#we're probably goings to get a happy reunion

[uwudonoodle]

I hate to suggest this, but what if Ethari has moved on. I know Callum waited for Rayla for 2 years, but there was a good chance she was alive and would come back. Ethari fully believes Runaan has been dead for 2 years. We have no idea what Ethati been doing all this time. What if he found someone else?

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

reunion

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: Slow burn; unrequited love; angst; yearning; divorced Art Donaldson; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; safe sex

Summary: It wasn't that Art Donaldson was the one that got away. It was more like Art Donaldson was the one that never really knew you existed.

"Did you hear Art Donaldson is supposed to be here?"

The question is whispered behind you and makes your hand freeze in its signing. You're half-bent over the table at reception, fingers tight around a pen as your mind is jogged.

No way was he turning up, that's what Anne had said.

Tashi will be there, she's the head of the goddamn reunion committee, the ink is still wet on their divorce—that's what Anne had said. Hell, she'd sworn it.

So what the hell is he doing here?

The sound of your name jogs your attention and you manage to finish signing in. You straighten, taking up your name tag and haphazardly slapping the adhesive onto your top. You need a drink, and quickly. You're halfway to the bar before you feel someone wind their arm through yours.

"Okay, I know you didn't wanna come—"

"Anne."

"And I so appreciate you being here so that I didn't have to come alone—"

"Anne—"

"But I got some news and it's going to be a little shocking so I think you should hear it from me—"

"I know he's here."

"What?" Anne freezes, her arm dropping from yours. You turn to see her looking stricken, her cheeks pinking with panic and embarrassment. You sigh softly, glancing around your fellow alumni. Less than half of them look familiar; your eyes catch on the odd face before you realize that you're inadvertently looking for him.

"Look, there are, like...Five hundred people here, alright?" You add. "I probably won't even see him."

"We can go."

"Look, we made the trip, we're here, we may as well stay. It's fine, okay? We're all adults here! It doesn't matter!" Your insistence is chased by a slightly hysterical laugh. "It was, like, a hundred years ago."

"...You're sure?"

"I am positive."

Positive that you need a drink, and positive that you're going to regret agreeing to stay.

--

It wasn't that Art Donaldson was the one that got away. It was more like Art Donaldson was the one that never really knew you existed.

You were friends, sure. You palled around, had a few classes together, hung out at a few parties—but he was so in love with Tashi Duncan that you'd never made his romantic radar. You'd forced yourself to believe that that was for the best, that you didn't need his love or romantic validation to be happy. But you couldn't pretend that wanting him didn't sting.

He'd had a couple of girlfriends while you were at Stanford, but you could always feel, always see that they were never really his priority. It was Tashi, then tennis, then them.

The two of you had kept touch a little after college, but you'd pushed yourself to move on. Conversation had begun to fade, and when he hadn't tried to keep it up, you had resolved to let him go.

You'd avoided his name in the news as much as you can, but it had been hard. He was on billboards, packaging, tv—it was like you couldn't escape him.

Want melted to sadness; sadness shifted to annoyance; annoyance hardened into disdain. You couldn't see his likeness or hear his name without rolling your eyes. It wasn't his fault, of course, but the prospect of running into Art fuckin' Donaldson made you queasy.

Still, you put on a brave face for Anne, forcing your focus into conversation.

It's a struggle to keep your gaze from seeking him out. You take each sip with a little white lie, convincing yourself that you're looking to make sure you can avoid contact. You spot Tashi a couple of times, but you don't go out of your way to say hello. She's surrounded by a cloud of people—taking pictures, signing programs and name tags and old Duncanator shirts.

When Anne insists on going to say hello, you force a small smile.

"You, um—you go ahead," You nod, taking a couple of steps back. "I'm gonna get some air."

Anne's dark eyes flit over you questioningly before she blessedly lets it go, nodding and going on her way. You turn, swiping a fresh drink off of a passing waiter's tray as you leave.

It takes a few moments for the buzz of conversation to clear from your head. You take a gulp of the prosecco, wrinkling your nose. It's a little sweeter than you usually like, and doesn't mingle well with the three other drinks that you've downed. Tashi's not going to find your lack of presence or greeting conspicuous; you'd been cordial and on speaking terms in college, but the two of you had never been close.

Damn, but it's chillier outside than you thought it would be. The reception had been so warm, so crammed with people. Paired your head being near-permanently on a swivel, you hadn't realize how hot and tense you'd been.

You frown at the waft of cigarette smoke that catches your nose. Who the hell is still smoking in this day and age—

"Are you hiding, too?"

Maybe you can feign that you didn't hear him—that the sound of his voice didn't jog a hundred memories and trigger a flurry of butterflies. But before you can stop yourself, you turn, the words, "I thought you quit smoking," tumbling out of your mouth.

Art's smile widens as he draw the cigarette back from his lips, a stream of smoke pushed out of the side of his mouth.

"I did. Quit quitting, though." He takes one more puff before he flicks it away, drifting closer. "Hi."

Hi, like it's not the first time you've seen him in the better part of a decade. Hi, like neither of you are oceans from where you where when you last saw one another.

"Hi," You manage. He doesn't hesitate to draw you into his arms; he seems to almost do it without thinking. You only allow yourself a moment of resistance before you raise and curl your arms around him. The clean scent of his pressed jacket and woodsy cologne are muddled with smoke. The fingers of one if your hands curls covetously in the fabric of his jacket as his palms smooth gently over your back. You hear him draw in a deep breath, feel him hold it, and then release it with a soft hum.

"How the hell are you?"

Probably better than you are these days.

You shrug a little, mumbling, "Fine."

He draws away, eyes skating across your face.

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"I'm sure."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You can feel him winding up for another pass at it, but you hold your glass out before he can. His fingers brush against yours as he drains it.

"Why are you hiding?" You ask. He shrugs, nods toward the door.

"It's a lot in there. I forgot what these events are like."

"People wanna congratulate you. They're proud."

"Are you?"

"I am, but I'll hold off. Don't wanna crowd you."

Your attention is drawn from Art's smile as you hear someone clearing their throat over the speaker system inside:

"If we could have the reunion chairpersons to the stage, please!"

You glance toward Art and find him fidgeting, his thumb smoothing across his bare ring finger.

"…Do you wanna go back in?" You offer. He considers before he says, "Wait here."

You watch curiously as he darts inside, and are stunned when he reappears a moment later. You just barely catch a glimpse of the bottle of champagne clenched in his fist before he rests his other hand on your lower back, steering you away with an urgent murmur of, "C'mon."

--

"I'm surprised you came," You tell him. Art doesn't look at you for a moment, and you take the chance to lean back against the hard plastic seat. He's as beautiful as he was the last time the two of you were together, the night before graduation—practically in the same seats. You don't know if he was thinking about that when he'd led the way into the stands, chosen where to sit. Maybe it was pure muscle-memory.

Either way, you don't know how long the two of you have been sitting out there, knees bumping, passing the bottle back and forth. You take in his profile—the slope of his nose and cut of his jaw; the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.

"My therapist said it would be good," He finally admits. "Told me I needed to get out more, start getting back into events, work at the foundation...What about you, huh?" He turns, brows raising. "You always told me that you hated this stuff."

You're surprised he remembers.

"I do hate this stuff, but," You shrug. "Anne didn't want to come alone."

"You're a good friend. I never forgot that." He sits up and passes the bottle back to you. "What happened to us, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did we stop talking?"

I couldn't keep begging for scraps of attention.

"I don't know," You deflect. "Guess we just lost touch. It happens."

"I shouldn't have let it happen to us."

You look down at the bottle, sweeping your finger across a slipping drop of condensation.

"You were busy."

"You weren't?"

"Not in the same way," You laugh self-consciously.

"What were you busy with then, huh?" He shifts, thigh pressing against yours. "You used to always say you'd uh—burn out by twenty-six."

"Yeah."

"Did you?"

"Oh, it didn't take nearly that long."

"What!" He laughs. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know what to tell you, man. A girl can only take a soul-sucking marketing job for so long."

"So what do you do now?"

"Still in marketing, but I'm a manager, so. Still soul-sucking, but making a little more money."

"You like it?"

"God no, but I don't know what else I would do." You pass the bottle back.

"Could find something for you at the foundation."

You wrinkle your nose, shaking your head as Art sputters a laugh, asks, "What?"

"Don't do that, Art."

"Don't do what?"

"I don't need, you know—"

"We could use you—"

"You don't even know what I do at work."

"I bet it's great—"

"You don't even know if I'm a good worker—"

"Sure I do, I know you."

"No, you don't!"

You know it's a mistake the second it leaves your mouth. Art's smile wavers as he leans away again.

"I just mean—" You try.

"I know what you mean. It's been a long time."

"...Yeah, it has." You take the bottle back, drawing deeply from it before passing it back. "I should get going. I'm sure Anne's looking for me."

"Sure."

You don't say goodbye or tell him that it was nice to see him. You just make as hasty a retreat as you can without tripping over your feet.

--

@ a_donaldsonofficial requested to follow you. 3h

You're not sure what surprises you more—the follow request or the message in your DMs: Dinner?

--

His groan is sinful and low, and makes you rethink ever losing contact with the guy. Under the warm glow of the diner's lights, his eyes slip shut, fingers tightening around the bun.

"...When's the last time you had a burger?" You finally manage to ask.

"I can't remember." He admits it through the mouthful, and you don't begrudge him the couple of flecks of food that land on the table. You smile, plucking up a couple of fries.

"Art?"

"Mm."

"Why'd you ask me to dinner?"

Art sets the burger down as he swallows, taking off his napkin to clean off his hands.

"I was thinking...About what you said at the reunion."

"Mhm."

"About me not knowing you. You're right. But you know what?" He presses on before you can process your surprise. "I don't think you know me, either."

You think for a moment, brows furrowing. He's right. You know the image of Art Donaldson that's been projected to you over the years—on tv screens, in magazines, in online clips.

"...I don't think I do," You agree.

"Figured we should fix that. Catch up, fill each other in on what we've missed."

"Okay."

"So, after college..." He trails off, waving his hand. "Fill me in."

"Moved to New York."

"Uh-huh."

"Working in marketing."

"Burned out before 26—"

"Yeah, hit my capitalistic peak at 23."

"That fast?"

"I mean, that's the last time I remember giving a shit about work, so. Yeah."

"Relationships?"

"...A couple," You admit.

"Serious?"

"Yeah. One."

"Married?"

"No. Engaged." His eyes drop to your bare left hand, and you hurriedly tuck it into your lap. "Formerly engaged."

"What happened?"

"It just didn't feel right. I don't think either of us were ready."

"...Was it anyone I knew? I don't remember you dating much at school."

"Guess I didn't."

"You weren't shy."

"Well no, but—"

"So what was it?"

"I had the worst crush on you, dude!" It's another mistake, but where the last one seemed to make Art retreat, this one leaves his gobsmacked. His eyes widen, mouth opening in a wide smile.

"You what?"

"Oh, kay, you know what—"

"I had no idea!"

"I was very subtle."

Art leans back in the diner booth, watching you openly. You can see the gears turning in his head, and you wonder what he may be remembering, holding up and twisting about in this new light.

"...Huh," He mutters.

"You can feel free to forget that at any time."

"I don't think I will...I wish I'd known."

You consider for a moment before you shrug. "I don't know. I'm kinda glad that you didn't."

"Really?" His brows knit with confusion. "Why?"

"I don't like coming second, Art."

Art nods slowly, and you see something tight pass across his face before it's smoothed away again.

"You know what?" He smiles bitterly. "Neither do I."

You nod toward his plate.

