, turning into a desperate plea. “Please… just fuck me already,” she begged, her tone laced with urgency and longing.

Chuuya tsked, shaking his head slightly. “Where are your manners?” he chided, his tone dripping with mock disappointment. His fingers stilled inside her for a moment, making her ache with need. “You can do better than that,” he added, his voice low and commanding, clearly enjoying making her beg.

She swallowed her pride, her voice softening as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Is that what you want to hear?” she asked sweetly, her tone dripping with a mixture of desperation and desire. “Please, Chuuya… I need you.” She bit her lip, her body trembling as she tried to give him exactly what he wanted, hoping it would finally push him to give her what she craved.

Chuuya chuckled, a playful glint in his eyes. “Look at you, catching on so fast,” he teased, his tone light but full of admiration. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties, sliding them down and tossing them aside. Without hesitation, he positioned himself against her dripping cunt, the anticipation between them palpable. “Let’s see if you’re really as desperate as you sound.” he whispered, his voice thick with anticipation as he pressed teasingly against her.

Chuuya pinned her wrists to the bed with one hand, his grip firm against the sheets. His other hand guided his cock, sliding it teasingly along her wet folds. He watched her squirm beneath him, enjoying the way her body reacted to his touch. With a slow, deliberate motion, he brushed his tip inside her, just enough to make her gasp, before pulling back slightly, teasing her with the promise of more. “You’re so eager,” he murmured, his voice a mix of amusement and control.

" Fuck you—" She cursed under her breath, frustration evident in her voice. Before she could say more, Chuuya leaned down, capturing her lips with his. His teeth caught her lower lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt through her body, a silent warning for her defiance. As he pulled back, he met her gaze with a smirk. “Watch that mouth of yours,” he warned playfully, his voice low and commanding.

Despite his rough actions, Chuuya pushed into her slowly, allowing her to adjust to his size. A lewd moan escaped his lips, overwhelmed by the sensation of her walls clenching around him so deliciously. He paused, his voice low. “Is it too much?” he asked, his tone carrying a mix of concern and control. “you alright?” His movements were deliberate, giving her space to respond. She could only nod, gasping as she adjusted, her body still reeling from the intense sensations.

Chuuya began to thrust into her, lewd moans escaping his lips with each movement. His rhythm was steady yet intense, driving her wild with pleasure. As he continued, he pressed soft kisses on her chest and down her breasts, his touch gentle despite the fervor of his actions. Wrapping his arms around her, he whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a soothing contrast to the heated passion of their embrace.

As he quickened his pace, his thrusts grew more rapid, and the rhythmic slap of their skin against each other resonated through the room—plap plap plap. His breath came in ragged gasps with each thrust “You feel so good around me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much.” He pressed closer, his words blending with the rhythm of his movements, each thrust underscoring his longing for her.

Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Overwhelmed by pleasure, she became a moaning mess beneath him. Her voice was muffled but filled with longing as she whispered against his skin, “I miss you too… you’re stretching me so perfectly… filling me so good.” Each word was punctuated by gasps and moans, her body trembling with the intensity of their connection.

He shivered at her words, a deep growl rumbling from his chest as he felt her nails rake his back. Her moans and gasps, muffled but clear in their intensity, only spurred him on. Each whisper of her longing voice sent waves of heat through him, driving him to move even deeper and faster.

His grip tightened around her as he adjusted his angle to hit her most sweet spot. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin "Don't you ever leave me again," he growled, his voice thick with an obsessive desire.

As they neared their release, the knot in her stomach grew tighter, begging for relief. Chuuya whispered in her ear, his voice came in ragged gasps, “You’re clenching around me s'perfectly. you close, baby, hmm?” She nodded, biting her lip hard, her head thrown back as she moaned his name repeatedly, each cry a testament to the mounting pleasure. Her body writhed beneath him, caught in the crescendo of their shared climax.

Chuuya gazed down, watching the white ring forming around the base of his cock as he thrust faster. The feeling of her walls clenching around him pushed him over the edge as his moans grew louder, each cry of her name a desperate release. Their combined juices coated his cock, dripping onto the silk sheets beneath them. As they both reached the peak, she felt the warm, pulsing strings of cum filling her, the intense sensation making them shudder as they both unraveled together.

As their breathing gradually slowed, Chuuya gently pulled out, his body still trembling from the intensity. He carefully moved to her side, his hand softly brushing her hair away from her face. They lay together, the heat of their earlier passion now giving way to a more tender, quiet moment. Chuuya's fingers traced soothing patterns on her skin as he whispered, “It was better than I've ever imagined.” His voice was softer now, filled with genuine affection and gratitude.

As they lay entwined, catching their breath and enjoying the tender aftermath of their passion, the quiet of the room was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door. Chuuya’s eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly shifted to cover them, trying to regain his composure.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at her softly.

Another knock followed, louder this time. Chuuya got up, pulling on his clothes with hurried movements. “Stay here,” he instructed, his voice still soft.

He made his way to the door, his mind racing as he prepared to face whoever was on the other side. When he opened it, Dazai stood there, a curious and slightly amused expression on his face.

Dazai’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he took in the disheveled state of Chuuya. “Ah, Chuuya, looks like I’m interrupting something,” Dazai teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

Chuuya’s face flushed with irritation. “It’s none of your business,” he snapped, trying to regain his composure.

Dazai’s smirk widened as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “Oh, come on. I see you’ve finally landed the hot chick you’ve always been so obsessed with,” he teased, his tone light but edged with a hint of playful mockery. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Chuuya sighed, his frustration evident. “Please, I'm not in the mood for this.”

Dazai's smirk grew as he continued to lean against the doorframe, clearly enjoying Chuuya’s discomfort. “You know,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “if you need any advice on how to handle a situation like this, I’m more than happy to help.”

Chuuya's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. He growled, “I think I know what I’m doing just fine, Dazai. I don’t need your advice.”

"Fine!! You're boring" He pouts playfully, his eyes still twinkling with amusement.

Chuuya took a deep breath, trying to keep his frustration in check. “What do you actually want, Dazai?” he asked, his tone edged with annoyance.

Dazai’s chuckle was light and almost too casual. “Oh, nothing too pressing,” he said, his eyes glinting with intrigue. “I just came to share some new information I found about the page of the reality book. Thought you might want to know.”

Chuuya’s interest was piqued despite himself. “What about it?” he demanded, trying to push aside his irritation.

Dazai’s expression grew more serious as he began explaining. “The one holding the page of the reality book is Y/N’s stepfather from another universe. It seems he’s involved in something much bigger than we initially thought.”

Chuuya’s face darkened with a mix of frustration and concern. “Why didn’t you say this sooner?” he snapped, his irritation evident.

At that moment, Y/N emerged, wrapping a white silk blanket around her. The soft fabric accentuated her form, and Dazai’s eyes widened slightly, his composure momentarily faltering before he regained his usual aloof demeanor. Chuuya scowled, clearly annoyed by Dazai’s flustered reaction.

Her voice broke the tension as she addressed Dazai directly. “Do you know where my stepfather is?” she asked, her tone steady but edged with urgency.

Dazai met her gaze, masking his surprise with a neutral expression. “I have some leads,” he replied, “but I’ll need to dig deeper to get a precise location. I’ll let you know once I have more information.”

She nodded, her expression resolute. “I need to find him before he can do more damage, in my universe he was a pain in the ass.”

Chuuya let out a weary sigh, his frustration palpable. “In this universe, he’s been a pain in the ass as well. He’s actually the reason why my version of you died.” His voice hardened with determination. “I won’t let him get away with it again.”

Her eyes widened at the gravity of his words, but her resolve remained firm. Chuuya turned to Dazai, his expression grim. “Get me the information as soon as you can,” he demanded. “We need to end this before it’s too late.”

Dazai nodded smirking. “Roger that."

Chuuya couldn't help but roll his eyes at his carefree attitude.

As Dazai left, the door closing softly behind him, she quickly moved to put on her clothes. She dressed quickly, her movements focused as she prepared for the upcoming confrontation.

Chuuya watched her, then spoke up, his tone curious but serious. “You never mentioned much about your relationship with your stepfather in this universe. What’s the history there?”

Y/N took a deep breath, her eyes clouding with a shadow of painful memories. “Not sure if it's the same but...after my mother died,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “he turned his rage on us. He used to torture me and my younger sister. I tried to protect her by hiding her away, but once he found out, he focused all his anger on me.”

As she spoke, her gaze seemed to drift into a distant, agonizing past. The room around her faded, replaced by a grim flashback.

She was twelve years old, her small frame barely visible in the dim light of an underground station. The air was cold and damp, carrying the faint echo of dripping water. Her stepfather loomed over her, his purple eyes cold and relentless.

Metallic rods were driven through her wrists, pinning her to a makeshift table. The pain was excruciating, sending waves of agony through her young body. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the blood that dripped from the wounds. Her stepfather’s face was a mask of cruel determination as he looked at her with a twisted satisfaction.

“Where’s your sister?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. “Tell me, or the pain will only get worse.”

Her screams echoed through the station, her voice hoarse from the relentless torment. The rods were pierced deeper, and her stepfather showed no mercy. She tried to use her powers to escape, but her stepfather’s ability nullified hers—his power allowed him to subsume any ability, making her helpless. Her attempts were futile; she could only endure the torturous process as he taunted her.

Each new rod was driven into her flesh with sadistic precision, causing fresh waves of unbearable pain. Her vision blurred with tears, and she screamed until her voice was raw and her strength was nearly spent. Her stepfather’s questions continued, interspersed with cruel laughter as he revelled in her suffering.

The flashback ended abruptly, pulling Y/N back to the present. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted by the lingering pain of those memories. She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself.

“That’s why,” she said, her voice cracking slightly, “I need to stop him. I can’t let him do to others what he did to me.”

Chuuya’s expression softened with understanding and resolve. “We’ll put an end to it. I promise.”

Chuuya moved closer, his gaze softening with empathy. He gently cupped her cheeks with his hands, his touch tender and reassuring. His fingers traced a soothing path along her skin as he leaned in, placing soft, lingering kisses on her lips. Each kiss was meant to comfort and console her, to offer a sense of safety and solidarity in the midst of the pain she had shared.

“I’m here,” he whispered against her lips, his voice low and reassuring. “We’ll get through this. But this time together, I cant let you do it alone again... I can't afford to lose you again.”

"I know" her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, the warmth of his touch providing a much-needed solace.

Chuuya pulled back gently, his gaze still warm and determined. He adjusted his clothes with swift, practiced movements, ensuring he was ready for the confrontation ahead.

“Let’s go,” he said softly, placing a last kiss on her forehead.

They both left the headquarters, making their way to the abandoned airport that Dazai had instructed them to. The massive, desolate space was eerily quiet, the air thick with dust and the remnants of a once-bustling location now left to decay. Her confusion was evident as she scanned the surroundings, wondering what had prompted this location.

As they arrived, Dazai was already waiting for them, leaning casually against a crumbling wall. His expression was serious unlike usual.

“Glad you made it on time.” Dazai said, his tone shifting to one of urgency. “Ranpo has come to a conclusion that’s beyond comprehension, and I need you to be ready for what I'm about to explain.”

She took a seat on a nearby bench, her curiosity piqued. Chuuya stood beside her, his gaze fixed on Dazai as he spoke

Dazai continued, his tone steady. “Ranpo’s investigation led him to the realization that you are the key to opening a rift to another universe. Your stepfather has escaped to a different dimension, and we need to access it to find him.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Me opening a rift to another universe? How is that even possible?”

Dazai met her gaze with a reassuring nod. “It’s possible because of your Malevolent Marionette ability. You see, the power you possess allows you to replicate and control entities. And since it got amplified when you stepped foot into this universe so by extending that ability to manipulate the fabric of reality itself, you can create a rift.”

He gestured to the air around them, trying to clarify. “Think of it like this: your ability can create a copy of an entity and control it. We can use that principle to create a ‘copy’ of this universe and transition to another. Essentially, you’ll be using your power to bridge the gap between dimensions.”

listened intently, her eyes narrowing as she processed the explanation. “So, by manipulating reality in a way similar to how I control my copies, I can open a rift to another universe?”

Dazai nodded. “Exactly. It’s a complex process, but we believe it’s within your capabilities. Once the rift is open, we’ll be able to track and confront your stepfather.”

Chuuya knelt before her, taking her hands in his own. His gaze was filled with concern and support. “If this becomes too much for you, we can find another way. We’ll figure out an alternative, no matter what.”

Her met his eyes, her expression resolute. “I appreciate that, Chuuya, but I’m ready to do this. I need to stop him, and this is the only way.”

Chuuya nodded, his grip on her hands tightening reassuringly before he released them. She then turned to Dazai, her curiosity piqued. “Why did you specifically choose this airport for the rift?”

Dazai looked around the abandoned space, his gaze thoughtful. “This location was chosen because it’s isolated and open, making it easier to stabilize the rift without drawing unwanted attention. The large, empty area gives us the space we need to safely create and control the rift.”

He continued, “Additionally, the old infrastructure here has a unique resonance that might actually aid in the process. It’s not a perfect science, but it should help in anchoring the rift and ensuring it stays stable.”

She nodded, understanding the rationale behind the choice. “Alright. Let’s get started then.”

She gets up approaching the designated area of the abandoned airport, her focus sharpening as she prepared to use her ability. The old infrastructure loomed around her, its faded and crumbling form adding an air of eerie significance to the task ahead.

She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar rush of power surge through her veins. The amplification of her Malevolent Marionette ability in this universe made her sense of control both exhilarating and intense. She drew upon this heightened power, channeling it into the task of creating a rift.

Taking a deep breath, she began to concentrate, visualizing the concept of a ‘copy’ of the universe. She extended her senses to the fabric of reality, focusing on the connection between dimensions. Her power, always a tangible force, now felt even more potent and responsive.

As she concentrated, she began to generate an ethereal thread of energy, weaving it through the air. This thread represented the bridge she needed to create. Her eyes glowed a deep, bloody red as she manipulated the reality around her, the air vibrating with the intensity of her power.

The process was complex; she had to maintain a precise balance to ensure the rift remained stable. She imagined the rift as a shimmering doorway between dimensions, her ability acting as the key to unlock it. The space around her seemed to warp and distort as the rift began to form, its edges crackling with energy.

After several moments of intense focus, the rift stabilized, a pulsating portal of shifting colors and swirling energy hovering before them. It was a tangible gateway to the other universe.

She opened her eyes, her breath slightly labored but her expression resolute. “It’s done. The rift is open. We can now move through it.”

Chuuya’s gaze softened as he stepped closer to her. He placed a gentle kiss on her temple, his voice a low murmur. “You did well, baby.”

Dazai stood there observing with a hint of exasperation, rolling his eyes. “Give me a break, Chuuya. It’s not exactly the time for showing affection. We have a mission to focus on.”

With a scoff and a quick shake of his head, Dazai turned toward the rift. “Let’s get moving.”

The three of them stepped through the rift, leaving behind the desolate abandoned airport. They emerged into another universe, finding themselves back at an airport that was bustling with activity. The once-derelict surroundings had transformed into a vibrant scene, with people moving about, shops open, and the hum of life filling the air.

Chuuya remained close to her. “We’ll stick together and cover as much ground as we can. If he’s here, we’ll find him.”

Dazai on the other hand immediately began taking notes, his sharp gaze scanning the lively environment with practiced efficiency. He moved with purpose, quickly piecing together the clues from the vibrant surroundings.

After a few moments of observation and note-taking, Dazai’s expression shifted to one of realization. “I’ve figured it out. He is among these people. We need to be strategic about this.”

Chuuya nodded, his jaw set with determination. “So, what’s the plan?”

Dazai thought for a moment before responding. “We need to lure him away from the crowd and into a controlled space where we can handle him more effectively. We can’t afford to touch him directly, given his ability. Instead, we’ll need to use a combination of strategy and traps to get him through the rift.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed with concern. “How do we get him to follow us through the rift without touching him, idiot?”

Y/N stood there, her mind racing, suddenly had an idea. “I can create a replica of my mother. If we make it convincing enough, it might lure him through the rift. He’d be drawn to her, and we can get him into our trap.”

Chuuya frowned, clearly uneasy. “How do you propose we do that? He’s not going to be easily fooled.”

Dazai’s lips curled into a smirk. “Actually, he might be more susceptible than you think. Y/N’s ability has been amplified since arriving in our universe. She can create a replica of her dead mother to lure him through the rift. He wouldn’t know that it’s just her ability at work.”

Chuuya looked skeptical. “Are you sure he wouldn’t figure it out? He’s not exactly a fool.”

Dazai shook his head, his smirk widening. “On the contrary, he’s not aware of the full extent of her ability. The amplification in our universe has changed things. He won’t expect that this is a trick.”

Y/N took a deep breath, preparing herself for the task ahead. “If this is the best way to get him through the rift, I’ll do it.”

With the plan in place, she concentrated, focusing on creating a replica of her mother. Her ability, now amplified, took on a new level of intensity. She visualized her mother’s likeness with painstaking detail, drawing on her memories to create a convincing illusion.

The replica stood before them, a ghostly yet strikingly real vision of her mother. It moved with the grace and familiarity that she remembered, a poignant reminder of the love she had lost. She felt a pang of sorrow, but she steeled herself, knowing that this illusion was crucial for their plan.

As the replica became fully formed. Dazai gave her a soft smile. “You’ve done well. Now, let’s get into position.”

They all hid behind a nearby wall, their eyes trained on the bustling crowd. Y/N took a deep breath, gathering her resolve as she guided the replica of her mother into view. The replica moved gracefully, mimicking the familiar motions and demeanor of her deceased mother.

