#im PeaBrain right now

[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?”

⤑ to my inbox💌

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

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

[vammppyre]

LOKI S2 FINALE REACTION

cuz ik this is gonna be Bat Shit Insane

I am SO EXCITEDDDD

ok here we go

THE INTRO IS EPIC

OMG THE TIMING AHHH

WHYD HE STILL LET TIMELY SPAGHETTIFY???????

is that like the furthest back he can go or something????

nvm hes just struggling (fair, hes watching someone spaghettify over and over again)

DUDE JUST TELL THEM YOU FIGURED OUT HOW TO TIME TRAVEL

the model scene again is sending me omg

AGAIN. TELL THEM THE TIME SLIPPING WAS TIME TRAVEL

tell them tell them tell them you're driving me insane loki, GIVE THEM AN EXPLANATION PLEASE BBY

omg he knows all the weak spots on the suit omg

HE SMARTTTTTT

mobius confusedddd

HE SO SMART NOW

YAYYYYY TIMELY

she's so brave! she's well-behaved! she is not afraidddddd!!!

CMONNNN TIMELYYY YOU GOT THISSSS

HOOF IT HOOF IT HOOF IT

centuriessss omg hes been going through it im gonna cry thinking about it holy shit. all for his friends. I love him so much

WIZARDDDD

NOOO THE READINGS WHATS HAPPENING

shittt no the pruning has to happen doesn't it....

oh god

is he gonna have to go back to before the end of s1?

HE IS WHO REMAINS NOW ISNT HEEEEEEEEEE

HE WHO REMAINS (rip) WAS RIGHT ITS GOTTA BE LOKI

hug mobius hug mobius hug mobius before they all die again please please please

I WAS RIGHT HES BACKKKKKKKK BOIIII

AHHAHAHAHHA THIS MEANS NO MORE CANON SYLKI KISS AHHAHAHAHAH

tell her u time traveled tell her you time traveled tell her you time traveled tell her you've time traveled tell her you've time traveled tell her you've time traveled TELL HER YOUVE TIME TRAVLED

HOLYSHIT THIS IS HOW HE WHO REMAINED REMAINED IN THE FIRST PLACE ITS GOTTA BEEEEE

HAHAHH BOTH OF THEM STOPPING HER IN THE ELEVATOR THIS IS GOLDEN

no way is he actually going to have to kill her?

FROZEN IN TIMEEE HELL YEAH

omg YESSSSS HOLYSHITHOLYSHITHOLYSHIT

IM GOING INSANE

WHERE DID HE PUT HER LMFAOOOO

omg this actually means he doesnt kiss Sylvie ever again lmfaooo. gay ass (affectionate)

"this is a lot for you" lmfaoooo "lmk when you're ready to have a conversation"

OOOOOH BACK ATTEM

omg the first "idk what happens after this" was a SETUPPPPPP HOLYSHITTTTT IM SCREAMINGGGGGG

is he EVER gonna tell mobius/the gang. I feel like if he would've told them in one of his retries they would've showed us

it just occurred to me none of season two happened to ANYONE but loki holyshit

the actual concept of the end of time is still crazyyy to me like my little peabrain can't comprehend

NOOOO IS HE ACTUALLY GONNA KILL HER

OMG HES GOING BACK FURTHER!!!!!!

omg omg omg pre all of his relationships hes barely gonna have his friends hes gonna have to reform all the relationships

HES BLOWING MOBIUS'S MINDDDDD HES GONNA HAVE TO BREAK HIS MINDSET AGAIN PLEASE LET THEM HAVE THEIR RELATIONSHIP BACK

I just know hes so happy to talk to mobius again hes spent probably weeks months years at the citadel at the end of time

more burden than glory omgomgomg

MOBIUS WAS THE ONE WHO HESITATED sobbing

no nO WHY WHY WHY WHAT WHAT WHAT

HES BACK IN THE PRESENT???

WHATTTT

OMG HE STOPPED IT FULLY

HE PULLED SYLVIE OUTSIDE TIME!!!

at least hes finally telling somebody

NOOO HES GONNA HAVE TO KILL HER :(

don't fucking make them kiss AGAIN istg

babes hes spent CENTURIES reliving shit please gurl

okokokokokokok!!!

hes just chilling with them (in slow-mo? can't tell)

NOOOOOOOOO DONT DO IT

boy if you die everything does dont do it

slutty hair flip here we go

IWHATWHATWHAT

OMGOMGOMG COSTUMINGGG COSTUMINGGGGG YEAHHH BOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

ok that's creepy looking asf

WHOAAAAAAAAA

OHMYGOD OHMYGOD

im gonna start sobbing

YESSS SIT ON THAT THRONE

WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAA OMGOMGOMG

YGDRASSIL OH MY GOD OH M Y GOD

THE TREE OF FUCKING TIME!!!

mobius :(

im actually sobbing right now :(((

lmfao they pruned Ravenna

GET GOT LOL

DON :(

MOBIUS AND SYLVIEEEE

LOKIIIIIIIII

glorious purpose. sobbing. sobbing.

its rly good this just means its really over.

[usamey]

Oak, stars, and apple for whoever you feel

NOUGAT SHSJSJNSNS THANK YOU SO MUCH I GET TO TALK ABT MY BOYYYYYYYY *does a gay little dance*

Oak- Who’s the more emotional one? How do you balance each other out?

Okay there’s no question abt it, Aaron’s the more emotional one. Egon’s always so🗿🗿🗿 he makes everyone seem emotional in comparison. But Aaron is an ADHD Icon, and so they feel things SUPER intensely. Whenever they start crying over penguins not having hands, he’s there for a Slightly Condescending but still Comforting Hug ☺️

Stars- What kind of date would your f/o take you on?

WHOO OKAY! SO! He’s too Socially Detached for normal romance and I just hate the stuff, so dates are kind of eccentric and out of the norms. His dates are sorta nerdy-weird. We out here dissecting frogs like “omg babe your so cute when you open up the carotid artery <3” It’s GREAT

Apple- Do you and your f/o cook together? If so, what?

Like- cooking in the lab, yeah. Actual cooking? Neither of us should be allowed in the kitchen. That doesn’t mean we don’t still try HDJDBDNSNDN. He thinks of cooking as a science, I think of it like magic- we both wrong. We’ve never made something edible and it ALWAYS ends with us just ordering takeout. We are Culinarily Cursed😎

[rainbowroadonsteroids]

Theory About Brawl Stars (Very Longwinded)

I've been thinking about this for a little too long, and so far it's been bouncing around my head like a game of Pong. This will be longwinded, and even if it only reaches a few people, that's fine. I just want to get this out of my head and put it into text.

I've only been into Brawl Stars for maybe a year or so now, courtesy of Val/comet-wire showing me Mortis. (I like cryptic vampires okay?) But since then I've been a little more confused than anything about the game itself. Maybe too this'll just be me overthinking, but I don't care. I may not be fully versed in the entirety of the lore but I am enough to know something is realllyyyy fishy. (This also might be common knowledge and I'm under the belief I know something big lmfao.)