"Your burger's getting cold."

--

"So, uh..." Art clears his throat as the two of you take slow, drifting steps to your car. "I'm gonna say two things, and I don't want you to think that they've got anything to do with what you said earlier."

You know exactly what he means, but you just grumble, "I said a lot of things earlier."

"I think we both know which one I'm talking about."

"Uh-huh. So what's up?"

"...I wanna see you again."

"Okay."

"But things are a little...Messy right now. Tashi and I are working on getting Lily into a regular rhythm and it's harder than we thought it would be."

You lean back against your car, tucking your hands into your pockets.

"Mhm...I hesitate to ask."

"Yeah."

"How does this have to do with what I said earlier?"

"I just don't want you to think that this is—"

"A consolation prize?"

"Something like that."

"Whatever you need to do to get in a good place with Lily is fine, Art, you don't need to justify that to me."

"Even if it means you come second?"

You tip your head to the side, pursing your lips. "It's different when it's your kid. I meant that I didn't want to be second to—You know."

"...Yeah," He mutters, looking at his feet as he takes another foot forward. "And for the record, I was thinking of asking you out again by the time we sat down."

"You could've changed your mind."

"I didn't. And I don't want to."

You smile, nodding. "Well I don't want you to, either." You straighten up as you fish into your bag for your keys. "Call me the next time you're in New York."

"Sure."

You reach out, cupping his cheek and leaning in, pecking his cheek. You pull away, smiling at the flush creeping across his face.

"Goodnight, Art."

"Night."

--

It isn't easy at first. Messages are far and few, mostly how are yous and how was your days. You think that as nice as the little swell of contact has been, that's all it'll be—but the two of you both start to really try. The odd text becomes the weekly phone call. Weekly phone calls become daily FaceTimes. On the nights when he has Lily, they're late, usually when you're getting ready for bed. On the nights when he's on his own, the two of you eat dinner together and chat over your calls. It isn't always perfect, but it's more than you could've anticipated from that dinner a couple of months ago.

--

"She down?"

"Yeah."

"Are you in a hotel again?"

"...Yeah." Art seems to admit it grudgingly, and you smile a little as you take up your toner and a cotton pad.

"There's nothing wrong with leaning into it if it's working," You argue. "And not to be that bitch, but you're not exactly broke."

"Might be if she keeps ordering room service and movies on-demand."

You laugh softly, turning your attention to your reflection as you swipe the toner across your face.

"How's your day been?" Art asks.

"Fine, standard. I had to fill out an assessment ahead of my annual review."

"When's that?"

"End of the week."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Mm," You shrug reaching for a serum. "Fine, I guess. I'm doing okay, my team's hitting their targets."

"You're doing better than okay."

"Art."

"You are."

"Well. Thank you for that." You glance over as he goes quiet, catching a glimpse of him as you smooth the serum into your skin. You raise your brows at the sight of his gentle, warm smile. "What is it?"

"You're beautiful."

Your face goes warm at the compliment, and you bite the inside of your cheek to tamp down your wide, idiotic smile.

"You are tired, huh," You deflect.

"I mean it."

"...I know," You murmur, reaching for your moisturizer. "Tell me what you got up to today."

"I had a meeting at the foundation. We're starting planning for the gala."

"Oh yeah? Have you done them before?"

"We've had three before, but I was usually playing or training, so I haven't been as involved in the planning."

"How's it been?"

"We're still in the preliminary stages, but it's been interesting, you know, seeing how the pieces come together before I usually see them."

You nod, picking the phone up from the mirror holder and heading into your bedroom.

"Where are you gonna have it?"

"We're still scouting locations...As a matter of fact," Art adds, "We're considering a few in New York."

"Oh?"

"I'll be down there for at least a few days, and I wanna see you."

You grin bashfully as you climb into bed, settling against your pillows.

"I wanna see you, too. Are you gonna, um—I mean, is Lily gonna be with you?"

"No, it'll be Tashi's weekend."

"Okay, cool. Just wanna make sure I don't mess up your time."

"I appreciate that." Art's tongue swipes across his lower lip, eyes sweeping across your face. "I gotta say..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm looking forward to seeing your apartment."

"Oh, really?" You chuckle. "Why's that?"

"It'll be interesting, that's all. I mean, you already take me to bed every night."

You laugh, covering your eyes as you groan, "Oh, god, shut up!" as Art chuckles.

"Let me know when you're free," You add. "Your schedule's gonna be weirder than mine."

"Yeah, I will, as soon as I know what it is." You watch as Art lays down, propping his phone up on the nightstand. "...Can you stay on?"

"Yeah," You soothe, setting your phone on the nightstand in suit. "Until we fall asleep."

"Okay," He murmurs. The two of you settle in on your sides, watching one another on the phone.

"Night, Art."

"Sweet dreams."

--

The restaurant is picked. Your nails are done, your hair is done; you get a new dress, new shoes, a new bag. You're going to have an amazing night—a good dinner, a great conversation, and, if you have any luck, an amazing good night kiss.

--

You know the minute you see him that you're not making it to the restaurant. Art's eyes sweep over you in covetous wonder when you open the door. He closes the gap between the two of you, drawing you into his arms, and this time you go without a second thought. He presses his face into your neck, letting out a gentle hum at the scent of your perfume. The tip of his nose trails up over your jaw, his lips brushing the corner of your lips as his forehead rests against yours. He sighs as you draw in a nervous breath, and he sways in, lips pressing to yours.

You raise your hand to cup his neck, shivering as his hands smooth over your hips. He guides you deeper inside, blindly reaching back and shoving the door shut behind you as you fling your purse toward the bench in your entryway. His kisses grow hungrier as he steers you down the hall. You slip your tongue along his, smoothing your hand up to grasp his hair. Your fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt, exposing more of his pale, muscled chest to you. He slides down the zipper on the back of your dress and leans away just long enough to draw the dress up over your head. His eyes sweep across you, taking in your lingerie.

You hook your thumbs under the band of your underwear, giving them a teasing wiggle as you back further away from him. You expect him to follow, but he steers you back against the wall, dropping his head to suck hot kisses along your neck and down to your chest. He yanks one of the cups of your bra down, taking your nipple into his mouth. You bite your lip, tipping your head back against the wall and whining as he slots his knee between your thighs. You roll your hips down against the hard muscle as he laves and teases your nipple, reaching up to thumb and tweak the other.

"Art—Mm, god that feels so good."

He groans against your skin, trailing his kisses further down as he lowers himself to his knees. You look down as he curls his fingers around your panties—and waits. You smile softly, nodding, murmuring, "Please?"

Art grins, pressing a kiss to your hip before he gently eases the fabric down, waiting for you to lift your feet so he can fling them away. He leans in, swiping his tongue across your aching clit. Your knees would knock if he wasn't wedged between them. You draw in a shallow breath, letting your head tip back as he draws your leg over his shoulder. You shiver at the feeling of the chilly air against your heated, slick flesh. He nuzzles and laps against your cunt, taking each tip of your hips in stride. His hand smooths up your trembling inner thigh, giving your ass a gentle squeeze before he teases a finger into you. You whimper at the touch, unable to help the way your pussy clenches around it.

Art groans at the feeling, turning his head to smear his lips slips against your hip.

"Goddamn," He breaths against you.

"More."

You feel more than hear his gentle chuckle as he eases another finger in.

"Need it bad, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"I'm getting a pretty good idea." He turns his head, leveling a sucking kiss to your clit that makes you cry out. You tighten your grip on his hair as he pumps his fingers harder, curling and scissoring them as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"Art—Mm, god, fuck, yes—Yes—" Your toes curl in your shoes as your hips rabbit down against his face and fingers, chasing the swell of your orgasm. You look back down as he draws back and find his lips and chin shining with your juices.

"Bed," He urges.

"You can fuck me right here."

Art laughs, standing and smoothing his hand over your thigh.

"We're doing this right."

"We could be doing this right...." You slid your hand down his chest to palm his cock through his pants. "Here."

You grin as Art's eyelids flutter, his dick twitching against you.

"Bed," He insists again.

It isn't far to go, and the two of you are entirely bare by the time you get there. You scooch back onto the bed, spreading your legs as he rolls on a condom. He's over you a moment later, and you watch the bulge of his biceps as he braces his hands on either side of your head. You bite your lip as you feel the brush of his cock against your entrance. You reach down, grasping his cock and guiding him closer.

You tip your head up, tongue teasing the seam of his lips as he eases into you. You melt into the mattress as he crushes against you, filling you completely. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding your legs over his, as if you'll manage to fuse the two of you together. Art's tongue swirls around yours before he captures your lips in a kiss, rolling his hips slowly.

"More," You plead, but Art keeps his pace achingly steady, even when you try to pick up the pace.

"You feel so fucking good," He breathes, "Even better than you taste."

"Harder, Art, please, god damn, please," You whimper. He tips his head to the side nipping at the hinge of your jaw as he reaches down, hiking your hip up even higher. Your mouth fell open with a stunned moan as he presses deeper, the slap of his hips filthily filling the stifling air around you. You arch up against him, nails raking down his back as you feel the swell of another orgasm.

"Art."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm—Fuck, almost—"

"That's it." He sucks his fingers between his lips before he slips them between your bodies, swiping across your tender clit. You begin to close your eyes, but he tuts softly.

"Don't—Don't close your eyes—Look at me," He orders between breaths. You force yourself to focus on Art, taking in the flush on his cheeks, his almost dazed eyes.

"You, too—" You urge.

"Yeah—"

"Oh—yeah," You gasp, unable to keep your gaze on his you cum. You feel Art's hips slap roughly against yours before he slows, groaning low in his chest. You draw in a deep breath as your heart pounds in your chest, sinking back against your pillows as he settles down over you. You smooth your hand over his nape, smiling as he nuzzles against your shoulder, dropping tender kisses to your skin.

"...Art?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we're going to be late for dinner."

--

"You know, I've been thinking."

"You've been doing a lot more than thinking, mister," You mutter, and grin as Art laughs. You cuddle closer against his side, nuzzling into his chest as he tightens his arm around your shoulders.

"I'm glad I didn't know you liked me in college."

"Really?" You tip your head up, brow furrowing. "Why's that?"

"...I wasn't ready for you back then." He smooths his fingers along your jaw, eyes wandering your face contemplatively. "It's like you said, you know. You would've come second."

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm.

"I don't think I was ready for you, either," You admit. Art smiles.

"And you are now?"

"More than."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

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[boyfhee]

﹙𝓲ssue﹚ㅤ:ㅤ“is your girlfriend single?”ㅤ...ㅤ( 엔하이픈 )

ㅤㅤ﹙1214﹚ ㅤ장르 fluff, humour est. relㅤㅤwarnings light kissing, slight jealousyㅤㅤᐢᗜᐢ didn't turn out how i wanted these to be but hope you like them nonetheless >< happy reading and pls rb & leave feedback iNDEX

HEESEUNG

you were out with him and his friend group when the question suddenly pops up, asked by one of his friends who definitely meant it in a fun and joking way, however the frown on your boyfriend's face proves he didn't like it.

it takes him a good few seconds to comprehend the question before he hears you stifle a laugh. he looks at his friend, scoffing bitterly, raising his brows mockingly. “is my girl single?”

“dude it's a jo—”

he huffs before his hands cup your cheeks and make him look at you, pressing his lips against yours for a few seconds to get the point across. “no, she's not.” he speaks with a slight nod, trying to look modest even though there's a smug smile on his lips. “and don't ask stupid questions.”

JONGSEONG

he's confused, for the most part. his eyes refuse to leave the phone screen, going over and over the caption of your post— anniversary post, clearly written down below the pictures where you are sitting on his lap with a cake and he's kissing your cheeks.