Through the maze of people, Y/N spotted her stepfather. His presence was unmistakable with his black, long hair and the distinctive ushanka hat he always wore. Her heart tightened at the sight of him, his imposing figure cutting through the crowd with an unsettling familiarity. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the area.

When he caught sight of the replica, his expression shifted from curiosity to shock. His eyes widened, and he squinted as if trying to confirm what he was seeing. He pushed through the crowd, his movements quick and purposeful as he followed the illusion. The replica of Y/N’s mother seemed to captivate him, drawing him closer.

Chuuya’s voice was a low murmur beside her. “Keep him moving. Once he’s close enough to the rift, we’ll make our move.”

She nodded, her focus unyielding. She maneuvered the replica with precise control, ensuring it led her stepfather directly to the edge of the rift. The stepfather’s fixation on the replica made him oblivious to his surroundings, allowing them to prepare for the final step.

As the stepfather reached the rift’s edge, they began to close in on him, ready to trigger the trap. The rift shimmered ominously, its pulsating energy reflecting the tension of the moment.

The stepfather, now fully engrossed in the illusion, took a step closer to the rift. His gaze was locked onto the replica, and he seemed on the verge of stepping through. The plan was working—he was being drawn toward the gateway between dimensions.

As the he neared the rift, Chuuya’s eyes narrowed with determination. He focused on his ability, manipulating gravity with precise control. Without physically touching him, Chuuya directed a powerful gravitational force that propelled the stepfather through the rift. He startled expression shifted to a sneer as he was pulled into the swirling vortex.

With their target through, they followed closely behind, stepping through the rift one after the other. They emerged into the same old airport immediately facing the stepfather who had already adjusted to the new environment.

The rift behind them flickered and closed, sealing them in their dimension. He turned slowly, a mocking smile playing on his lips. His gaze settled on Y/N, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Ah, finally,” he chuckled, his voice dripping with disdain. “I see you’ve managed to use the full extent of your power. How delightful.”

Her jaw tightened, but she maintained her composure. “Fyodor.”

Fyodor’s smirk widened as he looked at her, clearly reveling in the moment. “You’re still as predictable as ever,” he taunted. “I’ve heard whispers of your growing power, but seeing it in action is truly something else. I must admit, I’m impressed.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “This isn’t a game, Fyodor. You’re here because we need to settle things once and for all.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Oh, I’m well aware. But before we get into that, let’s not forget the real reason you’re here. I’m curious—how does it feel to be free from the constraints of your Malevolent Marionette?”

Chuuya stepped in, his voice edged with authority. “Enough games, Fyodor. You’ve been a thorn in our side for far too long. We’re not here to entertain you.”

Fyodor’s gaze shifted to Chuuya, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, Chuuya. Still the ever-loyal protector. How touching.”

As the tension in the air thickened, Fyodor’s demeanor became more serious. “But enough chit-chat. Let’s see if you can handle what I have in store. After all, this little reunion is about to become much more interesting.”

With a snap of his fingers, Fyodor's eyes gleamed with a new, sinister energy. The air around him crackled and shimmered as he unleashed his latest ability. A dark, swirling vortex of energy formed at his feet, gradually expanding into a series of ethereal, shadowy tendrils that writhed and twisted with an eerie life of their own.

The tendrils snaked outwards, each one pulsating with a dark, unnatural light. As they extended, they seemed to distort the very fabric of reality around them, creating ripples in the air that caused everything nearby to quiver. The power emanating from Fyodor was palpable, a chilling force that seemed to bend and warp the space it touched.

Before Chuuya could react, one of the tendrils shot towards him with alarming speed. It moved with a fluid, almost serpentine grace, aiming directly at his torso. The dark energy crackled with an almost sentient malice, leaving trails of distorted air in its wake.

Chuuya's instincts kicked in as he deflected the attack using his gravity manipulation. He tried to push the tendril away, but the force it carried was unexpectedly strong. The tendril slithered around his defenses, grazing his side and sending a jolt of freezing energy through him. It felt like a cold, piercing void trying to sap his strength.

Fyodor watched with a satisfied smirk. “You see,” Fyodor taunted, “this ability is something I’ve acquired recently. It allows me to manipulate shadows and dark energy, turning them into tangible, destructive forces. It’s quite effective for dealing with troublesome opponents.”

As Chuuya struggled against the tendrils, Dazai moved swiftly and decisively. His sharp eyes tracked the swirling shadows, and with practiced precision, he darted towards one of the tendrils. In a quick, fluid motion, Dazai placed his hand on the dark energy. The tendril quivered and then abruptly solidified into an immobile state. The shadowy force dissipated, leaving the dark energy inert and harmless.

Before Fyodor could fully react, Y/N stepped forward with a steely resolve. Her eyes glowed a deep, bloody red as she summoned her enhanced Malevolent Marionette ability. With a practiced flick of her hand, she unleashed the time-proof strigles—an immense axial fiber that shimmered with a powerful, otherworldly energy.

The strigles coiled around Fyodor, the time-proof cable wrapping around him with a near-physical force. The cables constricted with a precise, suffocating grip, holding Fyodor captive and rendering him immobile. The energy from the strigles warped and distorted the space around him, making it nearly impossible for him to escape or counteract.

Fyodor’s eyes danced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He chuckled, his voice carrying a taunting edge. “Is that all you’ve got?” he said, his gaze meeting hers with a challenging gleam. “You may have temporarily subdued me, but this is far from over. My new ability is not so easily contained.”

As she held Fyodor captive with the time-proof strigles, her senses suddenly picked up a familiar, unsettling sound—a chittering that tugged at her memory. Her eyes widened as she scanned the surroundings, searching for the source of the sound. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a small, familiar raccoon darting towards them with an unexpected urgency.

the raccoon, Karl, was clutching a book that emanated a brilliant yellow aura. Without hesitation, Karl threw open the book, its pages glowing with an intense, radiant energy. The light expanded outward, forming an ethereal, shimmering barrier that enveloped Fyodor. The book's aura pulsed with a force that pulled Fyodor into its pages, trapping him within.

Fyodor’s mocking expression turned to one of shock and frustration as he realized he was being drawn into the book’s confines. He struggled against the glowing energy, but it was no use. The barrier solidified, and with a final burst of light, Fyodor was sealed inside, his form barely visible through the pages of the book.

As the light from the book began to fade, Karl gave a satisfied thumbs-up. From above a nearby corridor, the familiar voice of Poe echoed through the airport. “Good job, Karl!” Poe called out, his eyes filled with starry hearts. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Y/N’s eyes softened in relief and recognition as she saw Poe standing above, a warm smile on his face. She nodded gratefully at Karl and Poe, silently thanking them for their unexpected intervention.

Chuuya's eyes narrowed, and he shot Dazai a sharp look. “You knew about this all along, didn’t you?” he demanded, his tone a mix of frustration and disbelief.

Dazai chuckled, his expression one of innocent amusement. “Well, I had a pretty good idea that Karl and Poe might show up. They do have a knack for timing, after all.”

Y/N crossed her arms, her expression mirroring Chuuya’s irritation. “You should have told us about the full plan. It would have saved us a lot of unnecessary worry.”

Dazai's smirk widened, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Sometimes a little surprise adds to the excitement.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in realization, her face turning pale. “The paper! We didn’t get the paper from the reality book!” Her panic was palpable as she rushed over to the trapped Fyodor, her mind racing with the implications of leaving such a crucial element in his possession.

Before she goes onto a full panic attack mode, Karl scampered up onto her shoulder, carefully placing a folded piece of paper into her hand. She stared at it in disbelief, recognizing the paper as the one they had desperately needed.

Poe, descending gracefully from above, added with a reassuring tone, “Karl managed to snatch it from Fyodor’s pocket before he was sealed away. It’s crucial for ensuring the book’s containment.”

“Thank you, both,” She sighs with relief.

Poe gave her a reassuring smile. “No problem. I will rewrite it making sure that everything is back to normal.”

Karl continues to play with Y/N hair as she giggled at him.

Poe’s eyes softened with a knowing smile as he moved closer. “I’ll make sure to bring back both your version of Chuuya in your world and Chuuya’s version of you here.”

She looked at Poe with a thoughtful expression, her eyes shifting to Chuuya. He met her gaze with a nod of agreement. She then smiled warmly at Poe and shook her head. “Thank you, Poe, but we don’t need that anymore.”

Poe raised an eyebrow, slightly puzzled. “Are you sure?”

Chuuya stepped forward, his voice firm yet gentle. “We’ve grown fond of this version of each other. We’ve adapted to the reality we’re in now.”

Poe’s expression brightened with understanding. “Very well then. If that’s what you both want, I’ll respect your choice.”

Karl patted Y/N’s shoulder affectionately, as if to confirm the decision. Poe gave a final nod, his eyes reflecting a mix of satisfaction and warmth. “I’ll see to it that everything is sorted out here. If you need anything else, let me know.”

With a wave of his hand, Poe and Karl began to fade from view, their task complete. The airport, once filled with tension and chaos, now felt more settled as the group took a moment to reflect on the events that had transpired.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, life in Yokohama settled into a new rhythm. Y/N had firmly decided to step back from the role of the mafia boss, finding more comfort and purpose under Chuuya's leadership. She preferred the freedom it allowed, enabling her to focus on what truly mattered—both in their missions and in her personal life.

Dazai, ever the observer, continued to make occasional visits to check on Y/N. Their friendship remained strong, but Dazai harbored unspoken feelings for her. Nevertheless, he found himself feeling more content knowing she was happy with that 'slug' as he calls him, despite his own lingering emotions. He chose to keep his distance, admiring her from afar while supporting their relationship in his own quiet way.

A year later, Y/N and Chuuya's love had blossomed into a committed partnership. They celebrated their engagement with joy and anticipation. On a usual Saturday night, they were enjoying a quiet evening together, sharing drinks and reminiscing about their past lives.

Chuuya's phone rang, interrupting their moment. He glanced at the screen and saw Akutagawa's name. After a brief conversation, he informed Y/N of the situation. “Akutagawa says there’s a nuisance ability user causing trouble in Yokohama. It looks like we've got to take care of this.”

Her eyes softened with understanding, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. “Trouble never seems to end, does it?”

Chuuya smiled, his gaze filled with affection. “It doesn’t, but as long as we’re together, nothing in the world is too hard to beat.”

She returned his smile, a mix of excitement and determination in her gaze. She stood up, reaching for her usual black leather long coat. With a quick motion, she cracked her neck, readying herself for whatever lay ahead. Chuuya adjusted his hat with practiced ease, his eyes shining with confidence.

Together, they stepped out, side by side, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them in Yokohama. With their combined strength and unwavering bond, they knew that no obstacle would be too great to overcome.

A/N: I know I know don't hate me, I had to change ma sweet babe Fedya's ability for the plot 😭. Oh how I hated not mischaracterising him into a sweet alooffff. Also, I know the fight scene was rushed, but I felt the plot was stretching too much. Also, Karl's part was UwU. Yet I feel bad for Daz for watching Y/N from afar :(. Anyways!! Hope y'all enjoyed it, I know the plot was quite perplexing, but i just got back to writing after a huge pause that reached 2 years.

➵Want more of Chuuya Nakahara ?

[offside-the-lines]

i'm half-doomed & you're semi-sweet | Connor McDavid (x Male!OC)

Summary: After a painful playoff exit to end the 2022-23 season, Connor just needs to get as far away as possible, all the way to Gold Coast, Australia. He expects some peace and quiet, a reprieve. What he doesn't expect is this happy and carefree bartender, Lucky, to make him question the choice he has been making since he was 10. Title inspo: Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes by Fall Out Boy

This fic is dedicated to @hiding-from-reality-56 for @wyattjohnston's Summer Fic Exchange 2k24. I'm really sorry it's late. Life has been nuts. I really hope you like it! S/O to Demi, Ashley and T for being my cheerleaders, beta readers and editors. Ilysm. Pairing: Connor McDavid x M!OC. This fic features an original male character. Word count: 11.3k Warnings: SMUT: 18 + ONLY. MINORS DNI. SAFE SEX RESOURCE. Angst, lots of (I would say light) angst (first 1/2). Smut, lots of (light to medium) smut (second 1/2). This fic deals with internalized homophobia and coming to terms with your sexuality by way of having your first gay and first sexual encounter (it's hot and sweet, I hope). This was a super meaningful topic for me to write about, and I hope it resonates. Please take care of yourself if this is a topic that is sensitive for you. Connor is also, as I liked to say as I was writing this, Cognitive Distortions and Anxiety and Self-Doubt stacked on top of each other in a trench coat. Our poor boy is going through it in this. The smallest emetophobia warning. Small mention right in the first section (7 paragraphs in). Masterlist | (My requests are currently closed.) | Read this story on AO3

It’s 4 am on May 15th, and Connor’s lying in his own bed. And the only thing he can think about is what should’ve been.

He should be going to Vegas, getting ready to win Game 7.

Or better yet, he should’ve never let it get to that point—needing a Game 7. They should be getting ready for the conference finals.

The humiliation of yet another failed year—a second-round exit, no less—stings deep, and he feels the bile rise in the back of his throat. The taste of ‘This is our year’ sits rotten on his tongue, the number of times he said it to the boys. Momentarily, he wonders if he ever truly believed it. If any of this means anything at all. Or if he really is just a mouse in a cage running on a wheel going nowhere.

The silence in Roger’s Place is all he can hear in the darkness of his own bedroom. It makes him feel like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. The idea of going back to his Toronto house, carrying the looming absence of those 35 pounds, makes him want to throw up.

Or maybe that’s just—

He bolts up in his bed, runs to his toilet, and throws up nothing but bile.

With his head resting against the cold ceramic, he thinks about his parents. He knows they’re not going to be disappointed. They don’t care about the Cu— They don’t care about all that. They care about him, but he doesn’t think he can stomach another off-season of their pitying looks and gentle encouragement.

Another off-season walking around the city of Toronto, feeling like everyone is laughing at him. ‘Look, there goes the Next Great One, the so-called McJesus. What a joke. Look at him, he’s a failure.’ He can hear their thoughts.

They don’t even know about the other thing.

He rinses his mouth and stumbles back to his bed. He picks up his phone and texts his agent about finding somewhere different to train this offseason before he can think better of it. “...in I don’t know. Fucking Australia or something. Just. Somewhere far,” he adds.

He sits on his bed, fiddling with his phone for a while.

He sighs and rests his head against the headboard. He closes his eyes and drifts, picturing what his life might look like if he wasn’t… Well… Him.

He remembers a sports psychologist he was encouraged to see called it ‘maladaptive daydreaming.’ Which—that’s always felt a little ridiculous, given that they also recommend ‘visualization techniques’. ‘Picture yourself scoring the goal, Connor,’ they’d say.

It always felt like the same thing.

He sighs and texts Jeff again. “Totally okay if not. I know it’s super late notice. Just feel like it might be good for me. And for next year.”

The next few days pass like a blur, just room full of people after room full of people. Saying the same meaningless comments over and over. Play the part. Be sad, but not too sad. Be honest, but not too honest.

It doesn’t help that Leon’s grumpy, too. Well, not so grumpy he won’t sit on Connor’s couch—that does occasionally happen—but grumpy enough that he’s been mainly communicating in grunts. But, Connor figures, a grunting Leon is better than no Leon, so they sit in miserable silence as episode after episode of Friends plays on his ridiculously large 85-inch TV.

Which—who even needs an 85-inch TV? Well… Connor does, apparently, according to his decorator anyway. It’s ridiculous, and he hates the excessiveness more with each passing minute. He considers how bad it would be to just rip it off the wall. Probably quite bad. He doesn’t do it. Instead, he pokes Leon in the side with his toe and smiles weakly when he gets an irritated grunt in return and a heavy hand gripping his ankle.

Connor does his duty as Captain and hosts one last team barbecue in his absurd house that makes him feel like a zoo exhibit. He says goodbye to Leon for the summer—every year, it feels stilted and weird; he can never find the right words, but he thinks Leon gets it anyway. Or at least some of it. Not that Connor really knows what “it” is.

Not that Connor really wants to know what “it” is.

Connor swallows down the lump in his throat and turns his phone off, settling in for the flight from LAX to Brisbane, Australia—apparently, Jeff took him literally. He can’t help but think What the fuck am I doing? But that’s the point, right? To not think.

For once in his life, it would be nice to just do something without thinking about it endlessly. To just do something without thinking through the whole play, without reviewing the tape and dissecting everything that could go wrong.

He pops a sleeping pill with the hope that maybe it means he won’t spend the 15-hour flight ruminating on whether or not he should be doing this at all. And then ruminating on whether or not he should be ruminating on whether or not— Yeah. Five hours of rumination he can do—he does it often with the NHL schedule and the Edmonton of it all—but 15 hours seems to be a stretch even for him. So, he pops a sleeping pill.

Besides, he hopes that if he’s asleep, he won’t have to make any more eye contact with the flight attendant whose hand Connor accidentally touched when he helped Connor put away his carry-on. He kept making such earnest conversation with Connor, a smile crinkling the corners of his dazzling green eyes as Connor embarrassingly fumbled over his words, which—

Yeah, he needs to get a grip. And sleep. Hopefully, when he wakes up, he will feel a little less mortified—from experience, unlikely. At least the guy was Australian and didn’t seem to know who he was.

Connor wonders if he would be like this if he worked in something mundane, like finance or sales. If he’s destined to be this way, or if hockey made him this way. At this point, it was impossible to determine where Connor ends and McDavid-97 begins.

Luckily, hockey means he gets the good pills, at least, and he is knocked out for at least 12 hours.

Connor spends the first few weeks in a weird state of suspended animation, just going through the motions of his off-season training. He meets the trainers, who seem to have been briefed by Gary on what he needs and throws himself into the work. No one recognizes him except for a couple of the guys at the rink. But they don’t bother him. It’s a relief. He thinks he understands why Leon fucks off to Mallorca every summer. He wonders why he doesn’t fuck off to Mallorca with him—something else to not examine further.