I feel a larger chunk of this theory also lies on bloodline theories within the game; you can tell that certain characters are related, but it's never really confirmed for a while after. An example of this could be Jessie and Pam being mother and daughter, or Leon and Nita being brother and sister. (And possibly Bo being their father.)

It's likely, though not confirmed, that Belle and Byron are brother and sister. The reason for this is just through their similarities: both are around the same age range (though that doesn't inherently mean much, but in-game the age range similarity sometimes means something), the similar hairstyles they have (both have some sort of slicked back style), both have a pink-glasses style motif, and both have some correlation to money, in Belle's case she's a gunslinger and thief, and Byron is a philanthropist and, in some sense, a thief as well. (MLMs.)

And I'm going to bring up an extended theory, regarding their kids. Belle is more easy to pick apart, as she and Sam are likely the parents of Colt. (Shown through Colt having the same hair color as Belle in one of her skins, and Colt having the same X on his chin as Sam, as well as having a similar hairstyle to the both of them, having that slicked back style plus the large sideburns.) Not to mention the fact that Belle Starr, who was likely the inspiration behind Belle, was married to a Cherokee man named Sam Starr.

As for Byron, there's the possibility he's the father of Edgar. My main reasoning for this is nothing more than they both have/had darker hair, as Edgar has a sort of bluish-black hair color, and Byron has salt and pepper hair. My other reasoning is because they were added so close together in-game, both being added during Brawlidays 2020. Byron was added as a part of the Town Trio, with Piper and Barley, while Edgar was added to the Gift Shop Trio, with Colette and Griff.

Okay, that was that. But, I have one more thing to say about that. I think Colette is Edgar's sister, and Byron's daughter. Now... okay saying this, is a bit risky, for one reason. I'm jeopardizing myself regardless. It's either I'm right, and a lot of people collapse over it, or I'm not right, and I will have to make a major change to this post. (Going to pin this in case that happens.) But why do I really say that? Yes, Edgar and Colette do look very similar, both having a hair swoop and kind of funky teen personalities, but there's another reason, and the main bedding for my theory.

I think Byron is more involved in Starr Park than he lets on.

Starr Park is the central area of Brawl Stars; a weird, cryptic, and sort of unnerving theme park. I'm sure a majority of us have seen the Starr Park promo videos, which showcase really peculiar things occurring in the park.

How exactly does that tie into Colette being related to Byron, and even Edgar being related to him? The simple idea that Byron may be one of Starr Parks primary investors, if not the current owner of the park. So, he's likely having his kids work there. This could be a bit of a hint toward his cynicism, but in one of his voice lines, he straight up says "CEO of Brawl Stars." And Colette is shown to be very overly obsessed with Brawlers, wanting to get their autographs and such, and nearly killing them in the process. Not to mention that she also has voice lines which she openly mentions Brawlers/Brawl Stars itself. So it could have been something where the pair grew up in the center of all of this, and either grew a slight disdain for it (or maybe it's just because Edgar is a teen) or a sever obsession with it, respectively.

Byron does not have any lines where he outright mentions Brawlers/Brawl Stars, though he does have rather cold voice lines, such as saying "Sign here, with your life", "You broke the contract", "Your tears fuel my laughter", etc. Very bizarre.

Moving down the line on this, a lot of the lore could also prove that Brawl Stars takes place in some fucked up amusement park, as I mentioned above that Starr Park was the central area of Brawl Stars. All of this, the battles, could all just be staged. Most all of the Brawlers we know might just be actors, or possibly bizarre experiments. (Mainly pointing to the Undead Trio on that one.) It's already been shown that Mr. P is a bizarre mascot, so anything is possible.

This can be further shown through the fact that a lot of the environments seem like theme/amusement park places: The Wild West, Gem Mountain, Retropolis, Super City, Tara's Bazaar, so on.

Starr Park even has its own website you can visit. starrpark.biz

Very reminiscent to Heaven's Gate if you ask me.

Going on there, you can find all kinds of... bizarre... things. Especially in the gallery. There you can find things such as a Spike mask, Morris's shovel, a Mr. P plush and concept art for him, an Eagle Hat similar to Bo's, hairspray like what Emz uses as a weapon, spaghetti.. on a stick... a hair comb likely belonging to Colt, a funny prop head that looks suspiciously similar to Poco, a large prop gun, a Dracula-esque coffin, a mechanical monster that looks like Nita's Bear, more fucking spaghetti on a stick, a poster that has a man similar to Colt on it... it is all very unnerving.

When Starr Park was founded, I have no fucking idea. Some of the lore suggest maybe the 1960s or 1970s? I don't... know... but that seems like a good timeframe.

Starr Park likely would have been founded sometime in the later 60s, and would've definitely been a fever dream for anyone going there. Belle and Byron may have been the children of Starr Park, in the sense their parents may have been the founders. (Hint, Starr Park. Belle and Byron are likely part of the Starr family.) Byron would have been next in line to own the park after his parents retirement, and Belle likely would have wanted nothing to do with it, instead running off with her gang to do her own thing.

Byron would have taken control of the park as an adult, and likely would have cheeped out on some things so he could earn more from the park. Which likely worked! And more likely than anything, the mortality rate went up! Fun day with the family am I right?

Byron would've also introduced the concept of Brawling to the park, as a way to get more people in. Have actors duke it out and people can watch as it happens. Starr Park would constantly be added onto to make room for new fun stuff.

Eventually people began to sign up to be Brawlers, and likely had to start living at Starr Park permanently, as to not disrupt the magic. Byron would also eventually commission robots to be made for the park, usually for maintenance around the park, but also for gimmicks and other things like that.

I probably jumped around with this, but I really just needed to get this out. So, sorry if this is all scattered to Hell or doesn't make too much sense. It's fun how a melee style brawling game can turn into an analog horror right as you're looking at it.

Oh wait, not to mention the newest Brawler Gus, who's supposedly a ghost.

TL;DR: I have a theory that's probably overdone by now, Byron and Belle are siblings, Belle is Colt's mom/Sam's lover, Byron is Edgar and Colette's dad, Byron/the Starr fortune is the main mastermind behind Brawl Stars, the park constantly adds new themes, Brawlers are hired on a consistent base, this crap feels like a fever dream, spaghetti on a stick.