‘happy three years to us. i love you, my love’

“are they stupid?” he asks bluntly, looking at you with his mouth agape. everything in that post makes it obvious that you are definitely not single.

“it's most likely a joke, baby,” you say, leaning against his arms with a pout, wishing he would just let it go and pay attention to you. “don't mind them,”

he nods at your words absentmindedly, brows still furrowed at the screen. you roll your eyes, pulling his arms to lay him back on the bed. he quickly sends a ‘no.’ for a reply before putting his phone aside and getting back to you, hovering over you while he has you pinned down, planting a soft kiss on your neck. “you're all mine, yeah?”

JAEYUN

brows furrows, head tilted slightly to the left, eyes wide open in half confusion half surprise. he doesn't understand why anyone would ask that question, because it sounds stupid as hell. “huh?”

“i asked if your girlfriend is single,” the person asks again and you laugh under your breath, knowing that they're probably just pulling their leg.

“she's my soulmate, the love of my life, my other half, anything— but single,” and he knows he's being a bit too much he jake wants to show you off and also make it clear that you're most definitely off the markets.

“jake, that's enough—”

“no? why are they asking if you're single when we're literally walking hand in hand?” continues to explain it to you why that was such a rhetorical question even after that person leaves, doesn't let go your hands until you get home. “should we take a few couple pics to post them, hm?”

SUNGHOON

mad as hell, gives them the most deadpan face ever. well, he introduced you as his dear girlfriend the minute you two walked in through the doors of the restaurant for the highschool reunion.

“she wouldn't date you even if she was,” says with his eyes looking at them up and down with displeasure written on his face clearly. he's not having any of it.

he has his hand on your thigh the whole time you two are at the reunion, giving it soft caresses and light squeezes, never missing a chance to compliment you or even flirt with you when you two have been dating for over a year now.

and when you try to remove his hand or something, he pulls you even closer, mostly because he's enjoying your flustered face. “it's so hard having a beautiful girlfriend,”

SUNOO

it's so serious for him, he's shooting daggers with his eyes, annoyance clearly written on his face. it doesn't escape his gaze how the guy in front of him is checking you out, even though while being subtle about it.

“of course, not. she's with me, can't you see?” it's a sharp reply that clearly shuts them off, and sunoo rolls his eyes, turning his attention back onto you.

you chuckle under your breath, but also composing yourself as you link your arms with him as you two walk away from them. “hey, don't you think that was too much?”

and he laughs softly, leaning his face down to plant a feathery kiss on your cheeks, looking at you with a slight grin. “well, they shouldn't have asked such a stupid question then,”

JUNGWON

he immediately goes silent when he sees that question in the comments of his vlog with you, shooting question marks to the screen with his stares, the embodiment of ‘does anyone else find this weird :/’

“ah, if yn is single?” words actually trail off as soon as they dance out of his mouth while tries to process the question. is it a joke? are they being serious? he doesn't know. “uh, i don't think she is since we're dating. . .?”

he's stuttering and you're next to him, hiding your face while suppressing your laughter because he's so adorable. “wonnie, i'm pretty sure they were just teasing you,”

“ah, okay,” he nods in realisation, chuckling awkwardly while looking at the screen in silence for a few seconds before adding. “we're not entertaining any more questions about yn,”

NI-KI

he shrugs and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his pants, giving them a blank look as if he doesn't know a thing. he cocks his head in your direction, asking cluelessly. “are you single?”

and you shoot him a confused look, blinking blankly as you point your index finger at yourself. “me?”

“who else?”

you continue to look at him in confusion, turning your gaze to your classmate before it lands back on your boyfriend. “i'm dating you, how would i be single?”

riki immediately turns his head to your poor classmate, the smug smile never leaving his face as he shakes his head. “she's not,” and then he simply puts his arms over your shoulders, pulling you flush against him and walks past them, without sparing another glance.

taglist

[darling-sometimes-i-wonder]

Arena- Finnick Odair

Can you please write something about finnick and reader being very touchy and flirty in the arena?

A/N: i'm a little rusty but i like how this turned out <3 part 2 is underway. requests open! word count: 3.6k

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 75th hunger games begin!"

It was bright. Very bright. Hard to see 10 feet in front of you type of bright, particularly with the sunlight reflecting off of the water that surrounded you. You barely registered the monotonous countdown as you scrambled internally to make a plan. You could hear the waves lapping at the metal plate you stood on, and distantly you wondered if it was salt water or fresh water- probably salt. Fresh water would be too easy. Your home in District 6 had not prepared you for this type of terrain, but you did have some tricks up your sleeve.

The canon sounded off and you made a smooth dive headfirst into the clear water, all of those trips to district four paying off.

Swimming to your right you made it to one of the rocky spokes that led to the cornucopia, hoisting yourself up fluidly and taking off towards the big metal half-cave where all the supplies and weapons laid.

It didn't take long for you to reach the jagged island, where you could see Katniss and Finnick in the middle of an exchange from a distance- he was holding his hand up towards her. A gold bangle was shining on his wrist.

"Good thing we're allies," You heard him say as you quickly jogged over, looking over your shoulder to see if you were being pursued. You didn't see anybody behind you, but you could see the man from district 5 coming around the corner with his weapon poised and ready. You picked up your pace, yelling warning to Finnick, reaching them just as he instructed for Katniss to duck before throwing his trident and hitting his target.

"Finnick," You called in relief and his eyes flicked from the body to you.

"Y/N!" he said running towards you, forgetting about the now bloody trident that was lodged into district 5’s chest. He pulled you into his grasp and just held you there for a few seconds, breathing deeply into your damp hair. It was soaking just a few moments ago but the humidity and sun had already dried it partially.

He pulled away too soon, taking your hand and leading you back to where Katniss was standing, his trident in her hand. She must have de-lodged it during your reunion with Finnick.  

She absentmindedly tossed it to him, looking around in all directions frantically.

"I'll go get Peeta," Finnick assured, and spun back around to face you. He kissed you once, twice on the lips softly, cradling your face. "I'll be right back."

He dove off the side of the island, and within a few minutes you could see him towing Peeta towards you. You could hear Katniss let go a breath of relief.

You ran to meet them, squatting down near the edge and helping Finnick lift Peeta out of the water. Peeta clambered up clumsily, seemingly happy to be back on land.

In the distance, on the closest spoke to you, stood Mags- slowly but surely shuffling forward.

“I’ll go get her,” Finnick said and took off before you could offer to go get her instead.

It didn’t take him long to retrieve her, gently slinging her onto his back and marching on the slippery rocks steadily. He made it back and set her down on her feet. You grabbed her hand and squeezed, and she smiled at you sweetly.

"Let us regroup, shall we?" You asked.

*

You all decided it was probably better to get off the island and retreat into the woods where it wasn't so open.

Walking up to you Finnick wrapped his hand around your neck gently, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. Your cheeks burned as you kissed him back- you weren't used to such public displays of affection from him, only ever in the privacy of your own homes.

You could feel Katniss and Peeta's eyes on you. It must have been a surprise for them, too.

You could only imagine how the Capitol was reacting. Your relationship, while speculated broadly, was never 100% confirmed. Until now.

Each year you only saw Finnick a handful of times: once for couple weeks at the annual games, and a few times on borderline secret trips down to four. Being from district 6, the district of transportation, had its advantages. Although it was obvious you both had feelings, there was never enough time to form a real relationship- especially since you weren't necessarily supposed to stray from your own district.

You thought about this as the group of you retreated into the tree line, trekking forward without much trouble; everyone had grabbed their assorted weapons and went on their way.

As soon as you passed the first couple trees the first thing you noticed was how unbearable the heat was; your jumpsuit stuck to your body with salt water and sweat, clinging to your form.

Peeta took it upon himself to lead, using a long knife to cut through the jungles vines and various, thickly packed vegetation. You let yourself fall into step with Finnick, who immediately took your hand and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed the back of your hand three times before interlocking your fingers and gently guiding you along, Mags bringing up the rear with her walking stick.

"I'm glad I found you alive," he whispered, keeping his eyes trained forward. "Don't actually know what I'd do without you."

You hummed, looking around at the trees nonchalantly.

"You have my heart Odair."

*

Nothing eventful happened on the first day, besides Peeta having to be resuscitated.

One minute he was making good progress, and then within seconds there was a loud zap that sent him flying backwards into Finnick, knocking him over and taking you with them.

Your heart dropped as you watched the scene unfold in front of you; Peeta was laying on the ground, not moving.

"He's not breathing," Katniss cried. Finnick rushed over, shoving Katniss out of the way so he could start mouth to mouth on Peeta.

She raised her bow towards Finnick and you tackled her before she could do any damage.

She hissed as she came in contact with the ground and hopped up just as quickly, glaring at you before taking notice of Finnick pumping his hands hard against Peeta's chest. She scrambled over to them and you followed in suit, closing your eyes and praying Peeta would wake up- without him, there was no solid allegiance with Katniss, and the whole plan went underwater.

"Come on, come on," Finnick grunted, leaning down to blow more air into his lungs.

As soon as Peeta's eyes fluttered open Finnick and you both exhaled a huge sigh of relief in unison, falling back and letting Katniss shoot forward to embrace him, tears leaking out of her eyes.

Finnick sighed and pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you and letting them have their privacy.

"I love you," he murmured which left you surprised. He had never said that before, but you could understand why his confession came now rather than later. Who knew how much time you had left together?

Katniss took the lead after that, claiming she could hear the force field with her bionic ear. She led you along the edge of the force field until you found a semi clear spot that would work for camp for the night.

Mags plopped down on a fallen tree and immediately began weaving something, her fragile hands and nimble fingers working at a quick pace. Finnick took a seat next to her, pulling you into his lap.

Now it was time to figure out the water situation. You were all clearly struggling after walking all that way, panting heavily with dry mouths.

In an effort to find drinkable water Katniss scaled a tree, scouting to see if she could see any type of water source from up high.

You held your breath as you watched her disappear among the tree branches, praying she'd find something, anything. She reappeared not even 5 minutes later, grimacing.

"Nothing," she sighed, climbing back down skillfully.

A silence fell over the group as you all processed that information, each with different levels of anxiety. In your first games you had nearly dehydrated to death, the lack of water leading you the point of hallucinations and delirium, so the lack of supply left you grappling with traumatic memories and an intense pit in your stomach.

You opened your mouth to say something when the branches above you rustled, drawing everyone's attention upwards.

A familiar silver sphere made its way down from the trees, beeping along the way. It landed on the ground in front of you. Nobody moved.

Hesitantly Katniss reached forward, unscrewing the top, and pulled out a thin metal tube. It looked familiar, but you couldn't put your finger on it.

Nobody said anything, staring at the small silver tool. Finnick didn't say anything, not knowing what it was either. He had his arms wrapped around your waist still, and his strong hands squeezed your sides reassuringly.

"A spile," Katniss finally said. You all looked at her. "Like the thing they use to get sap out of a tree. To make maple syrup."

Peeta still looked confused but you were nodding slowly, recalling a previous games where a spile had also been gifted.

"I think I get it," You said. "It'll get us water, yeah?"

At the sound of the word water everyone jumped into action, Katniss immediately finding a thick tree to puncture. Finnick stood up but didn't let his hands go from around your waist as Peeta ran to catch up with Katniss. Finnick double checked on Mags, who was still weaving, before leading you to follow them.

They were taking turns drilling the spile into the tree, carefully so it wouldn't break.

Once it was sufficiently in you all stared at it; nothing happened.