He takes himself to the beach and watches the surfers and tries to remember to reapply sunscreen every 30 minutes, or whatever, even though it’s “winter”. He fails, of course, and burns bright red after only a few days. He’s forced to return only in the late afternoons.

He finds a pub-thing between his condo and the beach and sits at the bar for dinner every day; nothing better to do. He orders a beer with his dinner at the bartender’s suggestion. He hates it. He drinks it anyway. The bartender—Connor thinks he said his name was Lucky?—probably thinks he’s an absolute freak, judging by the little glances he throws Connor’s way and the amused look he has every time Connor orders.

It doesn’t help that Lucky is kind of stunning. It’s a thought that Connor usually keeps locked up, stuffed in some deep crevice of his mind where he won’t have to examine it, but the longer he watches Lucky—not that he’s watching, he just happens to be at the bar every night, and there’s not much else to do—the more he notices.

Connor watches the messy mop of curls fall in front of his eyes every time he bends over to put ice in a drink and the way he brushes it away with the back of a toned, tattooed forearm. It’s hard to tell exactly how dark his hair is or what the color of his eyes is in the dim interior of the pub, but Connor finds himself itching to know.

But the thing that Connor thinks about as he lays in bed at night is the way Lucky interacts with everyone—playful, easy. He notices the way he flirts—and the guys he flirts with. There’s this weird tightness that settles in his gut, and it twists every time he catches Lucky’s bright smile and the glint in his eyes.

There are an increasing number of days when Connor feels the need to stay until closing. There are a few other regulars he’s gotten to know, and it’s fun to hear about their lives. They will chat with Lucky as he’s cleaning up the bar. 

It has nothing to do with the way Lucky will sometimes take some guy home. Nothing to do with the way it’s just out in the open. Bold, confident, and unashamed. There are never any side-long glances from anyone, no snide comments.

Connor is completely unable to ignore the way his chest feels too small every time it happens. He wonders if he could ever do that. He wonders if he could even look at the thing head-on.

He thinks maybe Gold Coast Connor could.

It takes him until the night before his flight to the NHL awards to decide that Gold Coast Connor can make moves. Gold Coast Connor has the confidence and freedom that Connor McDavid does not. Gold Coast Connor is funny and banters with strangers.

Connor McDavid knows to never have more than two drinks. It affects his performance the next day.

That’s why Gold Coast Connor has 5 or 6. Switches to whiskey after the usual disgusting beer. Lucky chuckles at him.

“I knew you hated that. Was trying to see how long you were gonna keep drinking that for. You should see the face you make every sip.”

Connor's face heats; he knows the ruddy red cheeks look ridiculous against his messy ginger beard.

After the third drink, Lucky shoots him a look. He responds with only a shrug, and he seems to decide to not press the issue.

He knows he’s drunk when he shoots his shot.

“Come home with me today,” he says to Lucky, leaning over the bar conspiratorially.

He laughs, smile wide and easy, eyes wrinkling. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Lucky’s smile shifts, and he stares at Connor for a long moment, lips pressed together. The weight of the look sits heavy on him and makes him squirm. He fights the urge to run.

“Yeah, nah,” Lucky decides, “I think it’s time to cut you off. Switch to water.”

Connor suddenly realizes how this must look to him. “I’m serious,” he blurts out, “about the offer, I mean.”

Lucky laughs. “Good to know.” He winks, and Connor feels very warm. “But you’re six drinks deep when you usually only have one beer. Whatever this—” he gestures at Connor “—is, I’m not sure I want to get involved in that.”

His stomach sinks like a rock, and bile licks at the back of his throat. “Oh.” About twenty different thoughts battle in his mind, fighting for dominance.

Lucky looks at him consideringly and sighs. “Connor, it’s not a no. It’s a not today. Trust me, I am very interested. You’re—Look, you’re going on your business trip tomorrow, right?”

Connor nods.

“Okay, talk to me when you get back, yeah?” He leans in—it makes his biceps pop, but Connor tries not to let his eyes catch on it—something akin to amusement dances in his eyes as his lips curl into a smirk. “You can wait that long. You can be good, can’t you?”

A heat settles in Connor’s gut. “Uh, yeah,” he splutters.

Lucky leans back, his smirk bigger now, satisfied. “I thought you’d be into that. Yeah, we’ll have some fun when you get back.”

Connor swallows thickly; something that might be hope simmers under his skin.

The good feeling Lucky leaves him with doesn’t last long. It starts with the mountain of texts, missed calls, and voicemails that come through as soon as he puts his normal SIM card back in.

It only gets worse when he’s faced with Leon’s fury. Leon is pissed off often, but it is rare to see him genuinely angry.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Leon fumes, steel grey eyes not even a foot from his face as he grips Connor’s arm so tightly he thinks it might bruise.

“Um, look—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Leon continues right over Connor’s soft voice. “I had to call your agent just to make sure you were still alive. Hey—at least Cameron got a text, right? Nice of you to not ghost your family, I guess. Guess I didn’t make the cut, eh?”

“Leo, I’m s—”

“You know,” Leon grits, “I was going to fly back to Canada ‘cause I thought something had happened to you. But, no. Glad you’re living it up in Australia. Glad you’re having so much fun.” He drops Connor’s arm and steps back, chest heaving as he breathes heavily. “Well, if you don’t want anything to do with me, then you can have nothing to do with me.”

“Leo, please—” Connor’s voice breaks as his throat burns and his chest tightens like a vice grip.

“Fuck you, Connor. Seriously, you’re a fucking selfish asshole,” he says as he walks away, the door of Connor’s hotel room slamming behind him.

It takes too long for Connor to remember how to breathe after that, sitting on the floor of his hotel room, staring at his shaking hands.

The day somehow gets worse from there when he has to ask Mikael Backlund, of all people, why Matthew has a sling on.

Backlund gives him a strange look. “Wh—Chucky?”

“Yeah,” Connor swallows.

After a beat of silence, he says, “He broke his sternum. Game 3 of the finals against Vegas. Played in Game 4 anyway. Didn’t matter in the end.” Backlund winces. “They lost in 5.”

“Oh,” Connor winces in return.

Backlund stares at him for a while. “Heard it was pretty bad.”

“Shit.”

The festivities continue around them. He gives a cordial nod to Nico Hischier and Jack Hughes as they walk past.

“I thought you two were friends; that’s what Chucky used to say anyway,” Backlund finally says.

“We are,” Connor swallows around the guilt sitting in his throat. “I just, uh, needed a break, so I was—Never mind. It looks like duty calls, so I’ll be—” Connor forces himself to stand up and gestures towards the event people waving at him. “Have a good night. See you next season.”

Backlund nods with an expression Connor can’t quite place—he thinks it might be pity.

Connor sleeps so poorly over the next few days, and it’s a wonder he’s coherent when he meets the Bedard kid. He feels horribly ill-equipped to give the kid any advice and fumbles through some generic pointers. Leon was much better, as he usually is at these things.

At least the time together allowed him to earn back some of Leon’s good graces. They part with a promise of photos and texts and a hug that makes Connor feel unmoored. He wonders if Leon can tell he’s barely holding it together and just doesn’t care enough to ask anymore. He hopes not. He really needs it to not be that.

I guess we can add ‘friendship’ to the list of things Connor McDavid can’t do, he thinks. When he closes his eyes, he can only picture Leon’s furious expression, or Backlund’s confused disappointment, or Matthew’s annoyingly amused smirk when Connor finally had the chance to catch up with him and explain his absence. 

Leon’s anger is still the one that stings the most. It’s the one that plays on a loop in his head. It pops into his head at unexpected moments. It’s kept company with all the other failures and misses that haunt him.

He doesn’t sleep a wink on the flight back to Australia. 

It takes Connor a few days to work up the courage to go to the pub again, now more sure than ever that he made a fool of himself the last time. But, eventually, he forces himself to just do it—it has nothing to do with his inability to cook.

Lucky greets him, same as always, with an easy smile and a glint in his eye. It’s so normal that it makes him think Lucky forgot about their last conversation. But, something about the way he reaches across the bar and taps Connor on the wrist as he laughs at some dumb comment Connor made. Or maybe it’s the wink he sends Connor when he catches Connor staring at the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the top-shelf liquor…

Either way, Connor knows deep down that Lucky definitely remembers their conversation. Which means Lucky knows something about Connor that no one else does. 

It’s a thought that should make his chest tighten and stomach churn—the idea of it alone would usually send him down a paralyzing spiral—but instead, it makes him feel feverish, a small crackle of expectation settling just below his navel. There’s just something about Lucky that eases something in his chest—Well, there just is something about him.

Neither of them do anything about it, though. Connor can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved.

A few days later, it’s almost closing and it’s quiet in the pub. There’s tennis on the TV: Wimbledon, Connor thinks, possibly a replay. He isn’t really paying attention. If he’s honest, he’s never really got tennis. Leon likes it, though, so he watches when it’s on.

“So,” Lucky says, interrupting Connor’s trance. He’s leaning against the bar back, polishing a glass—it makes the muscles in his forearm ripple. Connor pointedly doesn’t stare.

“So?” Connor says weakly. He knows. And he knows that Lucky knows he knows. He still doesn’t acknowledge it. He quickly looks around to check if anyone is close by.

“Did you still wanna come home with me?” Lucky says.

He just drops it into the space between them like it’s nothing. He just says it like it doesn’t turn Connor’s world upside down and his guts inside out.

Deep down, Connor knows that he could say no and Lucky would never mention it again. No hard feelings. Easy. They could both pretend like it never happened. Which is what Connor should want—it is what Connor wants. Which is why Connor is going to say no.

“Yeah.” It comes out close to a whisper, but it doesn’t need to be audible because Lucky smiles. Connor feels his cheeks heat, and it’s like every inch of skin suddenly fires up like live wire. 

Lucky turns around and places the glass on the shelf, and Connor blows out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in a puff. 

“Good,” Lucky says when he turns back around, “‘cause I already asked Kazza to close out for me tonight. I just need to grab something from the office, and then I’m good to go.”

Connor swallows. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Lucky runs his bottom lip through his teeth consideringly before he flashes Connor a heated grin and walks away. 

Connor waits for the pang of regret or guilt to hit; something to tell him to put a stop to this. It doesn’t come. All he feels is the prickling simmer of anticipation.

“Connor?” Lucky says, poking his head around the corner.

“Huh?”

“I meant for you to follow me,” he chuckles.

“Oh!” Connor scrambles to get out of the bar stool—it’s an entirely ungraceful affair—and follows Lucky and waits in the hall.

When he emerges from the office, he hands an envelope to Connor. “Can you hold this for a sec? Just need to put my jacket on.”

“Yeah, sure.” Connor looks down at the envelope, which has Lachlan written in Sharpie on the front. “Who’s this for?”

Lucky freezes and cocks his head. “What?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—It’s just on the—Nevermind. Don’t worry about it,” Connor mumbles.

“No, no. Wait.” He shakes his head and huffs. “It’s me? Lachlan, that’s my name?” He pronounces it like Lock-lan, which confuses Connor more.

“What do you mean?” 

“Lachy… It’s short for Lachlan?”

“It is?” Connor furrows his eyebrows.

“Yeah, mate! What have you been calling me?”

“I thought your name was Lucky!”

Lucky—or Lachy?—bursts out laughing, snorting a little as he clutches his sides. “I thought you were just saying it weird,” he manages to get out between laughs.

Connor rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean, it was loud in there when you introduced yourself, so…” he lets himself trail off. He shifts on his feet, looking at the carpet.

Lachy shakes his head, still chuckling as he grabs Connor’s hand at the wrist. “Come on, this way.”

“It’s a bit weird now ‘cause I’ve been calling you Lucky all this time, and you’re Lucky in my head. I guess I have to change that now,” Connor murmurs, largely to himself.

Lachy hums. He tugs on Connor’s wrist and pulls him forward, swallowing the space between them as he backs them into a door. In a snap second, it’s like all the air has left the room, the world around them focusing in on the one point of contact at Connor’s wrist. Lachy’s hand is warm as it applies some pressure.

There is a beat of silence where Connor doesn’t know what to do but look. The lighting is a little better back here, and it catches on the strands of Lachy’s hair that have been lightened by the sun. In this lighting, Connor thinks Lachy’s eyes might be hazel or maybe a warm amber. He feels an inexplicable need to find out. 

The thing that catches Connor off-guard is the way he has to look down at Lachlan. Connor knew that he’s shorter—has seen him with his coworkers to compare—but it didn’t prepare him for the way it feels. The way that Lachy’s everything makes him feel pinned in place even as he towers over him—the six inches or so of height difference feels meaningless under his heated gaze.

Lachy reaches back with his free hand and grabs the door handle.

“You can keep calling me Lucky if you want, seeing as you’ll be getting Lucky tonight, right?” The corner of Lachy's lip ticks up in a smirk as he bites back a laugh. He leans in. “You can call me whatever you like once I’m inside you.”

Connor chokes. “Um, okay?” he squeaks, spluttering.

Lachy—Lucky?—leans his head back against the door and laughs. There is no explanation for the way the sound seeps into Connor, reaching every single crevice. It should be embarrassing to be this affected by someone’s laugh. Connor doesn’t have time to explore that thought further as Lucky pushes the door open and pulls Connor with him into the cool evening air.

The walk to Lucky’s place is not very long. But it is enough time for Connor to feel the ever-present doubt creeping in, even as Lucky tells him a funny story about a collision he saw while he was surfing that morning. He’s standing so close. Close enough that he can feel the heat of Lucky’s arm against his own. Closer than is normal for two guys casually strolling down the street, which—

Connor knows they’re not just two guys walking down the street. Not at all. He can still feel the anticipation simmering under his skin even as the cold air cuts through his thin sweater.

He tries to focus on the fact that the streets are empty, except for the occasional car, and no one knows him here. Here, he’s just Connor. So he tries not to let the looming shadow of his Name dig its claws in.

The thing is… he has a guy—a really hot guy who definitely knows what he’s doing—who is willing to take Connor home. A guy who seems to be into his disheveled and awkward self for some reason. A guy who inexplicably makes Connor feel safe, thousands of miles away from home and away from everything and everyone he knows.

Connor should take this gift with both hands and say thank you like the good Canadian boy that he is.

He thinks about the visualization exercises and pictures himself taking off the Edmonton Oilers jersey with McDavid 97 on the back and the C on the front. He pictures himself handing it over to Australian customs along with the apple he had forgotten was in his bag.

Connor barely has time to even look at Lucky’s apartment before he’s crowded against the door. Connor sucks in a steadying breath.

Lucky looks up at him, his warm breath tickling Connor’s neck. “I’m sorry if I smell like beer; I know you don’t like beer.”

Connor makes an affronted noise. “I do so like beer. I just don’t like—”

Lucky huffs and cuts him off by slamming his lips on Connor’s. Connor lets out a little squeak of surprise before his body takes over. His eyes flutter shut as he takes in the warmth of Lucky’s soft lips.

It feels so foreign when Lucky slides his tongue over Connor’s bottom lip; the wet heat surprises him and makes him open his mouth instinctively. He’s rewarded as Lucky pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbles on it slightly. Connor finds out he enjoys that as he bites back a groan.

Lucky’s hands move from the door behind Connor to rest on his hips, fingers applying gentle but firm pressure. His hands feel so warm Connor wonders if they would leave handprints for the world to see, like a brand.

Lucky makes a noise against his mouth that Connor can’t interpret. He hums a questioning sound and finds that it tickles a little. He finds out he likes that, too.

Lucky’s hands pull away, much to his dismay, only to grab Connor’s own hands and place them on his sides—Connor runs his hands down the firmness of his obliques and gives them an appreciative squeeze, earning him an approving sound as Lucky rests his hands on Connor’s chest.

Connor doesn’t know how long they just stay like that, kissing languidly as he slowly becomes more exploratory with his touches, sliding his hands over Lucky’s defined back. And Lucky returns the favor, running his hands over Connor’s chest—through the sweater material, it just feels like broad warm pressure—before reaching up to the nape of Connor’s neck and moving him the way he wants to deepen the kiss.

The wet, hot slide of their mouths feels so nice that Connor thinks maybe they could just stay doing this forever. But Lucky has other plans; he slides his hands under Connor’s sweater and hums appreciatively at what he finds. His hands travel up Connor’s chest; when he slides his hands directly over Connor’s nipples, Connor has to choke down a whine.

Connor’s hands move of their own accord, sliding down Lucky’s back and over his generous ass. His pressure is light, but it doesn’t stop Lucky from rocking forward and onto his tiptoes, stealing all the air from between their bodies. In doing so, he presses his hard dick right into Connor’s, the slide sending an electric shock through his body. They both moan at the same time.

Connor suddenly becomes acutely aware of how hard he is and the slight wet patch at the front of his boxers. Connor sucks in a breath through his nose. If he had known this was happening today, he would’ve jerked off before going to the pub. Hell—if he had even a second, he would’ve jerked off in the pub’s bathroom. Anything to take the edge off.

As it stands, Connor feels unable to get a hold of his restraint, like he’s reaching out to grab something just out of reach. It makes him feel underwater and suddenly too aware of all the sensations at once: the filthy slide of their mouths, Lucky’s thumbs rubbing over his nipples, the friction as Lucky grinds their clothed cocks together. It’s all too much as Connor feels his restraint fraying.

“Lucky,” Connor mumbles against his lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, leaning back a little.

This time, when Lucky slides his hands down Connor’s chest, he claws his hands, and his dull nails scrape over Connor’s nipples, drawing an unrestrained moan as he arches into Lucky.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” Lucky mumbles as his hands continue to travel south, as he recaptures Connor’s lips in a messy kiss.