[saintshigaraki]

vic that post inspired me, so i’m curious to know… who immediately comes to mind when you think monsterfucking? my lil peabrain is new to this i wanna know your thoughts >:) – @demonmocns

SHIGARAKI! im on a HUGE eldritch horror monster shigaraki kick right now. shigaraki who cant get over how warm you are. how nice you feel beneath his many. many sets of hands OR harpy-like monster hawks who plucks you right off the ground and drops you in his nest that can only be reached through flight so....you don't really have any option but to stay put while he coos over how helpless you are OR naga shouto whose so enamored with everything about you. how soft you are. how much bigger he is compared to you. he's fascinated by how dedicated you are to trying to escape him. getting lost time and time again in the maze that makes up his cave. just waiting for you to give up and call for him so he can drag you back to his den OR possessive and greedy dragon-hybrid bakugou who takes pride in how lovely his collection is. how one of a kind. and he thinks you'd fit right in amongst his treasures

[uncoordinated-house-cat]

pls rant about nicholas ii 👀

dude i am so glad u asked. i mean, u didn’t ask for the entire rant about both russian revolutions, but here u are anyway. (but also im a teenager history student so this is very biased and i checked most of my facts but not all of them so don’t quote me and if a history person who actually knows what they’re doing finds a mistake don’t @ me) ok so nicholas ii was an absolute ********** and had an iq of -1000 and he was still super convinced that he could run all of russia, which is like a freaking huge country with millions of people who are super poor (peasants made up 85% of the population in 1905 when the first revolution happened, the number of people below the poverty line was probably way higher when the actual revolution happened and he got overthrown but bitch had it cOMING) 

so here’s the thing. nick, a spoiled child who let’s say is twelve years old when his dad alexander dies of assassination (omg i googled the dates and HE WAS TWELVE I WAS RIGHT FHDSJKLAFHSD) has been told, since he was a tiny but no less annoying baby, that he was amazing and very smart and was absolutely entitled to rule all of russia and he was like ‘hell yeah bro this is my divine right wahoo guess i don’t have to pay attention in my ‘how to be a good leader’ lessons cos god chose me to be the tsar so i already am one #thuglife’ 

so he met this girl named alix, who was princess of somewhere irrelevant and incredibly religious (and also deluded but that becomes important later) and he falls in love with her and they get married, which is nice but probably not a good long-term decision because through her friend, nick meets rasputin (and i love the ra ra rasputin song but rasputin was very very problematic) and that’s one of the many, many, many stupid things he does that makes literally every single person in russia (again, lots of people) mad at him. but nick is in love, and he marries alix, and this is all very nice if russia was a substantially smaller and easier country to run and nick was actually a competent leader then maybe there wouldn’t have been a revolution! but alas, this was not the case. 

so as we all know, russia is fucking enormous. for people who have never looked at a map in their entire life, this is russia

and it has more landmass than several continents put together. chonky boi. and the capital city where the royal family lives? well, you’d assume it’s somewhere in the middle ish, since russia’s such a huge country and you kinda need to be in the middle in order to have literally any idea what’s going on and stop your people from revolting under your freaking nose, so put it in the middle. 

but nOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. they put the capital in st. petersburg, a place that’s like five minutes drive from finland, estona, latvia, ukraine (although that would probably take a while but u get the point) and LITERALLY NOWHERE NEAR ANYWHERE IN RUSSIA. ARGH. 

i’m pretty sure the reasoning for this was ‘it’s been there since forever and everything was fine then so we don’t need to change it’ cos back when russia was actually a country-sized country instead of the mammoth it is now (we’re talking 1539, and by country-sized country it was still bigger than most of western europe put together), the country was all the way over to the left, where st. petersburg is, so they probably had the capital there foreeeeeeever. even after they expanded and became mcfreaking enormous bc sOmEoNe (not naming names *cough cough* ivan the terrible *cough cough*) decided it would be an awesome idea to have some expansionist policy, yay, and now we’ve ended up with this monstrosity. and while you might think that having a big country is great, it’s not. here’s why:

- so many people. soooo many people

- how u gonna keep track of all of them?? it takes like 8 years to get from one side of this bad boy to the other

- since nobody can control russia cos of all the land and all the people, the culture just goes absolutely backward. the peasants are too poor to afford food, let alone an education, and it’s not as if nicky is gonna build free public schools or raise wages or anything, lol, so the collective russian mindset is a bit of a dumpsterfire

- if, say, a revolution were to happen, which of course it can’t hahaha everybody know’s nick’s the divine ruler and overthrowing him wouldn’t be possible cos everyone’s so thrilled with their life in a very cold place with no food, awful policies, terrible wages and working conditions and a tsar who cares more about hanging out with his family than actually doing his duty as leader of the biggest country in the world?? then the tsar wOULDN’T KNOW THE REVOLUTION WAS HAPPENING UNTIL IT WAS ALL OVER THE COUNTRY AND SOMEONE WAS HOLDING A GUN TO HIS STUPID TINY PEABRAIN HEAD

and nick did not do a lot to help the russian people to live unproblematic, non-poverty-stricken lives. in the early 1900s, there was a big move to the cities cos everyone was moving to the cities which meant there were more educated people getting jobs or going to university and going ‘hey, our wages are shit, nobody has any food and it seems like the tsar is doing a really bad job and just living in the lap of luxury while his entire country suffers?? should we do something about this??’

but he did do something. oh, boy. nicky, looking at all his ancestors going ‘bro aren’t u gonna expand the country that’s literally the one thing russia is good at u can’t break our streak’ went and conquered siberia. then he built a railway, cos he needed a water outlet for trade and stuff. he called it the trans-siberian railway. he wanted to make it really big, and cross over into manchuria, so he had a bit of a war with china which he won and then he built the railway in manchuria. 

meanwhile, japan has been practising their war tactics a lot recently and while they don’t have much of a reputation in the west (like at all, nobody takes them seriously) and they also want to expand and flex their fighting skills a bit, they cross into manchuria and are like ‘i want this land. gimme’ and nick is like ‘nah fam i’m good’ and japan is like ‘>:( one last warning’ and nick is like ‘lol ur country is tiny and my country is huge have u seen all these buff russian soldiers i have guarding the railway i could crush u with my boot’ and then the japanese launch a surprise attack! on the russian squadron at port arthur. nick made the pikachu face, then the russo-japanese war started. 

uh oh, bad decision! looks like the russians are losing and even tho there’s lots of them there are more japanese and they have better battle tactics, so nick sends more soldiers. thing is, everyone in russia is already super poor so they can’t afford to have the [relatively] healthy, working men go off to war and die, cos that’s not practical at all and now they have even less money and food. fast forward, russia loses the war, nick makes the pikachu face again, stays in his nice mansion while the rest of russia starts going ‘grrr’ as well as ‘brrrr’.

and then this dude called gapon who’s a nice priest guy goes to petition the tsar to have better working conditions, fairer wages, a bunch of other stuff but they’re all very fair and reasonable. nick is like ‘nooooo!!’ and his uncle is like ‘nOoOoO!!!!!!1!!!’ and orders the army to shoot the peaceful protesters, so it gets called bloody sunday. this makes everyone really unhappy again, and it’s called the russian revolution of 1905 cos there are a lot of strikes and even while nick is like ‘haha this isn't happening’ they don’t reeeally accomplish much bc nick stays on the throne, and the russians are very mad but not mad or coordinated enough to overthrow the autocracy. there was this new parliament thingo called the duma, because nick’s only competent political adviser, count witte, was like ‘bro u literally have no choice but to form a new democratic government’ and nick was like ‘oh ok what if i made a government but it’s not really democratic or effective bc they have very limited power’ and witte was like ‘nick nO’ and nick was like ‘hehe nick yes’ and the duma was formed

--fast forward to 1917-- *time vworp noises*

so russia is poor. again. everyone is mad. again. all the men have been sent off to war. again. this time, it’s because of world war 1! 