Your mouth was drier than it had been in years. Your mentor had warned against this last time, advising you that the first thing you should do is find a fresh water source.

You thought back to Lavan, your mentor, who was the only competent one on your team. The other two were downing morphine like it was water constantly, offering no help or advise before sending you into the arena. But could you really blame them?

You were brought out of your thoughts at everyone gasping; water had begun to trickle down from the spout, everyone rushing towards it at once.

"Let katniss go first, she's with child," You scolded and Peeta ushered her towards the spout. You all took turns drinking, and then washing the grimy sweat off your faces. Finnick brought some to Mags in a basket she had easily constructed.

You couldn't lie, watching Finnick drink from the spilling water was a godly sight to behold. He just looked so sexy, and he wasn't even trying.

You waited until he was done to grab him by the front of his jumpsuit, kissing him roughly. He didn't object, smiling through the kiss.

It truly was now or never. Before, there was always the worry of how the Capitol citizens would react to their favorite victors being taken off the market, and how Snow would retaliate. But to be honest, you didn't care too much about what the Capitol or its viewers, and especially not Snow, thought right now.

You let him wrap his arms around you like he used to, pulling you closer and cupping your face. Mindlessly you reached up and ran your fingers through his messy hair.

He sighed and pulled away, pressing the side of his face to yours, his lips angling downwards to kiss you gently on the cheek. You smiled in the dim sunlight.

Given the circumstances, it was fairly easy to somewhat relax next to Finnick as you all finished setting up camp. Just his presence was comforting, and his touch made you visibly less tense.

"I'll take first watch," Katniss insisted, and you and Finnick shared a look. Peeta was most hesitant, however you and Finnick went down without a fight. At some point Katniss must've convinced Peeta he needed to rest because soon after you laid down you could hear him shuffling around not far from you. Mags was already sleeping, snoring softly. Finnick laid down and pulled with him, letting your head rest on his broad chest.

Your blinks started becoming slower and slower and you pulled him closer, his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

*

"The fog," Katniss's screeches jarred you from your sleep, Finnick shooting into a sitting position beside you. "It's poisonous!"

Before you could process entirely what was happening you were on your feet, Finnick had Mags on his back, and his hand in yours, dragging you along until your feet started working themselves. You stumbled along in a panic, glancing over your shoulder only once to see a thick greenish fog licking at your heels. It crept up behind you and made you scream in agony as it burned your back.

"Y/N keep moving," Finnick ordered. You could tell he was trying to remain calm but you could hear the panic in his voice.

You took a deep breath and darted forward through the pain, using all your strength to keep pushing. You noticed the muscles in your back started to spasm, making your arms start to twitch at your sides. You led the way the best you could, Katniss and Finnick close behind and Peeta bringing up the rear.

You glanced behind you. Peeta was struggling, hard- you abandoned your spot at the front and did your best to help Katniss drag him along but it was getting harder and harder, especially now with your back spasming and your thighs wobbling as the fog clearly targeted your nervous system.

Before you knew it you were almost as bad as Peeta, dragging yourself along and holding tightly onto Katniss.

"Finnick I can't," Katniss breathed heavily, and she sounded near tears. "I can't support both of them."

By now your eyelids had gone slack, leaving you with half vision. You hear Finnick call Mags name once, then twice more desperately. A canon went off and you stopped. Surely that wasn't what you thought it was.

Before you could ponder for long you were in motion again, Finnick urging you forward.

"Come on Y/N, we have to get through this," he said desperately, pleading with you.

The sound of his voice pulled you through and you focused only on your legs, propelling yourself forward.

You were the fastest, normally, but being half awake and spasming combined was slowing you down tremendously. You were leading the pack once again but with the fog closing in on you, you feared this might be the end.

With your half open eyes you didn't see the tree root in front of you, and as you staggered forward it immediately took you down, causing a chain reaction.

You all went flying, tumbling down a steep hill and landing face first in the dirt. You had been going the fastest which meant you had fallen the fastest, hitting the ground and rolling into shallow water. As soon as your skin met the water you screamed, a burning sensation covering everywhere the fog had touched and making the burns that much more unbearable. It felt like you were being burned alive.

Slowly you started to notice a cloudy substance leak from your wounds, dispersing in the water around you. Hesitantly you reached up and rubbed the salty water against your arm, biting back another scream, but it seemed to be working.

"The water helps," you breathed but you weren't sure anyone could hear you. Behind Katniss the poisonous fog seemed to hit a wall, gathering up before dissipating completely, vanishing all together.

Katniss seemed to be the only one who heard you, dragging herself across the muddy ground before submerging herself in water. She let out a deep groan as the water hit her burned skin but she was a soldier; she took it like a champ, dunking her face first and letting out a garbled scream underwater.

You let her and yourself heal in silence before going your separate ways; she helped Peeta while you dragged Finnick, who was in the worst shape of all of you.

Shakily you made your way over to him where he was groaning in pain on the ground, just laying on his back. You slipped your hands under his arms and tried to get him to stand; when that failed you resorted to dragging him as best you could, leading him over to the salty water and plopping down.

You gently pulled Finnick into the water with you, softly tugging him into your lap as he groaned loudly, making you flinch.

You rubbed the water over his burns, watching the poison slowly discharge from his skin. He made sounds of pain as you rubbed him down as gently as you could while still being effective. Eventually he was fully submerged and wiped down; his breathing was shallow pants and his eyes were screwed shut as he slowly recovered. You smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead.

"Did I die yet?" he mumbled, eyes closed, and you let out a shaky laugh.

"No, not yet. And you better not.”

His arms were still twitching slightly while all of your nerves seemed to have calmed down; just sitting soaking in the water was helping significantly.

“I thought we were gonna die,” he exhaled.

“Me too,” You admitted, and ran a hand through your tangled wet hair. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

"We need more fresh water," Katniss said from a few paces over. You stood, offering your hand to Finnick as Katniss helped Peeta up.

"I'll get it," Peeta volunteered, shaking his head when Katniss gave him a protesting look. "I'm fine. It'll be good to stretch anyway."

He took the spile from Katniss and went off, slightly wobbly but determined. You watched him go, following him with your eyes. You were so focused that you hadn't noticed the deadly silence, or Finnick posing in a defensive stance in front of you.

"Peeta," Katniss called calmly. "Can you come here? Slowly."

Your head turned forward where Finnick was standing in front of you, trident raised threateningly; hundreds of monkeys stood in the trees, beady eyes glaring down at all of you. You faltered; how were there this many? Where did they all come from?

As soon as Peeta took a step forward all hell broke loose- the monkeys charged forward with no warning or tell tale signs. Everyone readied their weapons. Katniss handed you a big machete before starting to shoot off her arrows. Finnick was spearing things left to right, and you hopped around him to help fight them off. You knew what the mission was: protect Peeta and Katniss. Get them out of the arena in one piece.

The fight felt never ending and you were honestly running out of steam. You lost focus for one second and before you could do anything one of the monkeys got past you and lunged directly at Peeta. Right before he could be slaughtered someone jumped out in front of him, taking the hard bite to the throat. You squinted your eyes and tried to figure out who it was, and a sinking feeling in your stomach began to form as you recognized his tired, tired face. He was your district partner, just another soul that got swept up in addiction in an attempt to drive the games out of their head. Tears sprang in your eyes as you watched Loto struggle to breathe in Peeta's arms- you hadn't noticed the monkeys begin to retreat, with no prompting or cause seemingly whatsoever. Finnick stood guard as they backed up, not trusting the horror to truly be over.

Katniss and Peeta gently pulled Loto into the water and you ran towards them, holding back a choked sob as you reached their side.

You stroked Loto's head softly as Peeta started talking; he was good, distracting him with the colors in the sky and telling him about all the paintings he made back at home and how he  mixed colors to get the perfect shade. It truly did seem to relax Loto.

"It was an honor knowing you," You whispered to him, and he smiled as much as he could back up to you. You kissed his forehead and backed away, unable to watch the life drain from his eyes. You walked back to Finnick, who was watching you with a stricken expression. You flinched as a canon sounded. You didn't bother to play independent or engage in flirty back and forth with him, instead going straight into his arms.

Eventually Katniss and Peeta rejoined you, a hovercraft appearing in the distance to come retrieve the body.

Katniss took one look at the both of you; you, having lost Loto, and Finnick, having lost Mags. She offered to stay up and take watch again, this time with Peeta, and nobody disagreed. Without saying anything Finnick pulled you close to him and laid you both down on the sandy ground, nuzzling his face into your neck. You could feel small hot tears smudging in your skin and it made your heart break- you knew how close Mags and Finnick were. Closer than you and Loto, so you could only imagine what he was feeling.

You flipped around so you were face to face, bringing your hand up to gently trace over his handsome features .

"I'm sorry," you whispered and he closed his teary eyes.

"I'm sorry too."

[fortunekookie07]

Mc disappears on a mission/snowcrest (Days, weeks, author's choice) I want pain, anguish But a happy ending, with a reunion (the only requirement, life is sad enough 😭)

This is the prompt requested, and I got this idea.

Looking for my Heart

The mission seems simple enough, you thought as you read through the file that Jenna had sent. After you had gone to Snowcrest last year with Zayne and temporarily teamed up with the Deepspace Hunters stationed there she had decided to add more diversity to the training. This included rounds in Snowcrest.

This time it was your turn, you were excited to see Dr. Noah and Pie again. It had been almost six months since your last trip. Getting out of Linkon for the first time in awhile was just the refreshing change you wanted.

Zayne had agreed to take you to the train station so you could meet up with your temporary team, but for some reason, he was late. This was highly unusual, Zayne was almost never late. He prided himself on his perfect manners.

You decide to take your luggage downstairs anyways. Surely Zayne was on the way or maybe even pulling up to the complex now. Upon seeing the quiet parking lot devoid of his car a pout forms on your lips. You grab your phone and scroll through the texts you'd exchanged and check to make sure you'd told him the correct time and date. There it was, Wednesday morning 9:30, along with his affirmation and yet no Zayne. You decide that this is not ok and immediately tap the phone icon to call him.

Straight to voice-mail, a frown furrows your eyebrows and your lips purse out in frustration. You call again, once more, twice more. You almost lose count at the number of straight to voice mail calls you send. So you type him a text in anger.

I know you don't want me to go to Snowcrest but this is my job after all. If you didn't want to take me you shouldn't have agreed in the first place. Trying to make me miss the train is really petty. You hit send without a second thought and immediately call for a taxi. Minutes later one is pulling into the parking lot and finally you are off.

After getting to the station and finally securing your tickets and luggage your phone rings. Zayne's name and picture flash across the screen. In anger you shut your phone off and stuff it deep into your bag.

You walk down a few cars before finding a seat. Across from you is a family. A little girl is giggling as her father is making funny faces and the mother is quietly laughing as well. A smile crosses your face and then unwanted thoughts pop into your head.

For a moment you see yourself and Zayne in that exact situation. Though he'd probably never actually admit it, Zayne would do anything you asked no matter how silly. To him you'd hung the moon and scattered the stars. A small smile came to your face and you violently shook your head back in forth, uncaring that your hair whipped your cheeks as you did so.

"No I'm angry, we're mad at Zayne. Be mad at Zayne"! You chant softly to yourself before slapping both cheeks. Having successfully for the moment chased away the daydream you sit back in your seat as the train begins to move and look out at the scenery flashing by. Slowly changing from city to mountains.

Two hours later the heaters in the cars came on as the temperature outside had dropped. It was snowing lightly according to the weather report. Your about to get your jacket on when an alert sound on your Hunter's Watch. You look down and see that a there is a Metaflux warning on the screen and the scanner is red.