His mind feels fragmented. Split between needing this to stop so he doesn’t come way too soon, ruining the whole thing, and needing to come so bad he thinks he might die. But he can’t figure out how to put that into words, so he just floats in the liminal space between the two.

He feels Lucky slide hook his fingers over the waistband of his jeans and boxers, and it takes him a second too long to figure out what’s happening as Lucky’s hand dips inside. It’s just the brush of a hand over his bare dick, but it’s more than he’s gotten in almost ten years, and Connor panics.

“Wait—no—” he blurts out, muffled by Lucky’s mouth. 

Connor grabs Lucky’s hand and yanks it out of his pants, but it’s too late. He squeezes his eyes shut as he fights the shudder that travels through his whole body as he comes, largely untouched, in his too-expensive jeans.

He tucks his chin to his chest, face flaring so hot he must be bright red. He takes a few breaths to steady himself before he opens his eyes and dares to look up at Lucky.

He immediately winces at what he sees. Connor feels like he actually might die and prays for the ground to swallow him whole.

Lucky’s jaw clicks, his expression one that Connor has never seen on his handsome face before. One of hurt and confusion. Connor swallows.

“Is this a gay panic thing? Because I hate to break it to you, we’d been rubbing cocks for like twenty minutes,” he says, voice low and even.

“What? No! No, it’s not—” Connor stutters, “That’s not—No.”

“Right.” Lucky raises his eyebrows; he clearly doesn’t believe him. 

Connor realizes he is still clutching Lucky’s wrist so tightly it must hurt; he lets it go completely. Lucky takes a few steps back, and Connor misses the heat of his body immediately. He feels the edges of panic closing in, so he just speaks.

“No, I promise. That’s not what’s happening. I’ve known since I was like ten that maybe—” His eyes dart around the room, and his eyes fixate on all the little trinkets around Lucky’s house—it’s kind of adorable. He takes a deep breath. Fuck it. “No. I’ve known since I was 10. I’ve just never… told anyone before. Or done anything. That was… That was great. I really liked it. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m so—” He runs his hands down his face. “Trust me, that is not what’s wrong. God, I want to die right now.”

His eyes affix to the surfboard mounted above the couch, a point just over Lucky’s left shoulder. It’s suffocatingly silent for a moment as Lucky looks him over. 

“Wait,” Lucky says, his voice low and tight, “Did you just… come?”

Connor drops his head in his hands and straight-up whines.

“Oh my god,” Lucky whispers. “Holy shit.”

Connor wonders if it’s possible to just travel through the door like a ghost. Or maybe blink out of existence.

There’s a shuffling sound before gentle hands on his wrists pull them away from his face. “Woah, hey, Connor. No worries, yeah? It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbles. Connor thinks about all the guys Lucky’s fucked before and wonders if any of them had ever come in their pants after being lightly grazed by a hand. Of course, he would be a failure at this, too.

“Baby,” Lucky’s voice is so gentle, “I’m serious, okay? You have nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s… Seriously, oh my fucking God, Connor, that is fucking hot.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, baby, it is.” He gently clasps Connor’s chin so he has to look at him and smiles softly. “Come on, maybe let’s take a break.”

“Oh.” Connor’s chest feels too tight. “Do you wanna stop? I’m sorry. I can go if you want. I’m sorry for ruining it for you.” He knows his voice sounds odd, but he’s too panicked to care.

“Stop? Who said anything about stopping?” Lucky chuckles. “Unless you want to stop, I am very much still very interested.” He directs Connor’s hand to the front of his jeans, where the hard outline of his cock twitches in Connor’s palm. “Trust me. Very. Interested. But I can wait for a second. Come on, lemme get us a drink.”

Lucky walks over to a bar cart and pours two whiskeys. Connor wonders if he should leave anyway, if he’s just being nice. Sure, he’s still hard, but does he really want Connor, the guy who came from a light breeze in his entryway? Connor thinks about all the guys he’s seen Lucky take home before, and he just knows he’s going to be the worst—or at least, the most disappointing. Maybe it would be less embarrassing for everyone if he left now.

Lucky walks over and leans against the kitchen counter opposite him and hands him the drink with a soft smile. 

Connor determines that he should probably stay, given he’s come once already, and Lucky hasn’t come at all. And that’s probably unfair.

“So,” Lucky says, “Earlier, you said that you’ve never told anyone you’re gay?” Connor shakes his head. “And you’ve never… done anything?”

Connor sighs. In for a penny, in for a pound, or whatever. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“Really? Never?” Lucky says, slightly incredulous.

“Well, there was like once or twice in juniors—high school, I mean, uh. Bro-jobs, or whatever, on, uh, school trips.” He shakes his head. “It just felt wrong ‘cause they weren’t gay, but I was. And it felt a little like I was taking advantage of it. So I stopped.”

Lucky snorts. “Well, sucking cock is pretty gay if you ask me.”

It pulls an unsuspecting laugh out of Connor. “I guess. I don’t know. That’s not what I meant—I guess—it was just different for me.” Connor shrugs and bites his lip. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I never did anything again after that.”

“Like… nothing?” Lucky asks, not unkindly.

“Yeah. Nothing.” Connor sighs. “I think you’re the first person I’ve kissed in like almost ten years. God, that’s so embarrassing to say out loud. You probably think I’m so fucking weird.”

Lucky reaches over and squeezes his arm. “Hey, I don’t think that’s embarrassing. Or weird. Different strokes, or whatever. It is what it is.”

Connor didn’t set out to have this conversation. Realistically, he never thought he would ever even have this conversation—not at least for another ten years. But something about the earnest way Lucky’s looking at him makes him want to say it. Like it’s suddenly something that’s clawing at his throat to get out.

“I just…” Connor pauses and worries at his lip again. “It’s different for me. I…” He takes a really deep breath and blows it out. “I work in the sports industry, and, unfortunately, being gay is still a pretty big deal in my line of work.”

“Shit,” Lucky nods. “That sucks.”

“I guess a little part of me always thought that if I didn’t say it out loud to anyone or do anything about it, then it was just something about me that was just for me to know. Something that other people don’t get to know about me. I guess in the process, I stopped really acknowledging it, even to myself. It’s weird. I’m not ashamed of it, but I also don’t want people to know. Which must mean I am ashamed of it, I guess. I don’t know.” Connor clears his throat to push through the tightness there. “I’ve never known another option. Like, I knew this was what I had to do from when I figured it out at 10. It’s like… if this is your reality, you might as well accept it and move on, you know?”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not painful, though. It still sucks. I’m sorry.” 

Connor shrugs as Lucky lets it hang in the air for a bit.

“Am I the first person you’ve told?” Lucky asks.

“Yeah.”

“Wow… that’s…” Lucky smiles. “Congratulations, Connor. That’s a big deal. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Connor blows out a breath, and it comes out long and shaky. Despite that, his chest feels looser, like one of the invisible chains that wrap around his body loosened. “Yeah.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a bit as they sip their whiskeys, deep in thought. Connor takes the chance to look over Lucky in the bright kitchen lights. Connor finally determines that he has hazel eyes. They’re largely amber with flecks of green, and it makes him feel warm. It reminds him of the start of autumn and the beginning of the hockey season and the hope that comes with it.

The muscles in Lucky’s forearm ripples as he taps his fingers on the countertop to an unknown beat. It makes Connor think of the little hints of his body under the fitted black shirt and black pants. He knows from the way his shirt stretches when he reaches for a high shelf that Lucky has a broad, defined back. He’s seen enough of his arms and hands to fuel his fantasies for weeks. And what he’s seen of his ass and thighs makes him want to dig his fingers in, just to see what happens. Lucky just looks so handsome, beautiful, hot that it makes his head spin a little.

A flash of heat rolls over Connor as he remembers the feeling of the solid planes of Lucky’s body against his. Connor’s a professional athlete. He’s seen so many naked male bodies in peak physical form so many times and felt nothing that he sometimes questions whether he is actually into men. Of course, there’s always someone who would knock him away from that thought like an 18-wheeler truck. Either way, he doesn’t look in the locker room. Rarely even wants to.

This time, though, it’s Lucky. And he’s not a teammate. And he’s gay. And, for some inexplicable reason, he wants to fuck Connor—a thought that sends another wave of molten heat through his veins.

He shuffles on his feet and feels the uncomfortable wet patch in his pants and flushes. Something catches Lucky’s eye because he raises an eyebrow slightly and cocks his head. It’s a minuscule moment, but Connor catches it, and the way the air seems to shift.

Connor thinks about how he’s already here, everything out on the table. Connor thinks about how he might never get this opportunity again—at least not for another ten years—needs to make the most of it. Connor thinks about the weight of Lucky’s hard cock in his hand. Connor—

“So,” Connor finds himself saying, “Are we gonna fuck tonight or…?”

Lucky throws his head back and laughs. It exposes the long line of his neck, and—Connor doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey or some other form of intoxication, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to bite it, lick it, kiss it.

So he does.

He closes the space between them in one big step and leans down to run his teeth along Lucky’s neck. He moans in response, a deep rumbling sound that tickles his lips. Connor licks it and savors the flavor of salty sweat and the aroma of heady musk. 

“Yeah, baby,” Lucky groans, his fingers finding purchase on Connor's hips and gripping firmly, “I’m going to make this so good for you.” He tilts his head and captures Connor’s lips in a heated kiss. 

This kiss is different to the one at the door. It’s more urgent, incessant, purposeful. It’s messy as their teeth clash and tongues slide against each other. Lucky bites down on Connor’s lip harder than before, and he moans. Connor sucks on Lucky’s tongue, earning a moan of his own, before letting go with a pop.

“What do you want, Connor?” Lucky murmurs against his lips.

“I want you to fuck me,” Connor blurts out, the words spilling out.

Lucky freezes for a split second, almost imperceptible, before shaking his head lightly. Connor feels the stab deep in his gut; the sting of rejection hits him by surprise, and it hurts—more than he thought it would. He tries to pull away.

Lucky shakes his head. “No, I just mean, I’m not gonna fuck you tonight.”

Connor furrows his brows, feeling confused, still trying to step away.

“Connor. Not on your first night. You’re not ready.” Lucky squeezes Connor’s hip. “Next time though…”

Connor freezes. “Next time? There’s a next time?” he hears himself say, voice small and quiet.

“Yeah, baby. If you’re game, there will be as many next times as you want before you leave. You’re here for a few more months, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathless.

Connor doesn’t know who closes the gap between them, their lips meeting in a heated kiss once again. Lucky guides him backward until he bumps up against the counter of the kitchen island again. He hears the empty whiskey glass clink as his body knocks it back a few inches.

“So, what are we gonna do then?” Connor asks nervously as Lucky kisses down his jaw and neck.

“Oh, there are plenty of ways I can make you feel good, baby, don’t you worry,” Lucky says against the neck, the puffs of air tickling him. 

“Oh,” Connor breathes.

He leans back. “Luckily,” he winks, beaming, “you’re in very good hands.”

It takes Connor a second to process the joke before a surprised giggle escapes his lips.

Lucky pushes his sweater up, exposing his stomach and chest. Lucky flicks a tongue over one nipple and a thumb over the other. Connor groans, his hands tightening on Lucky’s shirt.

“So sensitive,” Lucky laughs into his skin as he kisses his way down Connor’s front. “So pink. God, you’re so flushed, too. It goes all the way down to… I need to know if…”

Connor doesn’t have time to even process the way Lucky looks on his knees between his legs because Lucky is popping the buttons on his jeans and pulling his jeans and boxers down in one motion.

His dick bobs free, already achingly hard again. The swollen head glistens, wet with a mix of his come from before and the new beads of pre-come collecting at the tip. The air feels uncomfortably cold against him, and it makes him squirm. 

He’s not uncomfortable for long, though, because Lucky wraps one hand around the base of his dick and squeezes firmly before running a hot tongue up the shaft. Connor’s breath catches in his chest. 

He’s given no time to process the sensation before Lucky sucks the head into his mouth, bobbing once before sucking him all the way down with a salacious wink. Connor groans and is, for the first time this evening, happy that he’s come already because it is the only reason he doesn’t blow it from that alone.

Lucky moves, bobbing up and down, his hands resting on Connor’s hipbones, holding him still. It is impossibly hot and impossibly wet and impossibly tight. Connor doesn’t even know what sensation to focus on; the only thing he can think is fuck, that feels so good.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to get a handle on his ragged breathing.

He has nothing really to compare this to, but he doesn’t need to compare anything because he feels as though he is on fire, sweat prickling all over him as he focuses on not coming. He focuses on the tension and heat that settles in his gut. 

It’s so different than when he touches himself; it’s just so much more. More everything, everywhere. The sounds, the smells—he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. He thinks that maybe he can’t open his eyes and see what this looks like from a real POV perspective because seeing it would ruin his life.

Connor likes to think that as a professional athlete, he has conditioned himself to have great control over his body. A theory that is being very much tested as moans and curses fall from his mouth without his input at all.

“God, fuck,” he rasps, his hoarse voice sounds insanely erotic. “Lucky…” Lucky swirls his tongue over the head as he moves himself up and down Connor’s dick. “Lachy… Fuck. Lachlan,” he moans.

Lucky hums—Connor feels it all the way up his spine—and pulls off with a pop. “Say it again.” His hand moves to lazily slide up and down his shaft.

“What?”

“My name. Say it again.” His voice sounds even more fucked than Connor’s; it makes his head spin.

“Lachlan,” he says softly.

Lucky smiles and makes a low noise of approval before sucking Connor back down, all while keeping his eyes pinned on Connor, who can’t look away.

“Oh fuck, Lachlan,” he says, and he’s rewarded with another groan. “You look so good. You feel so good. This is… ahh…”

His hands are gripping the kitchen counter so hard it hurts. The view of Lucky’s shiny red lips stretched over him is too much, his hold on his self-control close to faltering. 

He closes his eyes and lets his head hang back; he’s unable to bite down the keening sound that escapes when Lucky flicks his tongue along the frenulum. The symphony of sound in the room sounds so filthy Connor thinks he would be flushing even pinker if he could. But he knows he’s already flushed red from his face to his dick that’s disappearing into Lucky’s incredible mouth.

Connor thinks about Leo and what he would say if he saw this. He wonders if he would be disgusted. If he’d never talk to him off the ice again. If he’d request a trade. If he would lose his best friend. He thinks about what the people would say if they saw him like this—Cam, his parents, his teammates, his agent—

Lucky’s hand slides down Connor’s shaft to the root and traces the line between his balls that are wound up high and tight against his body. His dick throbs inside Lucky’s mouth, and he feels more than hears Lucky’s moan of appreciation.

He decides he shouldn't be thinking of anything at all. However, the decision is more or less taken out of his hands when Lucky presses a finger behind his balls with such incredible precision his knees almost buckle.

The movement causes him open his eyes, and he watches as he accidentally fucks into Lucky’s mouth. Lucky’s dark lashes are wet, and his hazel eyes glisten as they look up at Connor as he fights against a choke, eyes fluttering shut in concentration. Connor thinks he’s never going to forget this moment, the way this looks. Even if this is only a one-time thing, it’s worth it.

Lucky reached up to grab Connor’s hand and place it in his hair. Connor cards his fingers through the soft curls. Lucky rolls his eyes humorously before pulling off.

“Fuck my face, Connor,” he rasps.

“Oh… Oh, fuck,” Connor whispers, hands shaking slightly as they move to grip his hair.

Lucky waits, mouth open, as he reaches one hand between his own pants. Connor watches as Lucky wraps a hand around his own cock, and feels compelled to say something.

“No,” he says.

“No?” Lucky furrows his brow.

“No, don’t—I want to get you. After—”

“Oh,” Lucky breathes, “Fuck, yeah. Okay.”

Connor watches as Lucky gives himself a firm squeeze before pulling his hand out and placing it on his broad thigh. He looks up at Connor and smiles before opening his mouth again, tongue hanging out over his bottom teeth. Connor groans as his dick kicks, another bead of precome collecting at the tip. Lucky leans forward and licks it off lightly.

Connor swears before grabbing his dick in one hand and Lucky’s hair in the other before feeding his dick into Lucky’s awaiting mouth. The heat, and wetness, and tightness puts him on edge immediately as his hand clenches, pulling Lucky’s hair tighter. His moan vibrates against Connor’s dick, and he feels it resonate inside every bone in his body. The urge to come is suddenly close to overwhelming. 

He keeps his eyes open this time as he rocks into Lucky’s mouth experimentally, watching for any sign of discomfort. As if reading his mind, Lucky rolls his eyes and makes a brief movement with his hands. It surprises a chuckle out of Connor as he relents.

He brushes over Lucky’s lips reverently with the hand that was gripping the base of his dick before he moves it to cup the back of Lucky’s head as he starts to fuck deeper into his throat. With each thrust, he feels the control he barely had fray and unravel.

His pace quickens, hitting the back of Lucky’s throat on every thrust. Lucky places his hand back on Connor’s hip to steady himself as Connor fucks his face. The tension in his groin feels impossibly taut.

“Lachlan, fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.” 

Lucky hums and grips his hip tighter so Connor doesn’t even think about pulling out. Their eyes lock, Connor unable to look away as Lucky cups his aching balls in his hand, reaching behind to the spot, and presses his fingers deep, plunging Connor over the edge.

Connor moans his name as he spills down Lucky’s throat, the world going hazy as his balls tighten and throb. He thinks the only thing that keeps him upright is all the years of balancing on knives on ice.

He gently eases Lucky off his dick, realizing suddenly just how tightly he was clutching his hair. 

“Sorry, was that,” Connor says, his voice hoarse and soft, “Was that okay? Did I hurt you?”