and yikes, the russian army have it bad. like seriously, those dude were suffering lots and lots. very ouchy, no food, too cold, everyone is dying. it wasn’t great.

nick was like ‘hmm this war seems to be going well anyway look at my children aren’t they cute one of them broke an expensive vase today that’s so funny!!!’ (i made that up but he really didn’t care much and spent a lot of money u get the gist)

lots of strikes are happening. nobody is happy, and this time there are actually some organised people who can channel the rage into a revolution that might actually get something done this time. 

by the way, rasputin has turned up!! *cue the ra ras*

so rasputin introduces himself to some lady who’s a friend of alix, and alix, being super religious and super deluded and also having a sick son -

oh yeah, she had like five kids (was it five? not sure it was a lot) and the first four of them were girls and she was like ‘oh my god who’s gonna rule the country i have to have a boy’ and then she finally had a boy and his name was alexei and everything was great until they discovered that he had haemophilia, which is a hereditary illness that means ur skin is super weak or smth and whenever u, like, bump a table and u would normally get a little bruise, instead u start bleeding like you’ve been shot and yeah it was super problematic and it meant alexei was constantly sick and bleeding

- and so alix said to rasputin, who proclaimed to heal people like he was basically jesus, ‘yo dude can u pls heal my son it’s pretty urgent ngl’ and rasputin was like ‘uh huh lemme just take a look at him’ and he had a check up with alexei who somehow healed?? i don’t know how, he just sorta did, (he still had the haemophilia but alix was convinced it was gone for good) and so she turned into rasputin’s Number One Fan and started spouting all his very false religious conspiracy theories and made him a very important member of politics which was Not Good

and then count witte, the sensible one, was like ‘hmm this rasputin fellow seems kinda shady also he has thousands of STIs i don’t think it’s a good look if ur wife is hanging out with him all the time bc there are lots of rumours and he just seems super sketchy i reckon we should get rid of him’ and nick was like ‘no U’

he just uno reverse-carded him. witte tried to investigate rasputin and then nick was like ‘hmm i guess i’ll dissolve the duma cos ur being annoying’ and witte resigned like two days later. fair. if i had to deal with nick on a daily basis, there would probably be a lot of punching (of him, by me, in case u couldn’t tell bc im full of rage)

and there were a lot of rumours going around about alix & rasputin (which was kinda fair, because they hung out all the time and rasputin was a very sus person) so alix’s credibility was questioned and she was accused of selling secrets to the enemy, which was a bit dramatic (im pretty sure it was because she came from germany, and she was called ‘the german woman’ by a lot of the public)

--- also this isn’t very relevant to nick but i thought it was incredibly funny how rasputin died and it was time for a break from all that serious stuff so ~INTERLUDE~ --- 

note: start listen to rasputin by boney m cos this is where it gets hilarious (and the song also narrates his assassination lol)

so nobody liked rasputin. he had a lot of sex with pretty much everyone, he was very religious but also spouted a lot of nonsense, he was involved in some very dubious stuff and he was in favour of a lot of policies that the general public did not want at all. so a lot of people tried to murder him. and nearly all of them failed!! turns out, rasputin is really difficult to assassinate. there were a bunch of attempts on his life, all failed, before this one dude was like ‘bro i gotta put a stop to this’ so he invited rasputin to his house cos he was rsaputin’s bud (his name was yusupov btw)

dude gave him some cakes. they were laced with cyanide (poison) and rasputin was like cronch cronch, nom nom. did not die. ate a lot of cake. 

yusupov was like ?????????????

gave him some wine. wine was also poisoned. rasputin was like ‘dude this wine is good where can i get some more’ and he drank three glasses of it. the wine was poisoned with cyanide as well, btw. and the doctors who had helped plan this had carefully put enough cyanide in each glass to kill SEVERAL MEN. still not dead somehow???? 

so yusupov went ‘ok time for plan c’ and shot him. rasputin was like ‘ow’ and fell over. yusupov checked his pulse, there was now, he was like ‘ok good job’

and then while they were discussing their cover story upstairs, yusupov went back down to check on rasputin’s body and dude was sTILL ALIVE.

so they shot him again, tied him up, shot him one more time for good measure (and they shot him in the forehead at some point but apparently he was still alive???) and then they threw him into a frozen river. where he died of hypothermia, after having consumed enough cyanide to kill dozens of men and being shot three times, one of which was literally in his head. hhhh.

*sigh of relief* he finally died. fINALLY. the dudes who assassinated him got exiled but nothing worse than that because everyone in russia was like ‘well someone had to do it’

~~END OF INTERLUDE~~

now shit is getting rEAL. i mean, not for nick, obviously. but everyone else is like ‘ohmygosh rasputin is dead we actually got something done yay!!!’ 

so it’s february 1917 in petrograd. nick is on holiday with his family 800km away with literally no idea what’s going on. 15 million russians were away at war, and 1.7 million had died. lots of strikes and protests are happening. bIG protests. people were breaking into stores to get food, because of the awful food shortages, and it was very very cold so everyone was slightly extra mad. the police shot at some of the people who had gotten up onto the rooftops, so they protests turned into riots. all the people who were on strike from work joined the riots, and the women workers who had come out for international women’s day marched around the nearby factories and got another 50,000 people (including students and teachers) to join the riots (which was A Lot) and by the 25th of february the riots had gotten so big that pretty much every business in petrograd was shut down. literally everyone was rioting. 

the tsar was like ‘hmm that doesn’t look good’ and ordered his army to shut the riots down. there were about 180k troops in the city, but only about 12k were actually able to fight bc the rest of them were all injured from the war. they didn’t want to suppress the riots by force bc a lot of women were in the crowds (guess chivalry isn’t dead?) so when the tsar was like ‘no u gotta do it’ the troops were like ‘fuck u’ and either joined the riots or yeeted outta there. hooray!! 

the tsar was like ‘ok everything is under control’ (partly bc his official informant gave him the wrong info rip) and didn’t accede to any of the rioter’s demandsor do anything for a while. and here’s the thing. the tsar’s cabinet sent a telegram to nick saying ‘bro u gotta resign, we’re literally on the verge of revolution’ and nick read it, wrote ‘lol’ in his diary and refused to answer. 

the next day, there was another telegram saying ‘bro, u GOTTA resign. the revolution is happening now. if u don’t resign, the entire monarchy will be overthrown and ur reign will be o-v-e-r’ 

and nick wrote an entry in his diary saying ‘what nonsense is this? i can’t believe they’re sending me telegrams about this rubbish, as if i’m going to do anything’ (and im paraphrasing bc i don’t have my book w me but he definitely used the word “nonsense” and wrote a bunch of awful stuff about it) 

the next day, nick got another telegram that basically said ‘welp. country’s over. good while it lasted, revolution is happening now and it’s too late for you to do anything about it bc u didn’t listen to my numerous warnings to resign’ and nick was like ‘wait should i... do something about this??? hmm... yeah!! i’ll go up to petrograd and show ‘em who’s boss!! can’t defeat the absolute power of the tsar, huzzah!!’ 

and he went up to petrograd and got arrested. he had no choice but to abdicate, adn then he and the rest of his family were put under house arrest. there was a bit of an argument about whether they should be exiled to some western country, but all the western europeans were like ‘we don’t want nick u can keep him’ so they put him under house arrest in one of his palaces, where nick pretty much just chilled out with his family until they were all executed because everyone in russia was still very mad at them. 