Immediately your heart starts hammering in your chest as a cold sweat rolls down your back. This is exactly the readings you saw on your first day Hunting.

"Look out"! You scream just before everything goes white and you hear a high pitched screech and then nothing.

**********************************************************

She was standing off to the side holding Dr. Zayne's phone. Finally it was her turn to watch for important calls or messages and inform him of them. Finally she would be able to get closer to him. Oh how she had dreamed of this day! Luck was finally dealing her the winning hand.

At least that was the cloud nine Mia was currently occupying until the phone actually started soflt vibrating. A quick glance at the screen sent her stomach straight to the pits of ultimate fury. How did this stupid girl have Zayne's number? She was always around him. It made her blood absolutely boil staring down at her stupid smiling face and name on the screen. "Humph"! She scoffed sending the call straight to voicemail. Oh how it delighted her to reject that snake's call.

Well that was until the phone started vibrating again almost immediately. She's calling again?!?! Mia thought wanting to throw the device into and inferno.

I've been in his department for two years and she already has his number?? How dare she deceive my Zayne! She sent the call to voice-mail again. This went on several more times and she was almost giddy at having rejected the call five times. A wide smile made its way onto her face as a text message popped in then. Zayne would never allow anyone to talk to him like that. She was riding this wave for the next hour before finally the surgery was done.

Mia quickly deleted the records of the call and then looked up as Dr. Zayne set down his instruments and gave his final orders. He was handing the last of the surgery duties over to his team. They quickly got to work stitching the patient back up. Dr. Zayne walked over to her and her heart skipped a beat as she watched another nurse help remove his scrubs and gear before finally standing in front of her.

He looks so tired, she thought silently handing over his phone. He accepted it and a deep frown immediately hung over his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Damn, I'm late". He said quietly.

"Is something wrong Dr. Zayne". Mia asked gazing at his face. Mock concern on it. Zayne only looked at her before leaving the room. Mia was confused, while it was true they didn't have much contact, he'd never outright ignored her before. She shrugged it off as tiredness. It had been a six hour surgery after all.

Mia left the surgical wing and went back to the nurses station to write down the report she knew would be expected by the end of the day. However forty-five minutes later she was being summoned to Zayne's office. He had directly written an email and sent it to her. This had never happened before. Mia had attended dozens of surgeries with Zayne before, but never had an email come to her straight from him.

She was so elated that she didn't even notice the looks she was getting as she practically skipped to his office. Word of her misdeeds had traveled around the entire cardiac ward and then some, but Mia hadn't noticed. Too busy floating in the clouds to see the disapproving stares and mock sympathy she was getting.

She stopped only once at the last bathroom before turning to his office to check her hair and makeup. She quickly undid the ponytail her hair had been thrown in before and finger combed the strands before relying it neatly. Adjusting her bangs to fall just right across her forehead and removing all traces of smudged eyeliner. Perfect! She thought glancing once more before leaving.

Standing in front of his office door she cleared her throat and raised her hand to knock, but another hand beat her to it. She turned a withering look on her face but nearly recoiled in shock. Standing to her right was the president of the hospital along with his secretary and another Doctor she couldn't remember the name of.

"Come in". Zayne's deep voice sounded from the other side. The president quickly pushed the door open and strode inside. His secretary looked at her. A woman in her mid thirties with square framed glasses a high ponytail with side swept bangs and piercing golden eyes. She looked like an eagle that had just found her next pray. Mia suddenly felt small, all her early excitement and high dwindling rapidly to nothing.

She walked into the room like a timid mouse searching for the cat she just knew was watching her. "Y-you wanted to see me Dr. Zayne"? His green and gold eyes looked at her. Expression flat, devoid of all emotion and even life. Her body started to trembled as she played with the hem of her uniform shirt.

"Did I receive any calls earlier this morning"? He asked her out right not beating around the bush. "N-no sir, your phone did not ring". She was sweating nervously. Why was she being asked this in front of the president. She wanted the floor to swallow her.

"Is that so". He said and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees with that single sentance. He wordlessly turned his computer monitor around to show what he was looking at and Mia felt her stomach sink to the floor as she stared at a frozen image of herself holding Zayne's phone. It was clear as day.

"Are you unaware that in addition to their being an observation deck above my operating room there are also cameras all over the place? Are you sure this is the route you wish to take"? He asked as her pressed play on the video. You could clearly see her holding the phone and looking down at the screen when the device lit up. The name couldn't be read from the distance but the picture of you was unmistakable.

Mia lost all composure as she ditched her cover. "Why does she get to have your number and hang around you all the time like some cheap skank? It makes me sick the way she's always coming to the hospital like she owns the place. She doesn't even deserve to breathe the same air as you. She doesn't deserve to breathe at all"! Mia shouted chest heaving from her words and anger. "Who does she even think she is? She's isn't good enough for you"! She went on. There was no coming back from this, Mia had tossed all caution to the wind and she was going down with her sinking ship.

"Are you so self absorbed that you don't even know who my patients are"? Zayne asked, his voice was cold enough to give Mia frostbite as she practically froze. Horror dawning on her as realization started to sink in. "Not that it is any of your business in the first place. She has an extremely rare heart condition and requires weekly checkups to make sure no changes occur. She has my number because I gave it to her....".

Just then the door burst open and several people came in panicked. "Dr. Zayne you need to see this now"! The male shouted grabbing the remote and turning the TV on to the news in a flurry.

"..Minutes ago on the mountain there was an explosion believed to have been cause by metaflux, at the time the train bound for Snowcrest was at the heart of it. As of yet we are unable to get reports of the accident. As you can see drones are trying to get closer bit having no visual luck. The smoke has completely enveloped the accident. We are able to confirm that the train was blasted off the tracks as you can see here". The reported said as a still image filled the screen.

You could clearly see where the tracks ended brokenly and the huge gouge that had been taken as well as the black smoke. All eyes in the room turned to Zayne who had stood abruptly from his chair with such force that it had been knocked over. He scrambled for his phone furiously before tapping and immediately calling someone. The phone went straight to voicemail. Over and over again to no avail, finally he dropped the phone and hung his head brokenly.

He looked up sharply and sent her a withering glare, "The president will deal with you. I need to go". He said directing the last part to the president.

No one said a word as Dr. Zayne left the hospital and drove straight to the train station. He tried calling Dr. Noah, but to no avail. Emergency lines overruled all other communication.

Zayne felt like all his sanity was about to slip away, you were missing and you took his heart with you when you vanished.

*******************************************************

That had been eight days ago, every news outlet was following the story as the very world held its breath. Four rescue attempts had been made with no results. The explosion had stired up all the Wanderers and the area was thick with danger. Rescue workers couldn't fend off the Wanderers and there just weren't enough Deepspace Hunters that could destroy them, protect the rescuers, and look for survivors. All hope seemed to be lost.

As morning dawned on the ninth day something changed, the areas that had previously been inaccessible were suddenly clear. The Wanderer sightings in the first zones had dropped to zero. Even the metaflux readings were bottoming out. Like the forests surrounding the area was reclaiming itself.

Zayne finally ditched the watch the Association had put on him and headed into the wilderness. You the only thing on his mind. He was coming for you no matter what.

*******************************************************

Pain, that was the most prominent feeling you had first as you tried to open your eyes and move. They didn't want to cooperate. Something shuffled near you and then you realized something was holding your hand. At first you were afraid, unable to open your eyes and unable to move. Panic started to set in and with it dizziness. Even though you were already lying down the ground beneath you was spinning. Like a merry-go-round turned on to fast.

Then there was a quiet shushing. "It's alright, please calm down. Your injuries are serious and we have no way to treat them. We barely managed to stop the bleeding. Your eyes have been covered because there were deep cuts on your forehead. In addition your right leg and arm are badly broken. I don't know the extent of all your injuries so please don't move. If it hadn't been for your warning no one but you would have survived. My wife and daughter are alive thanks to you. Please let us help you". A male voice said softly near your ear. A hand brushed your hair back and then there was gentle pressure on your left hand.

A smaller hand had gripped it holding softly. "We managed to put up some shelter, it's been snowing non stop since the accident and the area is not safe. Your watch alerts us to dangers so we're staying hidden. You're a Hunter aren't you"? Those time a female voice was speaking softly. Memories slowly came back, you remembered the family you saw on the train and tears came to your eyes. That family had survived and not only that, protected you at your most vulnerable moments.

With all the strength you had left to muster you squeezed the small hand still holding yours before passing out again. Thankfully in unconsciousness there was no pain and there was also Zayne.

How you missed his cool demeanor and often icy personality. You missed staring into his deep hazel eyes and getting lost in them. You missed him holding you and waking up to him. In your dreams Zayne had already found you and was gently tending all your injuries while hiding how much it pained him to see you in this state.

The next time you woke up all was quiet around you. Carefully you pulled the layers of cloth off your eyes and peered into the dim light. It stung a bit after so much darkness. Huddled around you was a man, woman, and small child. They looked worse for the wear and tou noted cuts, burns, scrapes, and the like on them. Seems they had been extraordinarily lucky to escape with such minor injuries. You took note of the extent of your own injuries for the first time. Breathing hurt if you sucked in air too deeply, seems you can add ribs to the list of broken. Not to mention the burning paid in your side. That was heavily bound with cloth. That must be the bleeding that was hard to stop.

You tried to lift your head but that just sent oy straight back to the world of dreams. All your energy spent on just moving cloth from your eyes and feeling out wounds.

*******************************************************

Zayne was still unsure of the man walking beside him. He sort of knew about your upstairs neighbor and frequent Hunting partner but had never actually met Xavier before. He was quiet hardly speaking and seemed to be emotionless. Taking down every Wanderer that approached.

He hardly even needed Zayne's help, in fact he was pretty sure the man required zero help at all. It was quite a surprise when Xavier had agreed to Zayne's coming along in the first place. He knew there was more that Xavier knew than he would ever let slip. This guy held more secrets than a diary.

When Zayne had told him he was going to find you with ir without his help Xavier relented and off you were. Easily slipping past barriers and blockads headed for the accident zone.

Suddenly Xavier stopped his sled dogs and walked through the trees. In front the train tracks appeared and so did the spot where a huge hole was. Spanning at least thirty feet wide and probably ten feet deep at its center, it was no surprise the train had been blasted off the tracks. One of the cars lay on its top. Windows busted and scorch marks all over the metal. The fire on this one had burned a long time. The smell of burnt wooden, metal, and coal still lingered in the air. The bursting of snow looked odd on the scene. Any tracks that may have been on the snow were long since gone. Dusted over with more snow.

"Not here". Xavier said quietly leading away from the car and walking further away from the train into the woods. The air was dead silent, no animals had been seen in days. Having run away, or too terrified to come out of hiding.

Zayne felt his heart freezing over with the bitter cold. He would not admit the chances of your survival of the explosion until the evidence was thrust right before his eyes.

The hospital had forced him into a personal leave two days after the explosion. He was walking around in a daze, because quite literally his heart was missing. He got angry everytime he thought about what one of the nurses had done. Rejecting your calls like that several times. Her job was terminated that day. The president would not have such a malicious person on staff at Akso hospital. If word got out that patients were treated like that because a nurse thought she was entitled to whatever she wanted their stellar reputation would plummet.

A crunching noise started coming from a few feet in front of them. Xavier dashed forward towards thr sound.

In a makeshift clearing a man was walking their way. He looked beat up and tired as he froze at the sight of them before smiling in joy. It looked like he had been crying.