Lucky laughs, shaking his head before tipping forward and burying his face into the crook of Connor’s thigh.

“Yeah, baby, you did so good. A total pro at getting your cock sucked.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Connor rolls his eyes, unable to contain his laughter too.

“Now, there’s an idea,” Lucky says.

“Yeah?” Connor says, voice suddenly small as a wave of heat rushes over him. His spent dick throbs valiantly in interest.

“Oh, yeah,” Lucky hums against his thigh, “Not today though.”

Connor reaches down and pulls Lucky up to stand, supporting his weight a little as he comes off his knees. He leans down and kisses him gently.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against his lips. He can taste the faint flavor of himself on his lips.

“Nah. Yeah, no worries, baby,” Lucky chuckles, “Any time.”

Connor’s body shudders at that thought, and he chooses to push it aside as he feels Lucky’s hard cock against his thigh.

“I want to take care of you. Can I?” he asks quietly.

Lucky hums and pushes a hand under Connor’s sweater, muttering, “Why are we still fucking wearing clothes? And to answer your question, fuck yeah. Come on.”

They fumble, Lucky guiding Connor, who’s walking backward, to the bedroom, their mouths clashing while they finally remove their clothes.

Connor feels his knees knock against the bed as Lucky gives him a slight push, sending him sprawling. His dick unceremoniously flops on his stomach, and Connor feels momentarily embarrassed before he looks up at Lucky.

His breath catches at the sight. Lucky is standing there, naked at the end of the bed, his heated gaze raking down Connor’s body as he strokes himself. Connor is transfixed by the movement. From where he is, Lucky’s dick looks thick, thicker than Connor’s own anyway, maybe a bit shorter. It tapers down to the tip, where the head, red-purple and mouth-wateringly wet, peeks out from the foreskin.

Connor always thought he would be nervous at this moment, unsure. But looking at Lucky, he feels calm, like the moment before his skate hits the fresh ice in pre-game. Every single cell in his body feels dialed into this moment, reaching out to feel Lucky’s skin against his.

His eyes follow the dark trail of hair, from the groomed patch at the base of his cock up to the mat of hair between his nipples. His eyes track the movement of Lucky’s toned arm as he works himself slowly, languidly. He bites his lip as his eyes trail down Lucky’s thick thighs, a carpet of dark hair over them. For some reason, Connor just wants to sink his teeth into the meat of his thigh.

When he finally meets Lucky’s eye, he feels like his soul is going to leave his body. The look is almost predatory, the way his gaze feels heavy, pinning him in place. His eyes are so dark now, his pupils swallowing the beautiful hazel, as his curly hair falls messily over his face.

“You like what you see,” Lucky says gruffly.

“Yeah,” Connor replies, breathless once again.

“Good.” He kneels on the bed, and Connor slides back further onto the bed. “Me too.”

Lucky knee-walks his way up the bed, his thick thighs bracketing Connor’s legs, skin blazingly hot. Connor can’t help but scramble back until his head hits the pillow.

Connor swallows hard when Lucky finally towers over him. The hand not stroking his cock is pressed against the pillow right next to Connor’s head. The view is intoxicating. Connor’s hands twitch at his sides.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

Lucky moans and nods, biting his lip.

Connor reaches up and runs his hands over Lucky’s cheek. Lucky’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into it. Connor’s thumbs brush over his thick eyelashes, and then he pulls his bottom lip out from between his teeth. Lucky’s mouth remains slightly parted as Connor slides his hands down his neck, through the thick hair at his chest, down the hard planes of his stomach, and onto his thighs. 

Connor digs his fingers in, earning him a small hiss, and pulls Lucky’s thighs forward so he can sit comfortably on Connor’s stomach. He slides his hands up the back of his thighs, savoring the contrasting rough and soft of his thick leg hair. He takes a moment to knead Lucky’s ample glutes before taking one hand to trace the thick groomed hair at his pelvis.

Lucky’s hard cock sits heavy on Connor’s stomach, the pre-come smearing a little against Connor’s flushed red skin. Lucky wiggles at the light touch, cock kicking, as Connor runs his fingers down the soft velvety skin of the shaft, tracing the snaking veins. He is so transfixed by it, how soft it is, how much it responds to his touch, how hot all of this is—

“Please,” he hears Lucky whisper, a hint of a whine.

Connor blinks and looks up at Lucky, who looks like he’s in a tremendous amount of pain—although Connor knows that’s not what it is. His jaw is clenched, and he’s breathing hard and raggedly.

“Sorry, I just—Sorry,” Connor says softly.

He takes a deep breath before wrapping his hand around the shaft of Lucky’s cock, earning him a deep moan. He pumps his hand experimentally, noting the difference in how it feels in his hand compared to his own dick, before applying more pressure. When Connor slides his hand up and down again, he runs his thumb lightly against the underside of the tip.

“Connor,” Lucky moans above him, his head dropping a little. His curly hair brushes against Connor’s cheek.

He hums, drawing up the play in his head as he continues to repeat the motion. Lucky’s leaking so much that it doesn’t take long before his hand is wet enough to touch the sensitive head without it being uncomfortable—he hopes at least. He alternates his strokes between one that goes from the root to the tip and one that squeezes the head with a slight twist—the way he knows feels good.

“Fuuuuck,” Lucky breathes. His arm is starting to shake a little from where it is next to Connor’s head. Connor turns his head slightly and presses a light kiss to Lucky’s wrist. “Baby, that’s so fucking good.”

Connor smiles and feels his chest puff a little, proud like when a new drill finally clicks. He looks up at Lucky’s face, now flushed with pleasure. He watches as he applies more pressure, watching the way Lucky’s eyes roll behind the closed lids and lips hang open. 

“Yeah, fuck, just like that,” Lucky says. His hand comes up from where it was resting on Connor’s thigh and grabs onto his shoulder, fingers digging in. It hurts, but Connor doesn’t mind.

Connor continues to stroke at an even pace, eyes gliding over Lucky’s face and body, taking it all in. Lucky continues to drop little praises between them, mixed with his moans and curses. Connor feels like he could listen to the way Lucky says his name forever.

It’s not long before Connor notices the way Lucky’s hips start hitching with his strokes and speeds up his hand. He loosens his grip slightly so Lucky can fuck into his hand in time with his strokes. 

“Lachlan,” Connor’s voice sounds hoarse and fucked-out, even to his own ears, “Open your eyes. I want to watch you come.”

Lucky moans and his eyes open, gaze unfocused. Connor is transfixed by his face: the square jawline and full cheeks flushed with pleasure, the way his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open, the shape of his mouth as he moans Connor’s name over and over.

Connor feels Lucky’s cock get impossibly harder in his hand as his pace becomes more erratic. Connor sees the moment before he comes in his eyes as they roll back, his eyes slamming shut. Connor feels the momentary desperation before the relief in the way Lucky’s fingers clench into the pillow beside his head and into the meat of his shoulder.

He feels the first pulse in the kick of Lucky’s cock in his hand before the cum hits his chest, his name on Lucky’s lips as he comes. He strokes Lucky through his orgasm in even pulls. He feels breathless and in awe and reaches up with his lips to pull Lucky into a deep kiss.

When they pull away, a while after the last pulse Connor feels, Connor is smiling wide. Lucky rolls off him and pants in the bed next to him, his arm draped over his eyes as he catches his breath. Connor stays smiling like an idiot at the ceiling.

“Holy fuck,” Lucky murmurs against his elbow next to him.

Connor hums. “Yeah.”

“No, seriously. Holy fuck.” Lucky knocks his leg against Connor’s. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve never done that before?”

Connor lets his head drop to the side to look at him. “No?”

Lucky peaks an eye out and looks at him. “What are you, some kind of prodigy? What the fuck?”

“Uh…”

“Did you hack my brain? How—I’m serious, Connor. I can’t believe that’s the first handjob you’ve ever given. I think I might’ve died and fucking transcended. Fuck,” he breathes.

“Um… Thanks?” Connor says, unsure, “I guess I’ve spent a lot of time jerking off, so…”

Lucky knocks a knee against him again, harder this time. “Shut the fuck up.”

Connor laughs.

Lucky turns in the bed to face him and smiles dopily. “Do you want me to get you again?”

“Huh?”

Lucky gestures to Connor’s dick, hard and curved up against his stomach.

“Oh! I didn’t even—No, I’m okay. I think I might be fully dry.”

Lucky laughs. “Yeah, okay.” He’s silent for a second. “Hey, Connor?”

“Mmm?”

“Stay, yeah?” he says, voice quiet. 

“Okay,” Connor replies softly.

“You can stay there; I’ll grab you a towel to clean up.”

“Hmm?”

“Your chest?”

“Oh!” he huffs and looks down at the mess on his chest. He runs a finger through the mess and pops it in his mouth, the flavor salty and tangy on his tongue. “Hmm!”

Lucky groans beside him, “Oh my god! What the fuck am I gonna do with you? You’re a fucking menace.”

“What?” Connor asks, confused.

Lucky rolls his eyes and climbs off the bed. “I can’t believe you genuinely don’t know what you do to people, do you? Fuck.”

Connor shrugs, not really following but too content to care.

They wake up facing each other the next morning, the sliver of light streaming in through the curtains illuminating their faces. Their bodies are pressed in close. Close enough that Connor feels Lucky’s morning boner pressing into his own.

Through sleepy blinks, they kiss for a long time, slow and heated, their bodies sliding against each other. Lucky hooks a strong thigh over Connor’s and pulls them even closer together, their hard dicks sliding against each other perfectly.

They moan into each other’s mouths, kissing messily as the sensations build. Eventually, Lucky reaches down and wraps a hand around both of them, rocking against each other. The air in the room feels thick with their pants and moans.

Each slide of Lucky’s cock against Connor’s sends sparks up his spine; the way their heads rub together is unlike anything Connor’s ever felt before. The pressure of Lucky’s hand is light, and it shouldn’t be enough to get him to the edge, but it does faster than he expects.

“Lachlan, I’m gonna come,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and arousal.

“Mmm, me too,” Lucky moans.

When Connor comes, it’s nothing like the night before. It’s slow and sensual, waves of heat and pleasure rolling through him like molasses. Lucky follows not long after, covering them both in sticky heat.

Lucky captures Connor’s lips again, resuming their lazy kiss for a little while longer until the mess between them gets to be uncomfortable.

Lucky reaches up with his hand and licks it clean—it unbelievably makes a molten wave of heat roll through Connor’s body again—before he reaches up to cup Connor’s cheek.

“You didn’t panic and run away,” Lucky says evenly, without judgment and maybe even with a sigh of appreciation and wonder.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t,” Connor smiles. “Why? Did you expect me to?”

Lucky shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess.” He pauses and sighs. “It happens. A lot of guys will have the post-nut clarity, or whatever, and make it clear that they regret what happened. They’ll try to make it real clear they’re “straight” which…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I didn’t know you wouldn’t do the same. I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t. But…” He trails off and shrugs.

It stings more than Connor expects, and he feels his full-body wince. “Good thing I’m gay then, eh?” he says. 

He didn’t know he was going to say that when he opened his mouth to respond, but he feels with amazing—post-nut—clarity that he is glad he did.

Lucky smiles and it's the smile that makes Connor feel warm and tingly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It’s a different heat than before. He imagines it’s the type of heat that sunflowers chase when they supposedly turn to follow the sun.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Lucky says.

“Me too.” Connor leans in and plants a soft kiss on Lucky’s lips.

Lucky hums, content. “Come on. Let’s shower, and then I can make us breakfast.”

Later, when he’s sat at the kitchen island watching Lucky talk animatedly about the merit of sharks of all things while making an incredibly delicious smelling omelet, Connor is struck by the normality of the whole thing.

You could replace Connor with any single person, and the world would keep spinning. Why would Connor be any different?

He thinks about checking his phone earlier. He had opened it, heart pounding, holding his breath while he towel dried his hair—he took the opportunity while Lucky was drying his hair in the bathroom with an absolutely wild-looking contraption—”It’s called a diffuser, Connor”.

So, he was hiding, essentially, crouched on Lucky’s bedroom floor where Lucky had plugged his phone in before bed, knuckles white around his phone as he turned the screen on.

It was underwhelming, really. The world did not burn down. It wasn’t front-page news on ESPN or Deadspin or Twitter or something. There wasn’t some sort of international beacon that went out screaming: “Connor McDavid is Gay” or “Connor McDavid has Gay Sex; what is next for the Edmonton Oilers Captain”. There were no “you’re fired” texts from Ken or Bettman. There were no “you’re disgusting, and I hate you” texts from all the people in his life who loved him.

There were only the normal texts. Photos from Cam of some Canada Geese. A text from his mum asking how he was doing. The most notable thing on his phone was a recent text from Leo, apologizing for Nashville—an apology Connor didn’t feel like he was owed, but Leo wanted to let him know he was sorry anyway. 

“Hey, just wanted to say sorry for how I was in Nashville. I don’t want you to think I meant it,” he had said. “You’re one of the best people I know. I was worried and hurt. So I’m sorry. I hope you’re having a good time in Australia. You haven’t sent me any pictures, asshole.”

“Isn’t it like 3 am in Germany right now? Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?” Connor had texted back.

Leon had sent back his typical response—an eye roll emoji—and Connor had smiled and turned off his phone.

So, Connor watches Lucky move at the stove, easy and carefree. And, for the first time in a long time, Connor feels a little bit of that ease in his chest. Like there is just a little bit more room to breathe. Like there is an ever so slightly less weight on his shoulders.

For the first time since he was 10, Connor considered that maybe he could be wrong. That maybe Connor McDavid could get to have something like this. Something easy—private but easy. Connor considers that maybe this is something he might want to share with a select few people when he’s ready. Not the people who would make it into a Connor McDavid-97-Captain issue. But people who deserve to see Connor a little more clearly.

But for now, he’s just content to watch as Lucky tries—and fails—to flip the omelet in the air like a pancake.

“So, how do you feel about scrambled eggs?” Lucky asks, smile broad and eyes shining.

“Good,” Connor laughs. “I feel good about scrambled eggs.”

“Fuck yeah!” Lucky laughs.

“Fuck yeah,” Connor says softly.

Masterlist | (My requests are currently closed.) | AO3

[teddybeartoji]

Gulps....afab suguru...byeee

NONNNIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE I AM HEREEEEEE!!!!!!!!! I AM DOWN ON MY KNEES FOR YOUUU I WANT TO KISS YOUUUU!!!! LO AND BEHOLD EVERYBODY – THE GETUSSY<3333333333333

she has arrived on my blog and she will be loved and cherished and treasured and kissed and ******** and ****** and etcetcetc. she looks so beautiful in skirts btw. i truly believe skirts would be one of her favourite things to wear. long or short – it doesn't matter at all. if it's a short one, i like to think she'd pair it with like an oversized shirt that falls of her shoulder...... she's bewitching.

she's so tall and she's so smug. she likes to kiss just below your jaw when she stands behind you, her long black hair tickling your shoulder as she pushes herself into your back. her voice sounds like a deep purr as her hands snake around your middle, pushing your hips back into hers. she just likes to be a bit of a tease. she likes to fluster you. she loves it.

she's super sporty!!! she likes to go jogging and then she comes back home all sweaty and sexy and she presses a quick kiss to your lips before hopping into the shower, all while knowing that you're now needy and desperate. she knows the effect she has on you. she's way too hot............

i cannot decide whether she's the type to have you sit on her lap or she'd sit on your lap. i kinda think it's both. she pulls you into her lap by your wrist and she lets you melt into her. but then she also likes to plop down onto yours to fluster you a little!!!

she loves it when you do her makeup btwwww!!!!!!! we all know the iconic pics of girls straddling each other while they do their makeup and that's her and you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! she's tracing shapes into your thighs as you settle onto her and she's just sooo fucking smug and hot and i'm getting dizzy by just thinking about it.............

18+ loves fingering you. she throws her hair over her shoulder with a grin as you're falling apart on her pretty fingers and she's soo proud. and she prefers giving handjobs to blowjobs actually. ofc she's gonna suck you off too if you want but she likes using her hands more bc she really likes her fingers. easy as that. she likes to watch you lose your mind just from her hands. makes her ego grow so much.

she's a bit of a head-pusher. she likes to guide you with her hands as you're giving her head. she's giving you instructions not bc you're doing badly or anything, she just likes to feel in control yk.

likes wearing lingerie and heels. don't get me wrong, she likes her boxers and sneakers too. but every so often, she puts on a gorgeous gorgeous set and sexy heels and a trench coat just like in a movie and fuckkkk she loves your expression so much when she shows you what's underneath.

+ i typed all of this out and only then thought abt the fact that u did say afab and not fem but fuck it we ball. if u want more of getussy u let me know. anyway ily nonnie<3

[littlematchagirlll]

as someone raised mormon who is still deep in the trenches of trying to disentangle religious teachings from who i am and who i actually want to be, i feel very seen by aziraphale.

i, too, have struggled with black and white thinking due to religion. and just like aziraphale, it has impacted my relationships with people i love, even when i didn't want it to.

here are some of the things i've personally experienced that i feel like i've seen some form of in aziraphale in s1 & s2:

- internalized homophobia (i know i experience this, but idk if i can say for certain whether this is is why aziraphale makes some of the choices he does);

- categorizing certain behaviors as good or bad;

- struggling to accept that what you thought was good and bad isn't actually good and bad;

- seeing the bad of your religion but still wanting it to be good;

- coming to terms with the fact that the people you thought were "good & right" might not actually be;

- learning about the complexity and nuance of everything but still wanting it all to be simple, black and white, because it's easier;

- still seeking the approval of your religious leaders, even when you know you shouldn't care;

- trying to convince yourself that the good of your religion outweighs the bad;

- hoping you can single-handedly change things;

- going through the motions of the religion, even when you don't truly believe, because that's just what you do;

- when you grow up being taught that you are right, others are wrong, you inevitably think that it's in everyone else's best interest to join you;

- "we're the true church, why would anyone not want to join";

- trying to bring people back after they've chosen to leave, because you've been taught to believe that's what best for them, and you think you're looking out for them;

- not being able to properly fathom an existence outside of the religion you've been raised in, even if you wanted to...

long story short, i get aziraphale. i understand why he did what he did at the end of s2.

and i will forgive aziraphale, because i know exactly what he is going through. not right away, because i am grieving for crowley...

but i have to forgive him, because if i want to ever forgive myself, i have to forgive him too

[mieanme]

Merman x Siren au

Hualian - (part VII)

First part: PART I

Previous part: PART VI

I'M SO SORRY, I FORGOT YESTERDAY WAS A SUNDAY. I AM LIVING IN A MATRIX. I WILL UPDATE THE LINKS TO THE PREVIOUS PARTS TOMORROW TT~TT ANYWAYS, ENJOY, IT'S THE LONGEST PART I THINK

***

"You stay, Xie Lian. I want to have a word with you."