(and in 1981 nick and his family were recognised as ‘martyred saints’, which is fine for the rest of them but nick absolutely did not deserve it)

thus concludes my very, very long rant. i spent way too long writing this, but my history teacher would be proud of me.

[huntsman-ash]

RWBY LiveThoughts: V8E7

Since I finally have time for it today, lets make sure Im all caught up for the hiatus. 

Before we get fully started, an idea; Its not a war crime if they’re Grimm. Then its just self defense. So break out the napalm, the cluster bombs, the chemical weapons, the fun stuff. Make em regret it, yeah?

And we start off...on a farm. Looks like my moms old farm in South Dakota. Even on Remnant, hay is best used in bales.

Waiiiit. Thats the place the Whale set down isnt it. I see a Sayber running. Ah, and the Atlas military! Surely, the vanguard of a massive force to hold the line! Also Im glad to see a close up of the helmet for once, I want to make my own. Also, the gloves, and the rifle itself. Not sure why it doesnt have a stock, seems kind of silly...

And airships too, so they got some fire support...whats that wall behind them though?

Also it TOOK US 8 FUCKING SEASONS to get a close up of these FUCKING Weapons. 8. FUCKING. SEASONS. Okay maybe more like 5 cause they didnt first appear till 3 or so but come on. Im so picking this shit apart later. 

Pfft, bros got some nerves going on. Come on man, its just some Grimm, you’ll be FINE.

Atlas field harvesters resemble Halo’s JOTUN Farming equipment. As wel as our own. No surprise there.

Alright, bunch of Saybers, not seeing much of a threat here.

Hey, Paladins! Damn, they...look way different than I remember them to be. 

I wont lie, I dont like the Paladin design. Way to much visual noise, I cant tell where anything IS. 

Also that is the most 2D grass I have sever seen in my fucking life. What the hell are they growing here...

Huh, the whale has two sets of teeth. Wait, its just there? And its wpewing out Grimm. So...why isnt the air force firing on it? 

Yeah its not moving, its just raising its head and slamming down and vomiting out more Grimm. Im not sure what the issue is here, just...seal the mouth. 

Oh, huh. Apathys. Let me guess, RTs gonna try and tell us depression is going to kill most of Atlas. Oh for fuck sake. IM NOT IMPRESSED RT. IM REALLY NOT. IM MORE FUCKING ANNOYED THAN ANYTHING

Okay so...I see what this is. Its farm land outside of atlas proper and there’s an additional wall behind them, plus the power lines I guess? Seems like a viable place to make a stand. 

...thats it. Please tell me this is just a single detachment of the Atlas military because there is less firepower here than a NATIONAL GUARD UNIT ASSIGNED TO ONE CITY

Im fairly certain there are more people assigned to ONE UNIT attached to JBLM then I amm seeing here. 

Not to mention this is an OPEN FIELD the Grimm have to run through. This is a literall fucking TURKEY SHOOT. Running across an open field anywhere is a ticket to DYING.

Just ask the poor fucks on D-day.

Also uh...why is everyone in line formation? What is this, fuckin’ 18009s combat Napoleon style?

And did the distance suddenly change, I feel like the whale suddenly got a hell of a lot closer.

Just...I dont get this. This makes no sense. Did Ironwood learn how to deploy forces from a fairy tale book? This is legitimately some fuckin Lord of the Rings shit here.

RIP that one specific trooper hit by that Behemoth though. Dont worry friend, the thing walked next to a Paladin. Its getting its eye blasted out

And cut back to Ironwood. Doing...fuck if I know what.

Staring angrily it seems.

“Dammit, my tactical deployment by line formation and parade ground tactics isnt holding back the Grimm, curses!”

Well MAYBE IF YOUD THOUGHT TO INVEST IN SOME FUCKING AIR SUPPORT...Seriously.

I know people have told me why this is. I understand myself why this is. But it really just...does...not...jibe with me. At all. 

Okay so more details; first, apparently Atlas has a subway. Makes sense, its a big island. Inter-system transits probably a given. Second; Was that Mantis Squad Omega? Some kind of unit maybe...interesting.

 Also I love how this guy just questions Ironwood. Like, bro, if the General says do it, do it.

Hold the fuck up, why is everyone outside? It looks like fuckin’ Cali during our lockdowns...what ever happened to martial law huh?

Also “underground subway stations”. Yes, thats...kind of what a subway IS. I guess maybe they have overhead ones like New York does. Mass transit be weird like that.

I mean HELL the signs on it are almost identical to the ones in NYC too! Even with the colored circles and train cnumbers. 

According to the sign here they’re at Pickens Square Station. 

Oh boy. Ironwood just fed these poor bastards into a meat grinder. Anyone here ever played the Metro game series, or read the books?

Remember the Dark Ones? The Nosallias? Yeah. Tight corridors and monsters only work out well for angry vodka fueled Russians.

Didnt see it very well but I THINK those Mantas had some kind of wing gun. Either thats new, a separate armament setting, or RT forgot what ind of weapons they gave their ships AGAIN.

Cant get the shields back up, yeah, no shit, they DETACHED ONE OF THE FUCKING PILOTS YOU IDIOTS.

Also hah, they arrested Yang, Ren and Jaune. Not surprised.

Beta squads apperently been hitting the whale. ‘Bombs, missiles, we cant make a dent, sir.” ...while Im not surprised by this, I also hear shades of the opening of Halo 2s level Metropolis. “Where’s the rest of your platoon?” “Wasted, sarge. Blew right through us. Rockets, fifty cals, didnt do nothing.”

Honestly they could have SHOWED THAT too. Them just saying it feels like a cop out to me. Take that as you will. But if you want us to see the things hard to kill, show it. 

Not that I figure Atlas’s rockets are much more than Dust in a propellent tank. Not exactly a Hellfire or TOW.

Nice to see proper military talk for...a moment anyway.

Or what I figure RT figures is proper.

Oh so now the whales moving. Okay...huh.

Jaunes commentary is the same as mine. Though I guess the size seems to shift depending.

Ohhh. Its MANTA. As in the gunships. Alright, sure that works. And this guys making a good call. If you cant hit the big one go after the smaller. Of which there seems to be a HELL of a lot. Actually holy fuck that Grimm spew is across like...ahlf the fucking island right now. Time to fuckin torch and burn people.

Ahhhhhh and they get to the proper idea.  If you cant punch it from the outside, hit it from the inside.

I knew a crew...three madmen, names of Keegan, Lahni and Mac. The Hivebusters. Something tells me a Venom bomb would do the trick...if it can rip apart Swarm creatures as big as a Snatcher or a Swarmak and reduce them to green slime, I think it’ll work on Grimm. 

Something tells me RT isnt gonna give em a bomb though. Too obvious.

NEVER MIND. “Science team is putting together a bomb.”