"Oh thank god"! He cried coming to them in relief. "We need help, the young woman that is with us is hurt real bad. I don't know if she's going to make it. I can't treat her injuries. Zayne felt his blood freeze as a sickening feeling came over him. "Show us". He said and the man immediately turned are hurried back the way he'd come. For the first time Zayne realized there was a tent strung from blankets and branches.

The man pushed the heavy blanket aside and went in. Zayne paused for a moment before he and Xavier followed. As soon as Zayne got a look at who was lying on the ground it felt like his soul left him.

There you were, his heart so battered and hurt he could barely breathe. For the first time Zayne wished he didn't have any medical training ir knowledge. He could easily see every injury and the signs of the ones the untrained eye could not.

A fever had set in and you were shivering despite the blankets on you and the two people huddled near you trying to keep you warm.

"Move aside", Zayne said with a calm he didn't feel. He took his backpack off and immediately searched for the pain medication and bandages. He gave you a shot to dull the pain your broken bones would definitely be giving you. He removed the cloth wrapped around your stomach and examined the injury. He could tell they had tried their best to care for you but lacking any supplies at all it had been a struggle. Signs of infection were already setting in. The jagged cut to your side was deep and would require antibiotics and stitching. Neither of which he had now. He just tried his best to clean the wounds with the basic supplies he had and moves on.

At some point during his treatment, you woke up. Eyes hazy and unfocused. "Zayne can't you find me already"? The fever had made you delirious. "Hurry and come find me Zayne. I can't hold out much longer". He stoked your head and mumbled. I'm looking for you, I'll find you soon. "M'kay". You say before slipping back into a feverish sleep. "We need to get her out of here now". Zayne says to Xavier carefully turning you onto your back and the carefully picking you up.

Your face scrunches in pain and whimpers escape your lips but you do not wake. The pain meds are doing their job, for the most part.

*******************************************************

After what seems like a year later you're waking up. You tense as you realize that you no longer have anyone around you. The little girl is gone and so are the mom and dad.

It takes you almost three minutes to notice that you are lying in a bed now and not on a covered ground with several blankets. Only when you realize that do you also hear the sounds of machines. You blearily open your eyes and see the white walls and the large curtained window on your left.

Zayne is also there, asleep in a chair that just screams uncomfortable. There is a chart in his lap and you realize it's yours. You are glad that you can't read what is written from your angle. You try to turn onto your side and one of the machines starts beeping angrily at you.

Zayne snaps awake instantly and reaches over to press a button. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. He must be exhausted. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a whisper. Your mouth is so dry.

Your voice is only a whisper. Instead you try to move your hand. This manages to catch his attention. He is immediately checking you over. Doctor mode has been activated.

"Are you in pain? How is your head"? He fires off questions rapidly. Unable to answer them you point to the water on the table. His gaze follows your finger and he grabs the glass holding the straw for you to sip. "Slowly, not too fast". He gently chides.

"Zayne, you found me". You say not answering any of the questions. "Of course I did". He says matter of factly sitting down and staring at you again. "I know you are too resilient to go down without a fight. You're tougher than that".

You smile softly gazing at him. "I need my heart". He gently takes your hand staring at the ring on your finger. He won't say it but you have certainly put his heart through a beating.

"When can I leave the hospital". You ask and he just sighs. "You're just going to have to stay put for awhile. You're in for a long recovery. The extent of your injuries were no small matter.

"Dr. Zayne I'd like you to return my finacee to me now". You say in a joking manner squeezing his hand.

A long sigh is drawn out from him before he says "just what am I going to do with you"? He leans over and kisses your forehead, both eyelids and then finally your lips.

"I hope you know a person can't live without their heart. Don't make mine disappear again. " You smile, feeling warm with his words.

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

By fire and heart

Pt. 6

Daemma Targaryen. Second daughter of King Viserys and queen Aemma, you're the living portrait of your mother with the character of a true dragon, as a second daughter you don't have right to the throne but certainly, you will protect your sister's succession by heart. (You are one year younger than Rhaenyra.)

Warning: Credits of this images goes to whoever they belong to, I think it's to CCARMYY TikTok user! Grammatical and spelling errors, I used an online valyrian translator so if there're some errors I apologize and if you know about a good one please let me know, maybe this won't be good enough but In my head the story was a good one.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Pt. 7 here

A funeral always brings bitter and uncomfortable moments and awake old memories, but is also a reunion where you can find friends, enemies, families and allies all mixed together, you can't expect everything to go well.

The uncomfortable moments start when Vaemond Velaryon gives a speech and sarcastically mentions our blood and how this one shouldn't be diluted, causing Daemon to laugh, everybody observed him but apparently not many could understand what Vaemond was trying to say, he was doing a reference about Rhaenyra's sons, or at least that's what you think he was talking about.

You warned your sister to be careful and keep her distance from your uncle, not because you want to keep them away from each other, it's because your enemies are observing all of you, expecting the next move.

You were walking around when you heard Aegon and Aemond's conversation.

- We don't have nothing in common.

- She's our sister.

- Then you marry her, Daemma is also our sister.

- I would do it if it was my duty. But it is you who will get married, not me.

- She's an idiot, Daemma was a better match for me.

- She is your future queen, forget about Daemma.

You casually passed in front of the young boys, Aegon couldn't ignore you, he walked right behind you, following you around.

- Ao sagon tolī hāeda naejot mōzugon bona olvie, lēkia. (You're too young to drink that much, brother.)

You say to Aegon while you observed happily to Rhaenyra's sons talking with Daemons daughters and with their grandparents, it's a good sign, even in dark moments you know you can count with all of them.

- I drink the exact amount, funerals are sad and a good wine is always good to help us to survive.

- I thought you were drinking with the excuse of your marriage. Congratulations by the way, I hope you and Helaena can be happy.

- Don't come up with those words, it feels like poison in my system.

- I'm not trying to make you feel in that way my boy, I'm merely accepting our destiny is not together my dear brother but you're still welcome to visit my chambers when you feel overwhelmed or alone. After all, we're friends, no?

He looks at you, you're smiling at him and the way you look at him just shows how much you adore him. You're such a liar. He doesn't say more but simply nods. You continued walking leaving him alone.

You can see your father finally talking to your uncle, you've been avoiding him since the incident with Rhaenyra. Considering the circumstances perhaps it is time to make peace with him but just when you're walking to them Daemon leaves your father's side and you catch your sister, she looks at your uncle in the same way she did a long time ago, now is not only a probable option, it's definitely, you have to make peace with him for the good of realm, for the good of your sister.

You saw Otto Hightower walking to your uncle, you walked fast to arrive before him.

- Uncle, I'm Sorry for your loss.

He observes you from head to toe and then looks at some other place.

- Daemma, Ziry emagon issare nykeā bōsa jēda (it has been a long time). Ao sagon nykeā ābra sir, ao jurnegon gevie (You're a woman now, you look beautiful).

- Perhaps I look like a woman but there's a lot of things I still have to learn about it. I owe you an apology.

- Don't. Ao istan nykeā riñnykeā, ao gōntan daor shifang. (You were a child, you didn't understand)

- Now I'm not a child and i think as an adult it is necessary to make peace with the past, after all, you were like a father to me and I've been missing you.

You looked at him with some tears in your eyes, you can't deny it, you missed him. While he gave you a little smile and nodded, accepting your apology.

-Moreover, issa mandia se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon... someone... kostōba rȳ īlva paktot. (my sister and I will need... someone... strong at our side).

In a flash of an eye, you were hugging him, you missed him, a lot, the man who raised you. He returned the hug quickly and whispered in your ear.

- Ao kostagon ūñagon va issa. (You can count on me)

Both agreed in silence and he walked away. You were observing him when your sister's voice made you gasp.

- Send the kids to bed, please Sister.

You jumped when you heard your siste, she walked on the way to the beach where you saw your Uncle going too, you got angry for a moment, why does she never listen? You're sure someone already saw where she was going you already can hear the whispers full of rumors, you did as she asked you to do.

You were looking for Rhaenyra but instead of her, you found Aegon, he was sitting at the stairs, clearly drunk.

- Aegon, stand up.

- I saw you, why do you look for him...

He murmured. You sighed, you had a lot for one day to now handle a drunk teenager, luckily, Otto Hightower appeared at your back, you heard his steps and simply observed him, he neglected with his head, he's as pissed as you.

You were leaving when you felt Aegon pulling up the skirt of your dress murmuring to not leave him, you decide to continue walking, leaving him with his grandfather. Suddenly Aemond's face appears in front of you, he's looking for Aegon.

- Brother.

He says while he looks at the two men behind you.

- Let's go Aemond, Aegon does not feel well.

You walked with him while the sad roaring of Vhagar echoes around the land, the big shape hidden in the clouds makes the day look even more dark and Aemond leaves your side to observe the dragon's shadow. You heard Otto yelling at Aegon.

- Get up and go to sleep!.

Moments later Laenor appears also a little drunk and sobbing, it's understandable from him but still it is not the proper thing to do.

For you that was enough, you needed to rest, you decided to go to your chambers and sleep. You were writing some letters to send to the north when you saw a giant dragon passing by, flying in front of your window, the wind made your candles turn off.

«I need lights please, Guida!» you asked one of your maidens, you weren't thinking about why or who could be flying on a dragon at these hours, you weren't prepared for another issue to end the day.

A quick knock on your door and your guard appearing without waiting for your response.

- My princess, something happened between your nephews and one of the queen's sons. Your presence is requested since we can't find your sister.

You didn't waste time and leave your bedroom. When you arrived the king and his wife were there, the children and some guards, everyone except for your sister, her husband and your uncle.

You quickly approached to Aemond but Alicent stopped you, silently pushing you away. So you went to your nephews and your uncle's daughters, checking if they were as hurt as Aemond while the King was demanding for answers.

- The prince was attacked by his own cousins.

- You swore to protect me and my family!

- I'm sorry, your grace but we never defeated a prince from another.

The news of Aemond's lost eye was echoing in the room when Alicent smacked Aegon's face. He quickly observes around looking for you, you've seen that face before, those sad eyes that beg for some help.

Corlys and Rhaenys arrived and Rhaenys went directly to the girls, right behind them was your sister who ran to the boys.

The scandal starts when all the children want to say their own version about what happened.

You only could hear Jace saying «He called us bastards».

The king demanded Aemond to say the truth while Alicent accused Lucerys of trying to kill her son, you started to feel fire going up to your head while Rhaenyra confessed the boys were called bastards and they were merely defending themselves.

Alicent's attitude makes your blood boil more every time she intervenes, you don't know how long you will control yourself. Your father simply wants the boys to apologize between them, but Alicent is not pleased.

- That is not enough, aemond has lost an eye (...)

- I can't return his eye (...) what do you want me to do?

- There's a debt that must be paid. I want an eye from her son.

You quickly placed yourself in front of Lucerys while Rhaenyra hugged him an Jacaerys.

Everybody exchanged concerned looks while the King was trying to calm his wife.

- If the king doesn't want to make Justice, the queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.

Ser Criston doubts for a second but you know the man would do it happily, you already have your own dagger in your belt. You will not let that man get close to the boy.

- Don't you dare Sir. Criston, or you will not live to see another day.

You simply say and the man looks again at the queen and king.

- I'll let him choose which one, a privilege my son didn't have.

Lucerys was afraid and Rhaenyra was telling him no one would do such a thing when you talked again.

- I'll give the eye the queen demands, I'll sacrifice myself, but she will have to come and take it by herself.

You look at Alicent, defiant, you show and offer her your dagger she observes you confused and angry, you know she will lose her patience soon and that appearance she shows to everyone about being devoted to her duty and always doing the right thing will fall at any second it is just necessary to push her a little bit more.