The merman's smile quickly changes into a grin as he stills in one place, turning around yet again to face Jun Wu. On the way he makes eye contact with Mu Qing and Feng Xin, who seem to be waiting for him, so he just waves at them to let them know they're gonna talk later.

The older merman closes his eyes for a moment and smiles softly, waiting for the last tail to disappear through the exit. When his eyelids lift up again, they're in the hall all alone.

"So you ignored my order and actually went to the siren's territory, am I right?"

Jun Wu's tone doesn't hold any anger, but Xie Lian still lowers himself and bows his head, feeling guilty.

"You're right, Emperor. This one is sorry for the disobedience," he clicks sheepishly. "This one will take any punishment for this one's actions."

"I should punish you for going against my will, but how can I do so when you come back with the medicine? You're truly something else," the Emperor chuckles at the end, making Xie Lian curious enough to lift his gaze and look at the other merman.

Jun Wu leaves his seat to swim up to Xie Lian.

"Come with me. I want to ask you a few questions in the upper caves."

Xie Lian nods and follows the Emperor to the said place.

Upper caves are located right above the city hall, however, no one has direct access to them. They are a place where Jun Wu would invite his guests or handle the most important matters. The roof of the caves has numerous, small holes in it, making the light coming down into the caves clash and create a beautiful, shimmering glow. The bigger holes on the sides reveal a magnificent view on the whole capital and further waters in the pod's territory. Truly a great place to hold a conversation.

The Emperor reaches out to one of the pretty cabinets hidden between the carefully selected and planted algae which are growing inside the chambers. Before Xie Lian can process it, he gets offered a serving of fresh, big shrimp. It must have been a meal Jun Wu prepared for himself prior with the rations everyone gets to pick at the canteen, but he didn't get to consume it because of the prolonged discussion in the city hall.

Xie Lian politely declines, even though they're both probably hungry, and then immediately regrets it, because Jun Wu chooses to not eat as well in this turn of events.

"Tell me then, how did you get the algae? Was it really from the trench in the siren's territory?" Jun Wu asks, swimming up to the biggest hole, that is serving as a window, to look at the capital getting ready to rest for the night. "Did you manage to get away without interfering with the siren itself?"

"It is indeed from that trench. I reached it without much trouble, but that's also where I met the siren and... it's only because of him that I managed to gather the algae," Xie Lian says, feeling Jun Wu's eyes on him. "He told me I wouldn't be able to reach deep enough to pick the algae and with how the medic Elder reacted I'm starting to consider the siren might have been right. I believe that such information should be given out to everyone before departing to even look for the right place to pick the algae from, Emperor."

"The Elder's reaction was a bit off in my opinion as well. Thank you for your intel. I will discuss this matter with him personally too," Jun Wu replies, seeming a little troubled again. Soon enough he continues. "However, you shouldn't trust Hua Cheng so easily. He's a cruel creature. I have no idea what his intention is in helping us, but we cannot let our guard down."

"... Hua Cheng?"

Xie Lian is a little dumbfounded. He has never heard of that name before.

"The siren. I suppose he didn't introduce himself to you?"

"He did, but... That's not the name he used. I also wasn't aware the Emperor knows so much about the siren. Has the Emperor met him before? Could it be we're talking about different ones?" Xie Lian shoots some of the questions that have gathered in his mind.

He really doesn't expect Jun Wu to be knowledgeable about the siren. Before Xie Lian met the siren personally, he didn't even know what gender they were. However, the Emperor even recalls a name - but it's not the 'San Lang' the siren told Xie Lian to use.

"I didn't meet him personally, but I knew someone who did. It wasn't a pleasant memory of theirs," the Emperor explains, looking into the distance with some kind of contemplation. "As for if it might be a different siren - very unlikely. Sirens give up their territory only after they die or are unable to protect it anymore. Hua Cheng is younger than me, or so I am concerned, and sirens usually live longer than merpeople. He's impossibly strong, capable, fast and cruel, so I highly doubt he could have been defeated and replaced by another one of his kin. Moreover, red scaling is very unique in both sirens and mermen. If that's the colour of the one's tail, we are talking about the same monster."

Xie Lian nods, thinking about the bloody red scales that scared him to the bone at first sight. They are talking about the same creature indeed, so now he wonders why San Lang chose a different name to introduce himself to Xie Lian.

"However, there's no need to worry, Emperor!" The younger merman assures. "This one asked the siren to hold only this one accountable for this act of generosity of his, since this one went there without the Emperor's permission. He agreed to not demand requital from the pod and to wait for me to repay him somehow. This one will think of a way to do so!"

Jun Wu chuckles and rests his hand on Xie Lian's head. He pats gently, like if he wanted to praise a kid for good behaviour.

"Very well. I am leaving this matter in your hands then, Xie Lian." The older merman says, looking at Xie Lian with some unspeakable softness. "However, I am asking you to be careful. Hua Cheng acted kindly, but we cannot be sure of his next move. I am fond of you and cannot imagine you getting hurt."

"Of course, Emperor. I will stay safe!"

After bidding the farewells, Xie Lian leaves the upper caves, not wanting to neglect Jun Wu from eating his well deserved meal. He's quite hungry himself, so he plans on heading to the canteen to grab the leftover fresh fish from today's hunting.

He doesn't get to swim on his own for long until he feels someone grabbing his tail just above the base of his fin to stop him in one place. Before he can turn around, he already hears two familiar clicking tones.

"Don't tug at his tail like that! Don't you know how sensitive his scales are? You have no grace!"

"Stop treating him like a princess, I barely even wrapped my hand around him. If you're so worried about him, why don't you become his personal guard?"

"What are you even doing here? I thought you had duty on the west side of the capital. Were you waiting for him under the city hall or what? Creep!"

"Look at you, the pot calling the kettle black! Weren't you supposed to patrol the outskirts?"

Xie Lian turns around and, as of habit, swims in between Feng Xin and Mu Qing so that they can only throw insults at each other but not fists.

"I'm glad you both waited for me! Can you stop arguing for just a moment so that I can tell you how my trip went?" Xie Lian says, hoping this works for at least a while before they're at their usual selves again.

The answer he gets is two synchronized "humpfs", but then he indeed gets to talk about his encounter with the siren without much disturbance. Despite trusting his friends, he paves over the siren's name and how gently he touched Xie Lian. It feels almost illegal to happen, because even at the slightest thought of San Lang's fingers, Xie Lian's cheeks heat up.

He also doesn't tell his friends about the part where he's supposed to think of a way to repay the siren for his kindness. He can already see the yelling from them coming and never ending if he ever mentions that.

"So it's a male? Aren't they the most vicious?" Feng Xin recalls some of the facts he knows about sirens. "The fact that he let you go just like that is highly suspicious. What if he gave you some poisonous algae instead of the actual medicine?"

"You've heard the medic Elder, he said it's the right one," Mu Qing chimes in. "On the other hand, he was acting strange when it turned out Xie Lian brought the algae. The siren really could have told the truth - that mermen aren't able to reach the algae. That's even more suspicious than the siren's behaviour itself. Why would they not tell us?"

"You get me, Mu Qing," Xie Lian sighs with a tired smile. "But I don't have enough energy to think about it anymore today. I swear, I will pass out the moment I reach my home."

"Do you have anything to eat? I will go grab the leftovers and bring you some," Mu Qing says and, without waiting for Xie Lian's response (there's no need to wait, Mu Qing is more than certain Xie Lian hasn't eaten since he left the pod's territory), he swims away, leaving the two others mers alone.

Feng Xin looks Xie Lian up and down, as if he wanted to make sure he's actually alright.

"Let's go," he clicks after a while, grabbing Xie Lian's arm and gently pulling him in direction of their homes. "I will swim with you to your cave. You look exhausted, it's better I keep my eye on you."

"Thanks," is all that Xie Lian responds with, but it's coming from the depths of his heart.

He really appreciates how his friends care for him.

It takes maybe about another hour for Xie Lian to be left alone at his home, having the food delivered and hair brushed by his two mer friends. It of course doesn't stop them from bickering, but they seem a little less annoyed with each other this late in the evening. They immediately split after they leave Xie Lian's cave, and it might be for the better - the farther from each other they are, the less likely it is for them to fight.

Xie Lian lies down in the place designed especially for resting, with polished stone and dead plants changed regularly to provide a little softness. He falls asleep almost the second he finally stops moving.

That night he dreams of beautiful, red scales glimmering in the darkness.

***

Hi, hi! The case is slowly resolving! I also finally got the last 4 books, I'm at book 6 right now and LORD, GOOD LORD, I AM OBSESSED. As always: Please, let me know your thoughts ^•^ We might see Hua Cheng again in the next chapter so stay tuned!!

Next Part: PART VIII

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

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

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

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

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

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

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

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

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

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

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

You'd be lying if you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate.

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

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

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

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

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

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

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

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

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

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

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

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kit-Kat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” you prod. 

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

“I’m scared to ask where.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort despite your woes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

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

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

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

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

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

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

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

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

Your body thrums with anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message received. Loud and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

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

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

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

His frankness sears your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

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

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

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

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

Your surprise drips down his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you like what you heard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’ tease.

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

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

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

But not tonight, not right now.

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

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

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men notice.

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

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

Charming as ever.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent pardon.

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

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

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

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

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

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

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

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

“Pause.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

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

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

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

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

You actually yelp.

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

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

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

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

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

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

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

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

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

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

This is the best he’s felt in months.

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

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

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

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

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

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

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

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

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

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

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

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

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

He wants you on display.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll handle it.

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

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like, right fucking now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyson balks. “Me?”

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

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

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

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

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

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

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

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

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

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

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

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

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

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

Your boyfriend grins.

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

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[dontforgetukraine]

Our life is not as horrible as theirs. We are not in the trenches. My loved ones are safe and sound. Electricity is available. Grocery stores are open. All my friends, close and distant, often (in fact, all the time) talk about a deep sense of shame. A shame to live when others are dying; a shame to eat when people out there are starving; a shame to desire something when so many people have no desires whatsoever. Psychologists call this feeling “survivor’s guilt.” Well… I would not be so sure. We are “survivors” at this moment. The minute I am writing this line. At this moment, we are not in the trenches, and the electricity is available. It is curious, though, that the soldiers defending us on the frontlines sometimes (not all the time, I hope) feel guilty too: for doing something not well enough; for not being on the battlefield; for being alive; for not doing more. I am not thinking about the normal/abnormal state of mental health against the backdrop of a large-scale war with the cannibals. I am thinking about them, the cannibals “repeating their grandfathers’ heroic deeds” and their slogan: “I am not ashamed.” Fuck you. Our country is choking on the feeling of guilt for all the could-haves and should-haves, while the I-am-not-ashamed hashtags stick out of the abyss of hell.   Not ashamed to kill, loot, rape, and piss their pants after being captured. Not ashamed to know that they target their missiles and drop their bombs on civilians. Not ashamed to be happy about getting a fur coat looted from an apartment whose owners were most probably murdered. Not ashamed to lie; not ashamed to curse; not ashamed to threaten the whole world with a naked ass crowned with the nuclear button. But now I understand why. The feelings of shame and guilt indicate the ability of the brain to process difficult emotions. It has not been established yet whether cats and dogs can feel shame. Well, it’s clear with the cats. At the house where a cat lives, everything belongs to the cat — it is its two-legged slave who must be ashamed. It gets more complicated with dogs. They are believed to pretend to feel shame or guilt. At least, they can fake it.    But russians? No. In the surrounding world, some animals can feel shame, but plants, minerals, and products of human labor — cannot. A rock, a rose, a tank cannot feel ashamed. Can a russian be a rose? Definitely not.

Excerpt from the flash essay "Olena Stiazhkina: Kyiv. March 24" from the collection “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity”.

Source: Oksana Stomina, Olena Stiazhkina, Taras Prokhasko, Valerii Pekar, Mychailo Wynnyckyj — March 22-26, 2022

[ntls-24722]

@shiro-luxunder

It's not THAT bad but I also realize it's not as detailed as I thought

I just start eating recyclable shit like i'm going to die tomorrow

in the robot-me universe i had to take a position t a recycling plant in order to sustain my batshit diet, batshit diet being: just straight up plastic. And metal cans! (bonus: i feel like finalized djmm sona would have a tramp stamp commemorating it 💀)

How much plastic do you eat, unknowingly or otherwise? Chances are, a lot more than you should be, but not enough to create an entire house-sized carapace with it. Step 1 of robot puberty is to start EATING for i am a Growing Boy. Tangentially related, I have to go in the mines and start chowing down on precious metals for the exact same reason

At some point my skeleton dissolves

Significantly less scary than it sounds if you would believe me. It happens once my body looks like it completely abandoned my skeletal structure and I didn't notice it was happening until it occurred to me that I didn't have a skeleton anymore.

At some point i just vomit my own organs

Exactly as scary as it sounds. It didn't hurt but it stung my throat. But not all of them! Magical dust can go far but not all the way. Deep down I'm still your lovable flesh boy. Now I'm just full of wires and circuitry and gay shit like that - I still have my stomach, for example. Speaking of which

Eating Weird Shit 3: bacteria jamboree

thank god these were all means to an end because if I were to be organic after all this I think I would have released multiple plagues upon the world. Interestingly, during robot puberty, I became a ruminant, I have not one but multiple of my stomachs, for the flesh is not as weak as you might think, and can be a powerful tool for the machine. Basically I filled my stomachs full of a bunch of bacterias in order to facilitate all the fun things that robots do, like drinking oil and petrol, and also still eat food.

How did I do that? Ya boy was swimming around at the bottom of the mariana trench eating yummy microbes

I had a momentary crisis where I thought all that was left of my organic body was in my hands. And that I should feel shame for it and cover those things up

They aren't. My organic bits are all around my new robotic body. I just really didn't like having naked hands and my brain made shit up and gave me catholic guilt over it

I stopped being able to rotate my eyes and developed a fully rotatable neck like a cyborg owl

self explanatory. I started doing it at preachers on my campus calling everyone an abomination

The weird transitionary period of losing my legs and walking on my arms

Just really weird and awkward for everyone involved

The nightmare of my outer jaws flattening and turning into teethplates. The subsequent learning of semi-swallowing food like a snake.

i have regular jaws somewhere down my throat like a moray eel and I can eat regularly but I have to get food down there first. This was a courtesy on the magic dust on my part because we sat down and I was explained that I had to start swallowing food whole like a snake but I was able to negotiate that I can somewhat keep the same experience with food

actually, just all of my secret mouthparts

it's secret. can't tell you. you have to just find out

Figuring out my LED eyes

Did you know that your thoughts look a lot like AI-generated imagery? Now I do. It took me a long time to hone proper images down on those things

completely unrelated bonus but I got multiple massive grants to be allowed to studied and experimented on multiple occassions which I truly think is the only reason why i'm still here. I still feel like it wasn't enough.

[sahonithereadwolf]

I'm a queer brown man from the deep fucking South. I've been politically active before I was old enough to vote out of necessity and survival. I'm not a big believer in electorialisms' ability to solve most problems, nor vote-shamings ability to motivate anything but spite and contempt.

It's often an exercise of classism and racism whose punchline is "you must be stupid" instead of recognizing that the lived and material realities of one group do not line up with your own. And whatsmore there are issues not being addressed.

However, I'm a big believer in the idea that voting sets the battlefield you have to do the actual work on, and even if you're busy trying to survive it's something you can do for those doing the work. Sure, does the white moderate check out under a democrat? Yeah. But they were never the ones doing the work in the first place.

I can also tell you that platforms represent not necessarily the goals of an administration (though they will likely push some version out, if only to let it die after a token effort). However it tends to be a good indicator of what polls well and has support. What are things people want to see changed?

IDK, I guess I trust the experience of folks I've seen in the trenches about what they want over wokescolds on the internet and an airing of two different flavors of suburban anxieties.

I'm not going to tell you what to vote for or fight for, but I am going to ask what the people fighting for the things you care about would prefer.