Also I LOVE how Winter’s pupils expand and retract in fear as she realizes what Ironwoods asking her to do.

Awww now shes getting the shakes too.

Salem directing this shit like shes some kind of orchestra leader. I mean it FITS but...I dunno.

Ah so the command deck is directly behind the whale’s glowing nose. Basically inside where the spermacetiy organ would be in a real sperm whale.

What the fuck is Emerald doing there?

Sneaking I guess. Huh. Why’s she sneaking around the whale. Also, huh. guess seeers can get fooled by Emeralds semblance.  Is HE STILL BEATING UP ON OSCAR? Jeez dude. Take a breather.

Honestly if this was TRUE I would be okay with it. Replace the Huntsman with, I dont know, a massively overequipped military for each Kingdom, let them run rampant...stomp the Grimm out or push them back to nonexistence...everyone lives happily ever after

Lets be real here, the idea of the academies? Really really fucking dumb. Its cute. Fairy tale like.

But if theres one thing this show has taught me its that fairy tales SUCK. Reality...tends to be worse.

Ah theres one of those torture hooks they mentioned a few episodes back. Nice of the whale to have a specific interrigation room.

And at last we get some information on how Salem works. Alright so...what happens if you seperate the parts then? Sink one in the ocean, launch one into space.

Sounds like Oz/Oscars telling the fans what we’ve been saying forever, Companion Book be damned; Salem wants to die.

These mind games bore me. Its cute, but I dont like it cause I cant follow that shit. Give me a straight up fight any day, fuck this sublty backroom fuckery

No lies from them both here honestly.

Medical supplies in Atlas seem almost the same as here on earth interestngly. Also, soup. Or...coffee, tea?

Blake with the obvious here. But I mean thats not really saying much cause...well. Not hard to outfight the Atlas military it seems like.  (Long suffering sigh)

Im gonna make a seperate post about my frustrations with that and leave it there. But dont expect me to stop fully complaining about it because everyones gotta have something to bitch about with this show, and I’ll be DAMNED if I start joining the BB whiners.

Good question, Ruby. Might be that YOUR NOT LIVING IN A FAIRY TALE

I’d like to see these people dying in Mantle. I refuse to believe that there isnt SOMEONE in the nation that once brought Remnant to its heel that wont stand and fight. Unless Im wrong about that too...

May backstory? May backstory. Yeah.  Not amazingly complicated but it works. Cant tell if shes Henry though...or was. 

Dramatic lightning flash

Cute you think that Ruby. Theres sides. Always are.

Further proof honestly.

Hazels look of though is amusing. Cant tell if he doesnt believe Oscar, or if his tiny peabrain is runing full bore to think this through.

Coordination between farm boy and professor.

Oh. OHHHH. Plants the seed of doubt in Hazels tiny mind, he uses the last question for himself, sees the truth... Clever, Oscar. Clever.

Hazel peabrain go THUNK

Ah so Mercs going off to Vacuo. Guess that means everyone else is going there next too. Eat that, random Discord person, I called it.

Course, CFVYs there so...maybe we get to see Yats beat up on him.

Oh hi Tyrian. Do you just...randomly roam the halls of the whale waiting to DRAMATICALLY REVEAL YOURSELF and give violent expositon? Im very much okay with that.

Also I love how he just...accepts this. Totally fucking bonkers, totally down with it. 

Oh shit, Tyrian and Mercury going to Vacuo? Damn thats gonna be INTERESTING. I guess Tyrian’ll fit in well enough honestly.

Flying Beringal literally out of the roof. 

I remember back when this season first started and I said those weird bone platforms looked like VTOL launch bays. Guess what? They are.

Merc and Em emotion blah blah DONT CAAARRREEE

Jaune thinking tactically for ONCE IN HIS FUCKING LIFE. An I mean military tactical of course.

Also I like how the Aces say they dont let emotions cloud their shit WHEN THEYVE BEEN DOING THAT THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME.

This ENTIRE PLANET is emotionally run. Thats why the Grimm are such an issue! Makes small note to make Remnant Adeptus Mechanicus cult

Seriously though...

I wont lie though, Hare isnt wrong. Wonder what happened to that Tortuga guy. Tyrian, is my guess. Love how Ren interrupts the moment they almost mention Clovers name.

Expendable, yes. Replacable, no. You should have a talk with squadron leader Grey from Star Wars Squadrons Ren

ANNNNDDD SEMBLANCE EVOLUTION. Or the edibles just kicked in.

This is cool and all but its really fucking dumb and hamfisted. Explain all you want. Mention emotions all you want.

The Aces are fucking huntsmen. HUNTSMEN. FUCKING. SUCK. They always have. Its a dumb idea. Yes, lets stop the hordes of monsters invading this world BY SENDING IN SINGLE OPERATIVES WITH FUCKING MELEE WEAPONS

I’ll make this clear to you, Ren, right here and now. If you faced a REAL elites, you wouldnt have stood a chance. Nor would RWBY. Their bodies would have been three-shot from 20 meters out with a breach and clear and stacked against the wall like cords of wood, one final shot to the dome to make dead sure they were down. None of this stupid flipping and acrobatic crap, none of this clashing weapons and Dust and semblances...no. 

You’d be dead before you knew they were there and they would move on. You’d just be another body to the pile, one more faceless corpse to add to their kill count. A meatgrinder in human form. 

Professionals. Dont. Lose. AND THE ACES ARE NOT PROFESSIONALS!

Because thats not what RWBYs about, never has been.  And that is what annoys me slightly. That and the fact I cant distangle what I know of other universes and our own from RWBY’s. Its hard to hold a universe on its own when everything they make points towards it being like ours, but they change it when they see fit. 

I feel like thats bad writing.

Hehehe. Winter touched Elms boob.

Glad to know that Winters got her priorities right. Course, that bomb probably aint gonna do shit cause its Dust based.

...again, hoping its a chemical weapon...

Wait, the Atlas forces from earlier are STILL FIGHTING? Damn, these Grimm must suck if they couldnt wipe them out in that little time...

Also I cant tell if its getting dark cause of the storm or if its the dawn of the next day.  Or did...they shift time around? I lost track. I SWORE the sun was setting the last time we saw everything.

Also return of the shitty 3D grass...

Marrows gonna defect.

Awww poor Winters got emotions. HEY MAYBE DONT SEND A MENSTRATING WOMAN OUT ON A FIELD OP, ATLAS!

So according to May there’s still front lines. Cool. 

AYYY ITS KLIEN! HES BACK

Oh, I guess hes a doctor too. Oh he MAD.

Ayyy Whitleys being USEFUL for fucking once in his shitty life.

Shes gonna hug him isnt she.

CALLED IT. For fuck sake...whatever. Cute. But whatever.

Oh annnnddd now Grimmquake?

No. It stopped...Bolide?

No. PENNY.

Annnnddd shes leaking coolant. And sparking. And dead.

RIP Penny.

The concept art of the beached whale looks so fucking silly. Seriously, just...detach the whole section there. Drop the fucking thing. 

Oh well.

And thats it for almost two months! Be prepared for me to BULLSHIT MY WAY THROUGH ALL OF IT and continue on with my military fanwank because THATS HOW IM SURVIVING 2020!