- Enough!

Your father demands and you stop, stepping back.

There are some exchanging words, between Alicent, Ser Criston and your father. Your father was declaring and warning no one was allowed to talk or doubt about the legitimacy of Rhaenyra's children, when Alicent took your father's dagger and ran to Rhaenyra who was already walking to leave the room.

You heard your father calling her and quickly put the boys behind you while Rhaenyra walked to Alicent. Her rage makes her hard to handle but your sister tries her best, Lucerys yells terrified and you hug him.

You saw Criston walking to the two women and before he could, your uncle appeared just in time to stop him.

Suddenly, your sister falls against Corlys, your father's dagger is on the floor while Alicent looks in horror at your sister's forearm.

Silence, just some baby steps can be heard in the room, Aemond walks in front of both women, looking at his mother.

- Don't feel sorry for me, it's a fair exchange, I've lost an eye but I've won a dragon.

Those words, mature enough for a child were the end of that bitter night, the claim of Vhagar was the drop that spilled the glass, that was the moment when silently everyone confirmed who they would support, Green or black.

For the greens it was a victory, Aemond brought the biggest dragon to their side, but the blacks haven't moved their piece yet.

The night vanished, and the sunlight was filling every room, you were at your sister's chamber helping her with the boys while her forearm wound was being cleaned. Laenor appeared, he clearly didn't have a clue about the night y'all had. Your sister asks all of you to leave the room and everyone disappears as fast as possible.

During the afternoon, your sister asked you to go with her and Daemon, she was going to propose something important.

«I can't confront the greens by myself» (...) «We're fire»

The next thing you knew, it was your uncle and your sister would get married, Laenor would fake his own death, a quick one with a few people, all that to escape and live the life he really wanted. Of course the entire kingdom would murmur and blame Rhaenyra for Laenor's death, but only some of you will know the truth, not the enemy, they will believe whatever they want and at the end they will just fear.

A not so secret wedding was celebrated, and the news of the warrior princess flying to the north gave something to talk about, something to worry about.

[rocksibblingsau]

Love love love ur ideas!!!!

Do you have any more headcanons for Mount Rageon Branch or Adopted by Bergens Branch?

In Mount Rageon Branch, Velvet and Veneer are still a lil self absorbed and looking for the easy way out of things. They don't wanna do any hard work, meanwhile Branch is all about hard work and doing things for yourself.

Branch sees them fighting over wanting fame and it reminds him of his brothers, so he makes it his goal to help them realize their dreams AND remain close. Since they'd be training from childhood, they'd have a better shot at learning how to sing thanks to Branch.

I can't decide if they actually do end up good singers but if they do, Branch is their manager and there would be a moment where post BroZone reunion they see Branch managing and have JD flashbacks. Branch doesn't get bad like John did about controlling their image, but the sight of Branch taking charge and giving orders for show prep really reminds them of a less than happy time of their lives.

Branch: Alright guys, we're gonna open with 'Fame' and close with 'Watch Me Work'. No, wait. Open with 'Sweet Dreams' and close with 'Fame'. Now go out there and make Mount Rageous history! Bruce: Clay I hope you're also an EMT because I think I'm having a heart attack. Clay: I'm with you bro, this is disturbing to watch.

If they don't go the singing route, Branch helps them discover SOME sort of skill they can make it big with.

They don't call him 'Branch'. Velvet decided his name had to match theirs so they call him 'Vine'. They think it's a funny name since he's always on them 'like a vine'. Branch doesn't really care what they call him as long as they stop rubbing his hair trying to suck out his "singing magic".

When Velvet and Veneer found out about Bergens, her solution was "Just stay with us at all times. I'll hold onto you like the last designer handbag at a flash sale."

If they did encounter a Bergen, Velvet would hit them in the head with her purse that weighs 10 tons.

In Bergen Branch AU, Gristle is ironically the excitable kid while Branch can barely muster any enthusiasm for anything. Some people joke that it's like Gristle's a troll at heart and Branch a Bergen. Gristle doesn't go as apathetic and listless as he does in canon since I believe the catalyst was Gristle Sr telling him nothing would ever make him happy. Since in this AU he was given Branch, he was told that Branch would make him happy, so he still has hope.

When they're older, Branch is a sort of sarcastic adviser to Gristle. Everyone's kind of figured out that even if you can get one over on Gristle, the troll on his shoulder won't be fooled and he does NOT show mercy. Gristle also takes his opinion in pretty high regard about pretty much anything.

Branch also gets pretty comfortable with his concept of mortality and he makes jokes about being eaten by Bergens constantly.

Gristle: I got another letter asking if they can buy and eat you. Branch: At this rate I'd be tempted to tell you accept all of them and watch their faces fall when they realize fifty other Bergens also get a piece. Gristle: Branch. Branch: A peanut sized serving of grey troll. Gristle: Branch. Branch: That'd probably be the one thing that could make a Bergen more miserable than you already are, if that's possible. Gristle: Branch. I'm not selling you to get eaten by fifty different Bergens. Branch: You'd be doing me a mercy and ending my suffering.

Gristle: Branch I need you to help me with the audit. Branch: *lays on his palm* Eat me. Gristle: Later. For now you have to help me. Branch: F***. Branch: Is this how you derive joy? Making trolls do your paperwork? You're the only Bergen in the world who would make me do taxes instead of eating me. Gristle: You complain too much and it ruins my appetite. Branch: Has any troll ever not complained? Do you think on Trollstice we were all jumping for joy? 'Yippie! Death!' Gristle: I dunno, try it next time and we'll see if it works.

This trait scares and unnerves other trolls. Poppy asks him to stop once they befriend Bergens because she's worried they'll take offense and "They're our friends now, not troll-eating monsters. That's in the past."

"I'd like it to be in the present so I don't have to listen to another musical number."

[baronessblixen]

Fictober Day 4: Reasonable Requests

Prompt: "No, we're not doing that"

Post-ep for "Rain King": After Holman and Sheila finally get together, Mulder and Scully have their own romantic moment. Unfortunately, Scully also has doubts. Rating T, wc: 1,418.

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober24

The rain has stopped and the clouds have made way for a clear, starry night. Mulder gazes at the stars, smiling and humming “Somewhere Over The Rainbow”.

They’d see a rainbow now too if it weren’t nighttime, he’s sure of it. He catches a shooting star and mentally high-fives Holman, unable to suppress a grin. But he’s not concerned with Holman, or Sheila right now; instead, he glances at Scully. He almost asked her to dance with him back inside, but didn’t dare. Here he is, offering Holman advice about not bottling up his feelings while doing the exact same thing.

“Are you ready to drive back to the motel?” Scully asks him, her arms slung around her body.

“Are you cold?” He’s by her side in an instant, taking off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. She frowns, shooting him a sharp look.

“It is still you, right?”

“Is it- yes, Scully, it’s still me. Do you want me to prove it to you?” She remains quiet. But her eyes seem to challenge him. “Fine.” He’s trying to come up with something easy and fun. There are so many things they’ve gone through together, many if not most of them tragic. He doesn’t want that for tonight. Right now, when Shelia and Holman are learning they’re in love with each other, when couples old and new are dancing together to some old romantic song, he doesn’t want to break the spell.

“You got me a ‘Fun Facts About Cryptids’ book for Christmas and I read some to you until you fell asleep. I woke you when your mother called, asking where you are. She wanted me to join you for Christmas, but I politely declined.” They stare at each other and when Mulder sees the soft flush on her cheeks, he can’t help but wonder what she’s remembering about that night. Maybe the way he touched her cheek to wake her and the way she tilted her head, seeking out his touch until she realized where she was, and what she was doing. A moment he cherishes.

“Believe me now?” Mulder whispers close to her ear, a grin on his face.

“I believe you.” She lets his jacket swallow her whole and it’s on the tip of his tongue to call her cute. But that would just lead to more questions cause she’d think he was an impostor after all.

“So Scully,” he says, opening the car door for her which earns him another eyebrow. “When’s your high school reunion?”

“Not anytime soon. When’s yours?”

“I think I already missed it,” Mulder says, starting the car. “Not interested in going. Would you go to yours?”

“Probably,” Scully replies with a sigh.

“If you need a date,” he trails off, winking at her before he starts the car.

“What’s with you tonight, Mulder?” Her eyes remain on him, but he’s focusing on the road. It seems as if everyone is at the reunion because the roads are empty and it takes them less than five minutes to get back to their motel. Five minutes in which Mulder doesn’t answer her.

“I’m just happy,” he replies finally, admitting it to her and himself.

“Because of Holman and Sheila.” It’s not a question.

“Just- no one died, Scully. It’s the opposite. Love won.”

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” she says softly, unbuckling her seat belt and getting out of the car. Mulder does the same; he wanted to open the car door for her again but realizes that maybe it would have been too much anyway. He locks the car and jogs over, falling into step with her.

“Hm, maybe I’m not the only romantic here. What did you tell Sheila?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Scully isn’t looking at him, but she’s smiling. She’s rummaging around in her pocket to find the key. Their key. “Mulder, do you have the key?” He might have the key, he realizes. It could be in his pocket, but right now, he doesn’t care. Standing here in front of this hotel room – their one, shared room – with Scully wearing his jacket, her hair falling into her face and her trying to blow it away, he has an epiphany. Everything else falls by the wayside. There’s only one thing that matters to him at this moment and it’s Scully. It’s about righting a wrong. It’s about taking a chance. Leaping before he can think better of it.

“Scully?”

“Yes?” She lifts her head and her blue eyes are big and wet and questioning. She thinks this is about the key to their motel room. To Mulder, it’s about unlocking new mysteries of the heart. He gently cups her chin and she gasps. A second passes and another. She doesn’t move away and just stares up at him, her lips parting slightly. When her tongue comes out to wet them, it’s his cue. He leans down slowly, giving her all the time in the world to change her mind or move away. She does neither. Instead, she meets him halfway.

He’s kissed her in his dreams once; a hallucination, as Scully called it. Supposedly he was drowning and later on, high as a kite. Kissing her now, though, he is surprised at how oddly familiar it feels. Her lips soft and plush, following his every movement, anticipating him. Their tongues tease and tangle, getting to know each other better and better. He never wants this kiss to end. He tugs her closer to him and she comes willingly. It’s only when his hand sneaks under her jacket – his, really – that she moves away, ending the kiss.

Mulder is still holding her and she’s staring at his eyes, then his lips. Just as he’s about to lean in again, she moves away from him, sneaks under his arm, and stands next to the door.

“Where is that damn key?” she mumbles, searching every available pocket.

“Here,” he says, handing it to her. It had been in his own pocket after all. She grabs it from him and startles when their fingers touch. She unlocks the door with shaky movements and disappears inside.

“I’m just gonna-,” she starts as soon as Mulder has closed the door behind him. “The bathroom. I’m going to get ready for, um, bed. We can just… I mean nothing happened. We can just pretend that we didn’t- it was an emotional night.” It takes Mulder a moment to understand what she’s saying. Her eyes are wild and she still has the key in her hand, playing with it. She looks ready to run out of the room and not come back all night.

Scully, I-” But what is he supposed to say? He licks his lips and tastes her. He can’t forget this happened, because he doesn’t want to forget it.

“So we’re clear on that,” she says matter-of-factly. “Nothing happened. It wasn’t- we’re going to forget this happened.”

“No, we’re not doing that,” he says softly. “I’m not going to forget this happened. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for ages, Scully. You were there in my hallway.” She looks at the floor, but he sees her nod. He takes his second big chance tonight and walks closer.