[urlocalwormtoday]

Triton Seawing light language lmao

I've had this theory/headcannon/idea for a while that, like the Seawings from wof, tritons are bioluminescent

While in bright lights, like the surface during the day, the patterns are practically invisible and don't glow at all, but during the night they seem to naturally illuminate

Of course, the trench which is the equivalent to the bottom of the ocean is much darker than simply the oversea at night, so the patterns only really glow in really really dark areas

And I know that Triton's can speak underwater as if they were above water but I imagine the further down you go the pressure (even though tritons are kinda built for that) messes with your vocal cords and the way the sound travels

So over time, tritons would learn to flash specific patterns in specific orders in order to mean certain things

Maybe if you flare out your fins and flash the patterns across them it could mean "here" or "come"

The patterns around the eyes would probably mean "see" or "watch/look"

I am a firm believer that the crown that Gil has is special to him and him only, but in the case that it isn't maybe illuminating the coral could mean "royalty" or "King/queen" or even "silence"

Though, at the same time, primordial and aquan are both languages kind of built for deep water so I feel like those would work as well

(speaking of which, recently I've been seeing videos of people chanting native or historical or generally really old songs or tunes in other languages, do you think the tritons would have anything like that in primordial? Or even aquan?? And what would the lyrics of the chanting entail? Probably something about the ancient leviathans or the gods and probably the cycle of life and death)

[crazyforteyam]

Metkayina Tales (part four) - I Did It For You (Neteyam POV)

Neteyam x f!Metkayina reader summary : Neteyam will do everything to save the woman he loves. wc : 3,7k notes: I want to try something new so I write this part from Neteyam POV. And we're closer to the end (4/5) series masterlist

Since I saw Y/N for the first time, she always appears in my dream. 

"What's your name?" She asked, but damn, this is the first time I feel so hopeless and tongue-tied. Believe me, all my words are deep in my throat, ready to release. But she's like a charming witch, casting her spell every time she's around me.

"I will heal you, Neteyam," then she grabbed my hand, and took me to the beach, cleaning my wound. If only she knows how beautiful she is, with her eyes lightened in passion every time she heals people. 

"Neteyam, you're a fast learner!" She giggled in happiness when I succeeded in the spear lesson, and her laugh is the one view I could watch forever in rewind. Surely, she's owning my mind. 

Then suddenly her face turned into sadness, tears brimming in her eyes, hair strands on her forehead, covering a bit of her tattoo. 

"I failed to cure Ihaka,"

She looked miserable and I want to embrace her when all of sudden, she hugged me first. The feeling was flooding over me like a rushing tide. That's the first time I touched her. It feels so nice to feel her in my arms, and I know I'll do everything to make her happy.

"Neteyam, please, take me to my parents," now her breath is panted and she fainted, right in my arms. Her face slowly disappears, like a mist, and her body rises to the sky. I tried to grab her, but she is floating away in the air. Fear crawls over my body, prickling my skin. I run as fast as I can to chase her, but I am always beneath her, like a child chasing kites. I fell many times, my knees, elbow, and foot were bleeding but still, she was out of my reach, nowhere to be seen. 

"NOOOOOO!!" I screamed in pain as loud as I can. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Neteyam, wake up!" Suddenly all the view I saw before disappeared, and changed into Lo'ak's face. His eyebrow is furrowed with confusion, and his hand is on my shoulders. I woke up with a sudden movement, my breath was panting, and I can feel sweat dripping on my forehead. 

"You had that nightmare again, do you?" He asked again, his voice filled up with softness. I groaned and sit, with my hands running in my braids, trying to massage my own head. "Yeah, I think so,"

Lo'ak looked at me with worry in his eyes. He talked slowly, "Bro, if you still don't ready, you can do it tomorrow,"

"What are you talking about? I’ll do it today," my lips frowned, and I stood up, taking a few steps out of the pod, so I can see the sea. 

Today is the day. I'll go to the Deep Trench and collect the Red Seaweed, the only plant that can cure Y/N. I trained with Olo'eyktan in just 2 days. Actually, it was planned to be much longer, but Y/N's condition is getting worse every second. I took a breath deeply and closed my eyes, trying to calm myself.

Since Y/N is coma, I always had a nightmare, of losing her. These nightmares wrap their evil hands around my soul at night. It's not the first time I dreamed about her though, but obviously, my previous dream is much happier than this bloody nightmare. These dark thoughts may follow me, but I can’t let them win the fight. I won't let this nightmare turns into reality.

Life without taking chances is no kind of life at all. If I had to run, if I had to crawl, swim a hundred rivers, and climb a thousand walls, then I will do it all. I would find a way to save Y/N, I need her that much. There's no place that far when it comes to the life of the woman I love. 

I heard some steps that brought me back to reality. I turned around and found Tuk running towards me, and she hugged my waist. I bent to pat her head, while she said "Neteyam, we've been looking for you!" 

And suddenly, all the members of my family approached me.

"Neteyam," Dad called my name. He still has some wounds on his face, but he looks strong. He patted my shoulders, "Today it’s the day. Good luck, son. I'll be near you down there,"

"Thank you, Dad," I smiled at him.

Now my mom is kissing my cheek. I could feel the strength in her voice when she talked. "My son. I believe that you can do it today,"

"Mother, your support it's all I need," I whispered and she nodded.

Kiri smiled at me and I could see her eyes teared up, as she took my hand. “Brother, take care. I'll help you down there,” 

I squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Kiri,"

Lo'ak didn't say anything, but he hugged me tightly and gave me a reassuring look.

Then Kiri put her arm on my left shoulder and hugged me, while Lo'ak was on my opposite side. Mom, Dad, and Tuk joined, and we created a big family hug. 

"Sully's stick together," Dad said, and all of us joined him, chanting our family motto.

"Sully's stick together,"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After eating and getting ready, I went to the Olo'eyktan’s pod, as he and his family were already waiting. Yesterday, we made plans for my departure to the Deep Trench. Lo'ak had a suggestion about Payakan taking me there, and this idea was opposed by Olo'eyktan. 

But Payakan is the only Tulkun who knows the details of the location around Three Brother's Rock, the place where the Deep Trench was located, and finally, this plan was accepted. I'll be wearing a gill mantle later, to help me breathe underwater. 

I bring my fingers to my forehead, to greet all the Olo’eyktan family. They greets me back,  and Tsahik gave me a special potion, which will optimize the muscles in my body when swimming later.

When I finished drinking, Olo’eyktan approached me and asked, “Are you ready, Neteyam?”

I answered him with no fear. “I am, Sir,” But then, I remember Y/N. 

“Olo’eyktan, can I see Y/N in private before we leave?”

Tonowari looked at his wife, and she nodded. He smiled and pat my shoulders. “Of course,” Then he spoke to his family, “Let’s give him some privacy,” and they all left the pod, leaving just me and Y/N in the pod.  

I walked toward Y/N, who is still laying unconscious on the carpet. I felt my breathing suddenly speed up. Next to her, are all the Tsahik medicines and equipment, lying in a mess. Some of the medicine bottles were seen to have been opened without being closed again. The needles and loincloths just lay beside the bottles. 

My eyes looked at her body again, her hands folded on her stomach and her hair framed her face. There are dark circles around her closed eyes. Her face looked pale with no expression, without the beautiful smile she used to wear, or her ocean eyes. Her chest rose and fell weakly every time she breathed.

I knelt next to her and ran my fingers through her forehead, her hair, then down to her cheeks, which were starting to look gaunt. My eyes darkened with worry. Her absence only makes my heart grow fonder of her. She is my everything and I can't let her suffer like this forever. I must save her.

I kissed her forehead softly, with my fingers still caressing her cheek. Although she is in a coma, I believe that she can hear me, so I whisper to her ears.

“Stay here, Y/N. I’ll try my best to save you,”

The mission starts at midday. The gill mantle was already wrapped around my back. My father, Lo'ak, and Tonowari take me to the Deep Trench, riding on Payakan, so I could save my energy. They would stand guard above the trench, with some of Metkayina's best swimmers and healers, just in case. Next to them are Kiri and my Mom sitting on ilu, as they refused to be far from me. 

From the outside, Deep Trench appears menacing. It’s dark and filled with shadows that play tricks on your eyes. Even in the daytime, the trench looked sinister. But I won’t let fear rule me. There's no place that far when it comes to the life of the woman I love. 

I approached the Deep Trench, with Tsahik hand’s on my shoulders. She made a sign with her hand, a prayer for Eywa, for my safety down there. Then her fingers made several circular motions on my forehead, arms, chest, and legs, a ritual to get rid of any bad things that might happen. When it finished, she nodded at me, permitting me to enter Deep Trench. 

Before I entered the trench, I turn around and looked at everybody. They all looked tense, even Payakan didn't move a bit, as if he was frozen in the water. But then, my Dad smiled at me, like reassuring me. I smiled back at him and swimming down the trench, disappeared from his sight.

As they say, Deep Trench is dark and cold. Sunlight is not enough to illuminate this place. The Red Seaweed color would stand out, but it's hard to see clearly in this trench. I have to squint my eyes to make out what's in front of me. I blinked a few times, trying to focus. 

Suddenly, a group of small, glowing fish approached me and swam around my body, as if trying to help me see in the dark. Some of them swam in front of me, like guiding me. I smiled. This must be Kiri’s help.

It's not just the fish, it seems like several plants also glow in the dark,  making a path toward the Red Seaweed. I can see the plant now and picked some. Tsahik said that I better pick several, so I filled up my waist pouch with all of those plants. 

After that, I swam up. But suddenly, I feel dizzy. My chest hurt and my breathing was shallow, and instead of swimming up, I swam in a round motion. 

Then suddenly, I hear Y/N's voice inside my head.

Hey, don’t be so tense. You must be relaxed, otherwise, you’re not gonna make it.

I blinked. Have I gone mad? Her voice sounds so close, like guidance within me. Then I hear her voice again.

If you're a lover, you have to be a fighter. If you don't fight for your love, what kind of love do you have?

And that's it. I know I must fight for her. Her voice is like a push I need, suddenly I can focus again and swim up in a straight movement.

When I reached out the trench, a hand gripped my arm, helping me. It was Dad. He put me into Payakan's fin, and we reached the surface in a minute. 

I could feel all the Metkayina people staring at me. They were sitting on their ilu, tsurak, or just swimming on the surface. There were some amused expressions in their eyes when they looked at me, something very different from what I received before.

My family was all around me. Dad took me to his tsurak. Mom and all my siblings were hugging and kissing me and I was too tired to reply, so I gave them a smile and nod. Then both Tsahik and Oloeyktan approached me, and I gave them all the Red Seaweed in my pouch.

"This is the plant. Save her, please," I said when I gave them the plants. They both nodded, and Oloeyktan made his way toward the people, sliding in his tsurak, with me and my family following behind.

People were still keeping their gaze on me, and I got a little bit shy. And then Tsahik looked at me, as she smiled.

"Neteyam," she declared, "Now you are one of the Metkayina Tales!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walk back and forth in my family’s pod. It's been five hours since I gave the sacred plants to Olo’eyktan and Tsahik, but until now there is no update yet. I started to upset, what if I’m too late and the plants can’t heal Y/N? The view of that bloody nightmare appeared again in my mind, and I exhale deeply, trying to erase that. Although the sun would still shine on, my whole world would all be gone. I could not bear the thought of losing Y/N. 

Every little sound feels like it’s multiplying tenfold, and I can’t sit still. The rest of my family also waits in silence as they sat in a circle. Kiri hummed a prayer to Eywa, and Tuk followed her. My mother stood up and stopped me from walking, as she put her hand on my shoulders.

“Relax, my son. Y/N will be fine. You did a good job,” She tried to convince me.

“Mother, but there is no news yet. I’m scared. What if I’m too late? What if Y/N couldn't be saved?” I muttered.

“No, you come at the right time. Eywa will help Y/N for sure. What if you start to pray for her?” She suggested.

My lips parted trying to respond to her, but the sound of steps walking toward the pod stopped me. All people rise from their sit. Tonowari and Ronal enter the Sully's marui. I walked a flash toward them in a second and tilted my face, asking for an answer. 

“I and my wife came here for telling the news.” Tonowari began to speak. “We tried to give the sacred plants to Y/N. We created a paste from half of the plant and smeared it on her face, as the priest prayed to Eywa. We were so afraid of our daughter’s condition…” he paused, causing my heart to begin flutter loudly. 

“And how is she now?” I asked impatiently.

“At first, there was no change. But then, we realize that the dark circles around her eyes began to disappear. Her heart rate increased, and the color back to her skin. She is not awake yet, but she is stronger now.” Ronal continued and then she smiles, this news relieved everyone. My mom hugged me proudly as a smile finally created on my face. 

Finally, Ma’Y/N is saved. 

But I must be patient, she is not awake yet. Her health is my top priority now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(two days later)

“Neteyam!” Tuk shouted while she entered the pod. She walked towards me in a rush and held my hand.

“What is it, Tuk?”

"It's Y/N! She woke up!"

It's like my body was shocked by an electric volt. My eyes widened, and I ran to the Olo'eyktan's pod as fast as I could. 

Tsireya and Ao'nung were in the front part of the pod, and I asked them hurriedly.

"Where's Y/N? Is she already awake?" 

"Yes, and she's inside," Tsireya smiled. 

“But Neteyam, please give privacy to my parents,” Ao’nung spoke, and his arms lifted in front of my chest, preventing me to enter the pod. “Wait here, until my parents are out. It won't take long, Y/N has woken up since this morning,”

I frowned but then sighed and nodded. Better not to make Olo’eyktan angry. So, I lean at the trees beside the pod and look at the sea. My fingers rubbed my head, and I can hear the sound of my breath. I feel so restless, every second seems like forever. 

Finally, a couple of minutes later, Olo’eyktan and Tsahik stepped out of the pod. They seems relieved, and Olo’eyktan eyes found me. I bring my fingers to my forehead to greet them and asked Olo’eyktan politely. 

“Sir, I heard that Y/N is already awake. Would you permit me to see her?”

“Yes, Neteyam. Y/N is inside the pod,” Olo’eyktan smiled at me. 

"And she's waiting for you," Tsahik continued, and I entered the pod instantly. 

I saw her crouching with her back to me, and her hands touching Tsahik's medicines and equipment, which had always been next to her when she was unconscious. Her wavy brown hair is now shoulder-length short and fell naturally without any hair ornaments. My eyes couldn't leave her body, and when she stood up, I called her name softly.

"Y/N," I called.

Her ears perked up when she heard my voice. She turned her body slowly, her hair swaying gently, revealing her face little by little. 

And finally, I can see her face, the center of my gravity. At last...my love has come along. My lonely days are over. The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of this meeting. Her ocean eyes blends beautifully with the tattoo on her forehead and glistened when she looked at me. 

We walked slowly closer, and it was like she had bewitched me, my eyes could not escape her face. There are no more dark circles under her eyes and her skin was no longer pale. My eyes checked the wavy pattern on her forehead, cheeks, arms, and legs, all around her body. All are still the same, she is still gorgeous as always.

A smile was engraved on my face as we held hands. My fingers touched her face, stroking her cheek gently. While her fingers touched my chest, right on the gunshot wound. Worry painted on her face.

"Neteyam," she finally spoke, and my name sounded melodious when she said it. 

"How are you?" she asked again, her hand still touching the wound on my chest. 

My fingers touched hers on my chest. "I've never been this good. You saved me, Y/N," 

She shook her head, then smiled and said, "It’s you who saved me, Neteyam,"

“I did it for you,” I answered her.

She smiled and approached me closer, her hands now curled on my back, and embraced me. I hugged her, my arms tightened around her body, my chin is on the slope of her neck, and her sweet scent fills up my nose. 

I hugged her tightly as if I would never see her again. Tears already welled up in my eyes and fell to her cheek. She saw it, and her fingers wiped out the tears on my face gently, as she smiled.

Now I held her head, patted it, and my fingers played with her hair. She looked at what I was doing to her hair, and she said, "Mom and Tsireya cut my hair to tidy it up. She said that while I was unconscious, my hair kept falling out. So they rearranged my hair. Do you like it?"

I smiled and said, "It's all right. I like it." 

Yes, she looked different with her new hair, but she is still beautiful to me. To be honest, my feelings for her are already deeply rooted in my heart, and her looks are only part of the reason. My fingers now touched her cheeks, which still look gaunt. I frown. Her health is much more important to me. 

"But, you look very skinny now. You must eat, I'll cook for you." I said. 

"Neteyam, I’m all right," she refused politely, but then a growling sound came from her stomach. I burst into a laugh, while she smiled sheepishly. 

"You can't lie to me, Y/N. You are hungry, indeed" I told her. 

I took her hand in mine and led her to her pod through the connecting part. She sat down in her pod, while I went to the kitchen, to cook her favorite food, grilled fish. Luckily, there was still plenty of food here. in between cooking, I stole glances at her. The feeling of excitement bubbled up in my chest, finally being able to be with her again. 

The emotion of our reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in my soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since that day, I have been going to her pod every day. I asked Olo’eyktan and Tsahik for allowing me to be a helping hand to Y/N, and they accepted. So I take care of her, make sure she drinks her medicine, cook her food, and accompany her when she wants to go swimming. The rest of the clan rejoiced when hear about her condition, and two days later, Tsahik gave birth to the fourth heir of the clan, a handsome baby boy. 

Y/N's health condition has also improved, now she no longer needs to take medication. To celebrate this and the birth of Oloeyktan's fourth child, he announced that there would be a celebration at Hope Cove,  which would be held the next day at night. All the people of Metkayina were invited, and the whole village was busy with preparations for the celebration. And my family is no exception.

So here I am in my pod, with Lo'ak helping me as he put some glowing beads on my hair. We spent minutes in silence before he speak. 

"Bro," 

"Yes?" 

“I heard some Metkayina girl try to court you today,” Lo'ak raised his eyebrows and I could hear the disbelief in his voice.

Since Tsahik announced me as one of the Metkayina Tales, some girls are starting to give me presents and affection, especially when I'm alone. Well, some even try to cross the line. And I didn't like that. I sighed. “Where did you hear that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Did you accept her?” Lo'ak asked though I assumed he already seemed to know the answer.

"No," I answered firmly.

Lo'ak smiled. His hands took my necklace and slowly put it around my neck. "Then who is this girl that you are waiting for?"