[hyena-kid]

alright but. this is where Hades (the game) is different.,,

(excuse me for any mistakes i am peabrain and still have much to learn,, im just sharing abt the game 👍👍)

also like. spoilers for hades game obv

at first hades seems like an antagonist. quite the tempered father, and not letting you free, visit the outside world and all.

but later on in the game you learn more. yes, hades did lie to his son, the entire world, even persephone not knowing the truth of zagreus. zagreus was dead to persephone, and that was because hades never reached out. thought it would be better off like that.

but zagreus eventually meets persephone. and after some time persephone comes back to the underworld. to hades. (though from what I know this was something added after the game's release?)

and oh damn isn't hades the sweetest boye to persephone. there is dialogue where all zagreus hears is hades asking persephone if there's any trouble, if there's anything he can do for her, etc. he's constantly checking on her and she gives him valuable council regarding the underworld.

hades was very faithful, yes. with the queen gone for the gods (no,, no pun intended) know how long he still thought of her. he kept a photograph of her in his private chambers, right next to his bed. he was clearly worse without her, and missed her. but he kept to himself.

persephone gets hades to talk to zagreus, too. since their relationship is a little uh. broken.

hades apologises, not asking for forgiveness. they come to some sort of understanding. and it's clear that hades never really wished to hurt his son either.

i'm not sure anyone can play the game start to finish and continue thinking hades is the antagonist. actually, there probably isn't really an antagonist in this game. i mean, even the enemies zagreus fights are just doing their jobs.

also, hades calling his son zagreus for once :')) and zagreus calling him sir. they still have little "fights", if you even call them that since they seen quite lighthearted, but,,,, ohmynfhn

i'm not sure the olympians hate him either. the gods, i mean. they do have... opinions, about his temper and all that, but i've only ever heard the gods talk about getting zagreus to the surface- not much hating on hades. they're all family, i guess.

i remember.. thanatos, was it? he mentioned stuff about zagreus' relationship with the lord was definitely broken.. but also, if i remember correctly (excuse me for i have a literal banana for a brain) something about starting anew.

supergiant wasn't trying to make hades seem antagonistic, specifically towards the end.

more like.. just a person with flaws.

... flaws being his temper and inability to express emotions (especially to zagreus)

course, zagreus had some thoughts on him. but that is fair. for one lied to and kept in invisible chains, he's allowed to feel that way.

and!! orpheus' songs never mentioned anything bad about hades, either.

i mean, he couldn't. he's literally that man's muse. but rather, in songs like "In the Blood" and "Hymn to Zagreus" (latter being more of a nod to the alternative story with dionysus and zagreus, which in the game was more fictional than anything) orpheus sings of zagreus' inability to be free, to run away from.. everything, really. family.

the styx taking him and all. not something hades controls, if i remember correctly. but i still needa look at the lyrics again, man, i have no clue if orpheus' songs mentioned why zagreus could not escape.

.. supergiant did great portraying hades. not to mention from zagreus' view, too.

anyways, hades (game) *hyperfixates*

now i feel like looking around at the hades community here on tumblr. never checked much, about time.

(also my deepest apologies to whomever i reblogged this from i may have rambled a bit,, just uh. ignore it /lh)

Hades: is faithful to his wife

Hades: spends his time chillin in the Underworld

Hades: doesn't really get involved in the shitstorms other gods cause

Hades:

Hades:

Hades:

Hades: is the antagonist in every media about greek gods

[sailorhyunjinz]

OH HUUUNNNNEEEY I AM ✨🏳️‍🌈BI🏳️‍🌈✨

And is proud as can be😌😌. Has been bi since age 11🥳.

But as of right now the only thing that is still keeping me on the standard LGBTQ+ spectrum as bi is the fact that I fantasize ab all the male crushes I currently have (Most of them being from Stray Kids 😗✌️).

But in real life the only ppl that have caught my eye recently have been WOMEN....and idk what's been going on with me bc literally just a few months ago (let's pretend November was just a few months ago) I saw these ppl almost everyday and didn't dare to think of them as anything more than a friend but once the idea of dating them came up and I wasn't uncomfortable with it.....I still didn't think about them any different until I started paying more attention to them😀.

Like I thought I had a crush on another friend that I became closer with this year, but it only lasted for like 10 minutes lmao 🤣🤣 and I think it was bc she was giving me femdom vibes and when I looked at her she did that head nod thing like (wassup), and she had her sleeves rolled up, had her hands pressing down on the table while-... let me stop. This friend is literally the smartest person in my school and also gives VERY queer vibes and she's even said it herself but that's not the point. The point is (as much as I hate to say it)......*deep breath* it feels like I'm 14 again 😐 cuz the same thing happened around that time. Don't get me wrong I was really excited when I realized what was going on with me. But damn I feel dumb for thinking I wouldn't feel this emotionally overwhelmed about my sexual preference, I mean this in a good way btw😀👍. And I know it's never "too late" to rediscover yourself but this isn't the case I just needed to rant about what I've known all along🤣🤣 I don't know what's been the air recently but this situation is no different from 4 years ago

OH I THINK YOUVE TOLD ME THAT BEFORE IM SORRY I HAVE A PEABRAIN-

SHIT THAT FEMDOM GIRL SOUNDS NICE,,, says the sub- but of course something as identity-changing as a sexuality will cause a bit of emotions and thoughts cause we as humans feel a need to not only categorise things but also feel a sense of desperation to fit in and be comfortable in labels-

BUT ALSO don’t feel a need to like “be with someone”, you can be bi without HAVING A PARTNER AND JUST BE COMFORTABLE IN YOURSELF which is what I recommend cause hello?? dating someone takes way too much time that I CLEARLY DONT HAVE

[wubwubnparmaham]

Ahem. I'm gonna be an annoying bitch. I've got a few questions for you. Favorite color, food and member of One Direction and BTS. (I suppose you would say Larry in 1d) Favorite fan fiction of all time. (Mine's OMCBA and LE) Favorite subject at school. (I'd go with history. I've liked it since I was a young student.) And now. My favorite question The movie that you'll never forget. Thank you for reading this. P. S I haven't even finished Chapter Two

TUMBLR GOERS, SCROLL HECKA FAST FOR JUST ONE SECOND. ITS LONGISH. Oh okay. Welp, my favourite colours are the combo of purple and green. Favourite food is.....pass. Member of 1d is either harry or niall, i dont really know. Musically, harry. And personality, niall. But i dont really have one. Im not really following them in general, but out of everyone i still do, its harry and niall i go to. Bts is impossible to choose omg, but my bias is still undeniably yoongi/suga. No man has hit my heart quite like him in my life, but kwon jiyong and lee taeyong are right behind him, theyre just not bts. but i cant...downplay the other members of bts. theyre essential as well. I dont have a fav fanfiction cuz i cant remember the ones i read back in the day. But i had an author i liked reading and became friends with but i forgot her penname...something 98. Ss? ss98 looks and sounds right. She and i are into that dark shit. I cant remember the works tho 😬favourite subject is definitely a language, and that includes my own. So literature or a foreign language + history ofc. Anything anthro and culturey, i pale at mathematics. The movie that ill never forget oh wow. Theres a few. lets put the big massive shit out of the way, so aside from the lotr, star wars, and hp series, all series aside, and the labyrinth / dark crystal and neverending story aside..what first comes to mind is probably amelie. I really have the fattest crush on that film. I also really love the descent, which is odd cuz its just a horror film, but i also think it's a beautiful horror film? Lol. Idk i saw it when i was young and ive been watching it at least once a year since, i love it a lot. The soundtrack makes me smile, i know like all the lines, and i pull lines from it all the time in every day life, and disregarding the sequel which was trash (sequels generally are) i loved the fact that...well i wont spoil it. i just loved how hopeless the characters were. There were no easy ways out, and it was realistic. It was just really well made and underrated. Okay. Uh..also goodfellas. FANTASTIC movie, fuck. My friends and i used to play ....the equivalent of a drinking game but with a much different substance invoved to that movie based on a detail that came up a certain amount of times for films, and the night it was goodfellas, ill never forget. I also love heathers. Cuz slater was my god as a child. One of them. Boondock saints, one and two. Me and my sisters thing. Mom has a tattoo that relates to that. The grudge because that was my first horror film that i secretly watched and it stayed in my peabrain for so long. Im 22 btw, but that movie was 2004. Then Veer-Zaara for sure. Omg i fucking love veer zaara. It makes me feel all kinds of things, i sing those songs in my sleep. Beautiful fucking story. Kal ho naa ho, too. basically anything spun up by yash and aditya chopra is a-okay with me, ESPECIALLY if ill be seeing shah rukh khan in it, which is almost a given. Theres movies i cant forget for horrible reasons, the wall (pink floyd film) and requiem for a dream included, perhaps trainspotting too, but those are for personal reasons. Most unforgettable movies are good things. Im forgetting a lot. The muppet movie, young frankenstein, terminator, haunting in connecticut, the babadook (when you know what it IS from the book), rocky horror picture show, a clockwork orange, the crow, beetlejuice, edward scissorhands, crybaby, whats eating gilbert grape, grease, but im a cheerleader, v for vendetta, crouching tiger hidden dragon, silent hill, sound of music, titanic, footloose (the 80s one ofc), what dreams may come, big fish, a walk on the moon, the breakfast club, chocolat, the return of the pink panther, jay and silent bob strike back, school of rock, better off dead, shanghai noon, bill and teds excellent adventure, wizard of oz, fear and loathing in las vegas, underworld, interview with a vampire, i guess les miserables but broadway is better, elizabeth, a very long engagement, batteries not included, and final fantasy advent children are all moves that mean a LOT TO ME LOL. So much.

[the-chilled-todd-howard]

My turn

HAHAHAHAHA, you think you can stop my rise to power? Really?

Heres a lil history lesson for ya bud: humanity went nuclear and civilisation ended and everything that once was now is no longer here except for me.

i built an automated empire with my very mind as its heart to guide it to glory and made sure that when the end came i could rise above the ruins and ashes with a fully robotic army to guide the lost and broken to my domain where they can experience and indulge in every luxury for the simple cost of their subservience to my will.

Some joined together to try dethrone me and a few came close but i stacked the deck and quickly crushed them after a slight taste of victory.

My empire has faced nuclear hellfire and you think you and a few dellusional fools can stop me? Well then go right ahead. just know that my domain is like a Casino, the house always wins and my supreme victory approaches and soon there will only be two choices: serve me or be the dirt my army walks upon.

And ya know what here lemmie open the door out for you just in case your peabrain has realised the reality of the situation im giving you a single chance to abandon this deranged power grab before you join the dammed that keep my empires rise explosive willingly or not

[twentyoneoranges]

I saw a post earlier about children and teens not being allowed to go to the bathroom in class because they're "causing a disruption and an age expected to have bodily control"and i just??? Excretion is NOT bodily control. Every living thing excretes. That's like expecting a student not to fucking sneeze in class because it's "distracting". What's more distracting? Letting a kid just walk out the room for like, 3 minutes, or having someone LITERALLY PISS THEMSELVES BECAUSE YOU WOULDNT LET THEM USE THE GODAMN TOILET. And dont tell me it doesnt happen, because I've seen it happen. Bodily control is deciding not to whip out your prick in the middle of class and start having a wank. Bodily control is not grabbing the person next to you and ramming your tongue down their throat. Bodily control is NOT ABUSING AND TORMENTING A STUDENT TO THE POINT OF SUICIDE AND DEPRESSION. SO WHY THE HELL IS SOMETHING LIKE THIS COMPARED TO THE BASIC HUMAN, NO, LIVING CREATURE NESSESITY OF BOWEL MOVEMENT. Honestly, it's absolutely disgusting. Why tf do you need a godamn doctor's note to explain that you cant control your digestive system? OH YEAH. YOU CANT. It all comes down to ageism. No adult would put up with this shit. Look me in the eye, and tell me you would have no problem with asking your boss for permission to use the toilet every time, and risk being fired for trying to use it when they say no. That's what i thought. Yes, i know that many students use the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom as a reason to slack off or mess around. But when a student is disrespectful in class do you give every single student in the school a detention? No. Dont deny people (because yes, children and teens ARE VALID PEOPLE SURPRISE SURPRISE) their basic human rights because some of them are huge gits. And dont use the "you should have gone at break (recess) bullshit on me". I cannot fucking believe the "o wise all knowing adults" have to be told this, but I'll let them in on a secret. Come in closer. Liiitle bit more. Just a liiiiiiitle bit. Ok. Here it goes. YOU DONT GET TO CHOOSE WHEN YOU TAKE A GODAMN SHIT YOU BLOODY PEABRAINED THICK STUPID AS FUCK TOSSERS. BELIEVE ME, IF I COULD CHOOSE THE EXACT DATE AND TIME WHEN I HAD TO GO POOP, DO YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD DO IT IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS, AND HAVE TO ANNOUNCE TO LITERALLY FUCKING EVERYONE ABOUT MY BOWEL MOVEMENTS, INSTEAD IN THE PRIVACY AND COMFORT OF MY OWN GODAMN HOME WHERE I EONT BE JUDGED AND RIDICULED FOR NEEDING THE FUCKING TOILET YOU CUNTS. And for the teachers who, no lie, have tried and failed at garnering sympathy by saying "well im not allowed to use the toilet during classtime either." ..um thanks. Thanks for giving us this insightful little annecdote about your personal life. I'm sure EVERYONE in this room needed and/or wanted to hear about your bathroom habits. But, um, what the FUCK DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ME. YOU GET PAID FOR THIS SHIT. I DONT. NOW SHUT THE FUUUCK UP AND JUST LET ME GO TO THE GODAMN BATHROOM OK. NO ONE. CARES. Tl;dr: Students are people, and therefore should be given the same rights as literally every other fucking shitty bastard human on this godforsaken planet. So just stfu and let kids use the bathroom in class. This has been a psa. Your welcome. Hope you enjoyed me wasting your shitty fucking time.