I closed my eyes. "You exactly know who,"

“Of course,” Lo'ak chuckled. “Bro, tonight you should ask her. Anything could happen tonight. You must stick to her side. And ask the question, ask her to be your mate, before somebody else does and you'll lose her forever,"

The thought of losing Y/N forever entered my mind and brought back again the glimpse of the bloody nightmare I used to see. I opened my eyes, then I looked at Lo'ak with full confidence.

"You're right. Tonight, I will ask her,"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

notes : to be continued soon! :D I'll be very happy if you leave a reaction, lmk what do u think of my fic!:) so sorry for late update, I'm sick :(

[inafieldofdaisies]

Last Line Paragraph Tag | Tagged by @thesingularityseries @cassietrn @josephseedismyfather and @jillvalentinesday ❤️

I'm working on a drabble to go with a little Halloween surprise I have prepared.

"Donovan.", Whitehorse called out as soon as Sabrina walked in, a part of her feeling glad he was saving her from the compulsory morning small talk with Nancy. "Morning, Sheriff.", she sent him a small smile, noting the deep frown he wore at such an early hour. "Walk with me." He didn't wait for her to reply, heading towards the small kitchen of the Sheriff's Department. Silence took over as he waited for the coffee machine to grant him, if she had to guess, not his first dose of caffeine for the day. "Is everything okay?" "You're with Rookie today.", he mumbled as he took a sip from his mug, "Pratt called in sick and I need someone to keep an eye on him." She nodded, "Fine by me." "Good, good.", his voice lowered, "Because, to be frank, Hudson refused after hearing where they'd be headed." "Jesus, boss… you're making it sound like me and Gray are about to go to war.", Calahan poked his head in the room, lips twisting into a cheeky smile. Whitehorse's eyes narrowed as he smoothed down his mustache, "I'm more worried about you starting a war, Rookie." A snort left the younger Deputy, "Not on my to-do list, no worries." "I've heard that before.", he turned to Sabrina, "Donovan, just… try to keep him in check, will ya? Make sure he doesn't kill anyone." Calahan sent her a 'can you believe this guy' look over their boss' shoulder, but she kept her features passive, "Will do." Whitehorse sighed, "The last thing I need is John Seed showing up out front, and makin' demands again. Am I clear, Rookie? Stay out of trouble." "As clear as this fine morning, sir.", the words were paired with a dramatic salute. "It's fucking overcast today, Rookie."

Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @madparadoxum @shellibisshe @shegetsburned @purplehairsecretlair @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @strangefable @onehornedbeast @voidika @direwombat @florbelles @corvosattano @theelderhazelnut @simplegenius042 @clicheantagonist @euryalex @aceghosts @josephslittledeputy @trench-rot @dumbassdep @wrathfulrook @nightbloodbix @harmonyowl and anyone that would like to share a line or a couple ❤️

[skittlespizza]

TF2 Mercs as the Crane Wives Songs/An Analysis of All the Mercs

This one is going to be a long one, but as is customary with my fandoms, I will be assigning characters songs from the Crane Wives discography. I won't be going lyric by lyric explaining why it relates to the character as it will make the pacing and general setup of this post awkward, I'll just highlight the lyrics that matter.

I will be sticking to their canon personalities. I will be avoiding as much fanon interpretation as possible, and will be avoiding shipping content & common headcanons. It's nice to re-engage with canon media as a nice refresh for interpretations and headcanons.

SCOUT- Take me to War

Take me to War is about anger and fighting. As a child, Scout found himself last to fights and oftentimes had to watch from the sidelines as his brothers got to fight. And he didnt. He was too small. But being small had an advantage, he was able to run.

I've earned myself a reputation/ That my bark is much worse than my bite/ But I keep snapping at Goliath's hands/ With all of my tiny might

This first stanza summarizes Scout, I feel, quite well. Scout talks shit, he's small and can't follow up with the shit he talks, but he talks shit nonetheless.

Dress me in red and throw your roses/ And I'll rankle the beasts with words/ It's a graceless dance of epithets/ We learn to make someone hurt

Scout doesn't look all that scary, that unassuming, but he's tough as nails and despite being cowardly, will stand and help when needed.

All of the words I've swallowed/ All of the sharp things I've kept in my mouth/ I am always bleeding out

This lyric specifically highlights how sometimes words can be more cruel than actions. The mercs all throw insults while on the battlefield, but remember that Scout is the closest thing to a normal boy on that battlefield. He can take literal assassins and killers head on- despite being so young and "normal." We can assume that his sharp tongue would translate quite poorly in normal conversation as being surronded by the mercs sort of. Fucks up your personality.

I'll be the sweetest thing to ever scare you/ Give me a fight I can't resist/ Give me something to break with my fists/ Take me to war/ Oh, honey, I dare you

Scout is a sweet, welcoming small town Boston boy with a heart of gold. Underneath it all, is a violent and teasing killer who, much like his teammates, enjoys violence and hurting people. I feel like this is something that's underutilized when it comes to Scout. He's so young, has a family and future and yet is so easily turned to violence. Take Scout to War, he dares you.

SOLDIER - Little Soldiers

No, I didn't just choose the song because of the title. I struggled immensely when it came to Soldier. I had a general idea, going in, of what everyone's character song will be. With Soldier? The Crane Wives songs deal with deep character incatracies and such, Soldier lacks that, at least on the surface. This song, I feel, represents the friendship he has with RED Demo. His loyalty to his friend and his love for him. This song has the word love in it, but I want to avoid any shipping content in this analysis so it's accessible to everyone. Love can be platonic.

On the broken backs of all the words we spared/ Like little soldiers in the trenches/ It was a march we made towards ruin and despair/ But we held hands all the while

Being forced to kill your best friend over and over is difficult. Fighting, sparring, on the battlefield, yet close friends and confidants outside of it. Holding hands with someone who killed you, it's cruel in a way. For two friends to have to kill over and over. Yet, they continue this friendship despite it all.

Beneath the table you would offer up my bones/ And all the dogs would lick your fingers

How are you supposed to badmouth your best friend? He's supposed to be your enemy, offering up all the parts of your friend that hurts, and you have to be fine with everyone believing you hate him.

We didn't give up, we wouldn't dare surrender/ It was an honest loss

Despite the Administrator forcing them apart, they'd never surrender their loyality to one another. They're loyal to each other before her.

PYRO - Daydreamer

Like I said, I'm trying to stick to canon as much as possible. In canon, Pyro is not that... well, complex. I myself have many headcanons for them, but canon only. Daydreamer is a song about someone who gets stuck in their own head quite a bit, which suits Pyro and their Pyrovision.

Two steps forward and one step back/ I’ll take a one-way ticket anywhere/ It’s not over, this is only a setback/ We’ll just have to move a little bit faster now, faster now

Pyro is two steps forward, one step back. They do something amazing, then do something childish. They balance a fine line between absolutely insane and genius.

Daydreamer, you’re falling behind (falling behind, falling behind)/ I’ll get there in my own time

Pyro... isn't really sure nor is aware of what's going on. And you know what? It works for them. This one is far shorter than any other due to the length of the song being short and not having stuff to analyze as Pyro is rather simple. And sometimes simple is good.

DEMO - Keep you Safe

I knew I wanted to do this song as soon as I reread Demo's backstory. Keep you Safe is about waiting and regrets. One thing Demo is good at is waiting. Waiting for the perfect time to strike or waiting for his parents haha. Demo was abandoned as a kid, and was done so because he needed to hone his skills on his own. Honestly Demo had one of the worst childhoods, killing his parents and losing an eye is not an easy thing for any kid. No wonder he's an alcoholic.

When I was a child/ My nerves ran wild/ When I watched my friends/ Rise to the tops of the trees/ With the risk of fall I never climbed at all/ Every day I told myself “I’m not ready”

Demo felt safer creating bombs, he rather create than socialize. He was never ready. Demo had a shitty childhood and prefered to wait out the dangers instead of engage.

My daddy always said/ “Nothing worth doing comes easy”/ Time is not your friend/ Time is not your remedy

His parents believed in toughing it out. Believed in fighting and believed in working hard, to the point that it was borderline neglectful and absusive. (Again, abanonding your child so that he could find his skills on his own is fucked up). Demo learned the hard way the world is not kind, and sometimes you need to take action. This one is shorter, but I struggle a lot trying to talk about Demo without delving into my headcanon and personal intpretation too much. I'll cut this one short.

ENGINEER - Canary in a Coal Mine

I struggled A LOT with Engie. I reread all his story as much as I could but could not find a matching song, so I had to stretch this to fit quite a bit. Bear with me. I chose Canary in a Coal Mine because of his relationship with the Administrator, and how she would be just about dead without him.

You and I are friends of empty graves, black air and black, black lungs/ Am I the only thing that keeps you safe when the light is gone?

The Administrator is essentially an empty grave with black lungs, has been through a lot of shit. He is the only reason she is alive, he's and his knowledge is the only reason the war continues. Without Engie's ability to create, there wouldn't be anything. He's the only thing keeping her safe when the light is gone.

Feed me promises, keep my heart well/ I'll sing you songs until the darkness does recede

With promises of clearing his "old debt", he's willing to do whatever to feed his god complex. I apologize for the short one this is, I struggled heavily with him much like I did with Pyro.

HEAVY - Hard Sell

Heavy is the anchor in his family, he's always been a protector and always been the worker. When he was younger, maybe he wondered if things would get easier once he got bigger and stronger. Heavy uses his strength to protect by being violent.

I'm trying to make something of myself/ My better days, I go buy the hard sell/ But I feel like I'm working with barbed wire and moth wings/ 'Cause I can't really get a hold of many things.

Maybe as a child, Heavy had to put a lot of pressure on himself to grow. On Genius lyrics, a summary reads:

"The narrator is trying to improve themself in an aggressive matter, but they’re too rough on themselves, making them feel fragile. In being so hard on themselves, they feel like change is unobtainable."

What we do know about Heavy is this: Heavy has always had to fight and protect. He's probably had to grow up early, and he's tough on himself. To be stronger. To protect his sisters and family. He cares about them more than anything and is willing to push himself to do anything for them. This can also be interpreted in the sense that he works extraordinarily hard, physically, to protect people. Pushing himself past his bodily limits, as seen in End of the Line.

Is it me? Is it really just me?/ Does everybody have it together or are we all pretending?

I don't think Heavy is perfectly mentally sane, but he has to be essentially a calming anchor around him or they'd probably also fall apart. The rest of the song repeats mostly, but that's the reason I chose Hard Sell for Heavy.

MEDIC - Ribs

Medic is an interesting character to me. I knew I wanted to do this song due to the religious themes in it (as he talks to satan), and also because of the general themes of innards. KEEP IN MIND, THIS TALKS ABOUT THE AMORALITY OF MEDIC. I AM NOT SAYING HE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT HIS TEAM, HE DOES. But he is also amoral.

Marrow made a wife of Eve/ But no one gave up a rib for me and mine/ My hearts did expose to the elements/ Calloused and untouched by a man's design

Medic isn't a man of god, he's not pure or holy. He's untouched by morality and what is good or bad. He's pure, unadulterated curiousity and mania. His heart was exposed to what we can assume is the worst of humanity, and thus all morals were thrown out the window.

Oh, my ugly organs/ How lucky we are

Whereas one may pity Medic for his insanity and lack of moral compass, he sees this as an absolute win. He's lucky he's untouched by innocence.

Oh, my savage empire/ How lucky we are/ Never to be moved by the words of a liar

He's reinstating he's once again lucky for being a dealer with Satan rather than god. He knows God won't be able to give him what he wants, Satan? Satan can. Satan will. He will become immortal one way or another.

The dark doesn't frighten me/ I chose to close my eyes/ It is mine, it is mine/ The night doesn't frighten me/ I chose to let it thrive/ It is mine, it is mine

This lyric really is why I chose Ribs. The dark, evil and inhumane parts of himself is not something he chooses to hide, to close away and deny. He embraces that part of him that others may urge to hide. He is not afraid of his evil, Medic chooses it. Sometimes we forget how demented Medic is. He betrays everyone to join TFC, he brought Sniper back to life, he DECAPITATED BLU SPY AND LEFT HIM IN A FRIDGE WHILE ALIVE. Medic is evil, he's cruel and merciless but in a way that is so honest and open and endearing that exudes confidence and choice.

SNIPER - The Wolf

Sniper, I knew very early on as in media he's compared to a Wolf quite often, and the themes align well. Sniper struggles quite a bit with proving he's not a crazed gunman. That he's 100% sane and is rather a calculated killer. He's aware he's a bad person and sort of embraces it in a sort.

I am not a builder/ I’m much better at blowing things down

Sniper is a person who destroys. Destroys heads and lives specifically. He's aware of this and embraces it through his unconventional career choice.

I am not a tempest/ I light torches in my sleep/ I have gasoline in my veins/ I am always burning, burning, burning

Sniper is destructive, he's a controlled fire of sorts. A killer, but not an insane one but that intense passion he has for his job, seen through his voicelines, burn despite the controlled aspect.

I am a falling axe/ I am a sharpened knife/ I am a poison asp/ I am a risk to your life

Sniper is a highly dangerous man and a bad person, a wolf in sheeps clothing of sorts as he's not that dangerous looking. On the inside, he's a cold heartless killing machine, at least when he's on the job.

Can it be/ Can it be easy for once/ Cause I’m no good at being kind to myself/ Or anyone

This part will be making a few assumptions: we can guess that Sniper has some sort of insecurity as having your parents constantly berate you for your job probably stings. Especially when you love them more than anything. Wanting to crave that approval so so badly, yet struggling so much to connect with people as he's on the job 24/7. He's not kind to himself- or anyone else. He's a prowling beast looking for his next kill, not some schoolboy making friends.

A single video made me fall in love with Sniper as a character and its because of his relationship with his parents. It's eight years old but holds up to this day. Here.

SPY - Empty Page

This is the reason I made this post. Spy is, and will always be, a nobody person. He doesn't have a stable identity due to his career and even when telling his son that he is his father, he can't show his face. Being a spy has mental health repercussions when it comes to your identity, and this has always fascinated me about Spy.

I’m just a ten cent copy/ Of people far more advanced than me/ Every thought that I’ve ever had/ Could be ripped from a magazine

Instantly, you can tell why this song is Spy. Spy is a ten cent copy of people, he's a copycat, a liar. He literally steals the identity of people to play a role, he isn't a person. He's a blank canvas to LITERALLY project onto!

Cut me a path, and I will follow it/ Draw me a line, and I’ll avoid it/ I’m nothing if not obedient

Spy is an obedient worker who will do anything and everything he's told to... again. It's Spy.

I am an empty page/ A muddled shade of paint/ I am a light that’s burning out

Spy is an amalgamation of all the people he has had to be in the past, he is an empty page, he is a color of paint that in unique because he's people clipped together from magazines. Spy isn't a person, he doesn't even have a name. He is JUST. A. SPY.

Years of imitating mastery/ Only made me a better thief

Again. He's an imitation of people who he's needed to be. Despite him maybe being the main reason I made this post, this song is so straightforward and blatant in why it's Spy, I can't add a lot of commentary.

BONUS: SPY & SCOUT - Never Love an Anchor

Never Love an Anchor, despite the dozens of animatics and popular belief, is not about romance. It's about family. The romantic interpretation is so.. upsetting since the song literally cannot be romantic due to some lyrics but whatever. Anyways, Spy's POV to Scout. I know I said I would only highlight the important lyrics, but this one is a special case.

On some level, I think I always understood/ That these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever/ And I tried to do the best that I could/ But try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to hold you

Spy has hands meant for lockpicking and killing, not holding a child close and making a family. God did he love Scout, but he couldn't dare look his child in his face knowing that beneath the facade of a father, he was an empty shell. Spy has hands meant for murder, not creating.

It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest/ With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful/ There is love that doesn't have a place to rest/ But it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders

Spy will never tell Scout the truth. He cannot, will not or will ever be able to because of his cowardice and for Scout's safety. He doesn't regret leaving, he knows it was for the better, but god does he feel so much guilt and shame for leaving. For being a Spy. He would've gotten Scout and his family killed if he stayed with them, and he didn't want to have to bury his own child. If he loved, he'd hurt.

There are times when I still wonder about you/ You are someone I have loved, but never known/ And you'll never see the reasons I had/ For keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you

He sees Scout everyday, seeing the son he never had become a boy strong and agile. He wants to know about Scout, he wants to be there, but can never tell him why he couldn't hold him. Why Spy had to leave.

I am selfish, I am broken, I am cruel, I am all the things they might have said to you/ Do you ever think of me and my two hands?/ And wonder why they never soothed your fevers?/ And wonder why they never tied your shoes?/ And wonder why they never held you gently?/ And wonder why they never had the chance to lose you?

Spy is a bad person, and he hoped Scout wouldn't end up the same. It's not too late for Scout to turn his life around. But Spy doesn't have that right— the right to act like a father. He never held Scout, never raised him, never took care of him, never taught him. Never helped him. He never had a chance to lose his son out of fear of losing him. It was a lose lose situation, but at least this way Scout isn't dead.

God. This song.

BONUS: PAULING & THE ADMINISTRATOR - The Moon Will Sing

The moon will sing a song for me/ I loved you like the sun/ Bore the shadows that you made/ With no light of my own/ I shine only with the light you gave me/ I shine only with the light you gave me

Pauling's entire being is centered about the Administrator and it's incredibly sick and codependant. Pauling is nothing without the woman who gave her everything, so she will have to work endlessly to make her happy, right?

Ending Thoughts

Woo! That was a long one. It took 5 days to write this all due to me rereading all the source medias several times. I hope you enjoyed this, please leave your thoughts on this. I like to reread the source medias of my fandoms at least once a year to refresh my headcanons and such. This was that.