“We can leave it at that one kiss,” he says, touching her cheek. Her lips still look thoroughly kissed and he has to focus to not lose himself there again. “One spectacular kiss, I must say. But we can decide to leave it at that. If that’s what you want. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen, Scully. I can’t.”

“I don’t want to pretend either,” she says. “I’m just not sure we should-” she looks at him and then over at the bed. Oh. Oh, she’s thinking ahead of him. This time he blushes.

“Scully, we waited all this time to kiss. We don’t- this doesn’t have to be anything but- fuck, let’s call it a goodnight kiss, all right? How about we start with that? Kissing good night?”

“A romantic and a gentleman?” There’s his Scully again, gently teasing him.

“I can be,” he says earnestly.

“Thank you,” she says. “We’re still technically on a case and- I don’t trust this bed, or the weather around here.”

“Can I give you another kiss goodnight, though, before I lay down on that not-very comfortable cot? Just in case another cow tries to kill me tonight.”

“A kiss goodnight sounds reasonable.”

And they’re reasonable people after all.

[thenightfolknetwork]

There's a bit of a taboo amongst my genus. I mean, I can't know for sure about the whole population, but certainly in my family there are rules about what is and isn't appropriate to do when we exercise temporal fluidity. And that's for good reason--I get that. You can't just go about changing the tides of war because you feel like showing off your historical foreknowledge. Fine.

Recently, though, I've been spending a lot of my time in one particular period--just about a half-decade on the other side of 0 AD. It's been great! I'm a bit of a Classicist, and a Latinist at that, so obviously there's plenty for me to do in Rome. The food is good, the literature is fascinating, and the people--well, I've certainly met some people. Specifically, there's this one guy. He's older, for sure, but we're both adults and happy with what we have. It's hardly an exclusive relationship, so we don't get bored with stagnation, and not to brag, but his achievements are nothing to scoff at. In fact, not too long ago he put down the remnants of a veritable civil war over in Hispania. My interest in this period has been primarily academic in the past, but I feel like he and I really get each other. I know how he takes his wine and his sense of humor and how he feels about his family. I care about him.

But here's the thing: I know he dies. Soon. And quite violently. I've just gotten back to the twenty-first century recently for a family reunion, so of course "soon" is relative, but back in Rome there isn't much time left. I haven't spoken about this to my family. I know what they'd say. I should just let it happen.

Although, I mean, should I really? Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but I know for a fact Great-Grandma Margaret wasn't as rule-abiding as my mother likes to think--it's hardly a secret where (more accurately, when) she met Great-Nana Bonny. And, plus, lots of historical scholarship on the subject says, if my Roman friend hadn't died when he had, it probably would've happened sooner or later in a similar manner anyway (his approval ratings are not so high as of late). So is it really an interference if I warn him just this once? I mean, if he dies in another incident somewhere down the line--one of which I have no previous knowledge--then, fine, he dies. This isn't about preventing his death entirely. I understand that, in many ways, he is already dead. But I feel I would be a horrible companion if I didn't at least give him a heads-up. Just a nudge, you know? It's a politically unstable time back in the BC's. The line between this temporal reality and the other is so thin, and the difference is so small. Would my "interference" be so bad?

[Note: The sender later clarified that their letter ought to read "half century on the other side of 0 AD" where it here reads "half decade".]

I'm afraid I can't give you the kind of answer you seem to be seeking here, reader. While I am perfectly happy to help you talk through you moral quandaries, I must draw the line at making your decisions for you. You, and you alone, must discern for yourself whether or not such an act aligns with your own personal, moral code.

If an outside perspective will help, I will say that I'm not sure I entirely agree with your assessment of the circumstances here. I believe I have enough historical knowledge to infer which figure in history you're speaking about, which is, in itself, a concern.

It is a fact of existence that we shape the world around us. Even the quietest, most innocuous life casts its shadow. It is a fact to be embraced and celebrated – there is simply no such thing as an insignificant life. But neither is anything served by pretending that certain figures do not cast rather longer shadows than others.

It is one thing to consider fudging a timeline or two for the sake of someone whose impact reaches no further than their own village, or even their own country. It is quite another to speak of altering the timeline of a person whose existence left ripples across the surface of a significant portion of the globe!

I also don't necessarily agree with your assessment that your interference would not change anything very dramatically. Your friend's “approval rating” may not be great, but I am not at all sure it is universally accepted among historians that either his demise nor the manner in which he met his fate were inevitable.

Finally, you must consider the old paradox faced by every time traveller at some stage or another. You are an actor in this historical period, casting a shadow of your own, and you have no more idea than anyone else how that shadow may fall.

How do you know your warning might not precipitate the event itself? Alternatively, how can you be sure your warning is not already part and parcel of our historical reality? There is just such a warning made in most of the accounts I know, after all – if I am thinking of the right person, of course.

I cannot make this decision for you, reader. I cannot tell you what the right answer is, or even reassure you that there is a right answer. All I can do is to encourage you to think carefully about the risks involved, weigh them against your own moral judgement, and make sure that, whatever your choice, it's one you can live with. At the end of the day, that's all any of us can do.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[carrinth]

I sometimes have Foxiyo ideas I haven't had time to get around to writing/drawing. Here is one:

In some AU where Palps bites the dust early, Fox becomes one of the most well-adjusted of all the commanders. He also starts dating.

Except, no one believes him.

Cody and gang arrive on Coruscant for shore leave after weeks of fighting and Fox is happy to show them around. But he can't tomorrow night because he's got a hot date with a senate coworker.

Yeah right Fox.

Whatever you say.

Months go by, the war drags on. Fox's command batch arrives again and they go for drinks but Fox has to split early because he promised his girlfriend he'd sleep more regular hours.

'Girlfriend'? Pfft. Someone is having delusion of grandeur.

Leave him alone guys, he's probably so bored being stuck out here he's having hallucinations.

Fox now officially hates his brothers. They are totally paying for their own drinks.

The war has ended! Clones are granted citizenship. Everyone gathers again for drinks and to discuss their future. Fox (hesitantly) declares he's going to ask his girlfriend to marry him.

Are you still on about that Fox?

He's really committed to this bit.

That's it. None of you bottleheads are invited to the wedding. >:(

A year goes by. During the anniversary reunion dinner, Fox is spotted carrying a smol blue baby.

Whose kid is that Fox?

Mine.

Seriously vod, you can't just go around kidnapping people's children.

It's MINE.

I think that's Senator Chuchi's kid.

Aww, you sweet on a senator, Fox?

Bite me and die, Bly.

Do you want us to ask if she's single?

NO.

Some time later, Fox is doing dishes with Riyo who glances at him with a sly look. Fox is SUSPICIOUS.

Your brother Bly just asked me if I was single. He said he was asking for a friend.

I do not see.

I told him no. He seemed quite devastated. 😏

Riyo...

Cody also told me that a certain former Commander of the Corrie Guard had an... admiration for me.

...

You have an 'admiration' for me, Fox? 😘

... Riyo we're married.

Still! ❤

Eventually, Fox encounters his brothers while he's out with Riyo. They are aghast.

You know she's a married woman right, Fox?

Fox... don't do this to yourself...

Fox ignores them. They grow more desperate. Riyo resolves everything by telling everyone they are married. People are mollified. But later...

Did you hear that Fox got involved with a married woman?

Yeah! And but then she dumped her husband to marry Fox!

No one understands why Thorn, upon hearing all this, bursts out laughing so hard he almost chokes himself. The former Corrie Guards all swear by this story and tell everyone that they are very happy Senator Chuchi made a honest man out of Fox and he'll be a good dad to her children.

What's this rubbish about stepfather? I'm their actual father!

Yeah! That's the spirit! You're their father, Fox!

Fox screams.

[thecheshireninja]

yours, mine, & natlan's: a terrible au

or, Capitano marries Mavuika and their respective children revolt. Ft:

Il Capitano, the First Fatui Harbinger, as the strict, disciplined single father with a very respectable but not emotionally vibrant family.

Mavuika, the Pyro Archon, as the warm-hearted mother of Natlan's six most headstrong up-and-comers.

when the two decide to join themselves and their families in union, their children are absolutely horrified. Add to that the fact that both parents have quite the opposed extended families, and you have yourself a wedding that even Chief Justice Neuvillette isn't gonna want to miss out on.

picturing a modernized setting for this. the oldest kids can probably be in uni.

it's not that they don't want their parents to be happy. it's just that... does it have to be that family??

Mavuika's kids are ofc the six heroes of Natlan. I imagine Iansan to be working while the next 3 are in uni, with Kinich & Mualani being in the last two years of high school respectively. remember, they gotta be immature for this to work

not sure about Capitano, maybe he picked up Childe off the street and now there's Tonia and Teucer too. but for the sake of keeping everything fun and lively, Aunt Arle has sent her kids to live with them for a while so they can be in on the drama

yes the harbingers and the archons are their own extended families

weirdo Cousin Wanderer comes over every weekend; he's technically adopted by Auntie Nahida but for some reason the harbingers know him very well too

Chasca keeps her anger issues but they're related to her dead father now. how dare Capitano try to replace him when she's barely recovered from his loss.

Mualani, who's into throwing parties, finds herself at odds with the orderly Capitano

Ororon, to Granny Citlali's great dismay, probably set Mavuika up with Capitano in the first place... which is gonna go over well

Childe is always picking fights with Ajaw and it drives everyone up the wall (literally, in Xilonen's case)

extended family reunions with archons + harbingers? mannnn

Anyway, there's so much potential for wholesome (emphasis on wholesome) family comedy chaos here and we're only getting started. If I'm lucky someone here will actually want to write it... tumblr help??

[cadaveerie]

the things i'm the most and least excited about for Dragon Age: The Veilguard!

includes DATV spoilers from the trailers and articles

i might continuously edit this post until the game actually launches as we receive new info!

all of these have been confirmed by the devs, except for those in which i clarify the opposite (ie: those that i write with a "possibly", which have probably been only suggested). if you want the source for any of these specifically let me know!

and a big shoutout to felassan for answering my question, because i started wondering if i just made up the 'pause during cutscene' thing, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where I'd heard that lol

anyway, here it is!

GENERAL

no EA app or online mode/internet to play the game

pause during cutscenes

interruptible and resumable banter

no micro-transactions

CC

the character creator!!! - more diverse bodies, better (and darker. and better dark) skin tones and afro-textured hair!

change of voice pitch for Rook!

trans Rook! they/them Rook! and the ability to express that in-game!

b-bulge slider.......? t-tittie slider?????

different lighting options in character creator :]

in-game name suggestions for rook :]

nudity :D:D:D SEXOOO

PURPLE ROOK!!!!! (sarcastic/charming, like hawke. im gonna be insufferable to solas specifically)

CHARACTERS

"not that skeleton, but we're not saying no skeletons" as an answer to whether we can romance manfred (..... the fuck. idk what that means but... im game)

bi/pan romanceable companions! - it makes me happy, especially as someone non-binary and genderfluid. i'll die on this hill

paraphrasing: “the most romantic game yet”..... mmmm… yes….

the companions overall... i rly like both the designs and what we know of them

"are there companions gifts again" John: "(...) you very well might find things in the world that certain companions would appreciate!"

John: "Not going to get into specifics on interactables, but there is more to do in the Lighthouse than conversations with companions. The Lighthouse does have a kitchen, and your companions acknowledge it/use it both narratively and ambiently. Some maybe better than others."

more focus and intentionality on the companions' stories and relationships! yay!

inquisitor presence :D

maybe solas and inky? - not confirmed that they'll interact, but pleaaaase let them. no matter if it's a romance, friendship or hateful relationship, i need to see a reunion

the relationship between solas and rook! - from what they'd said it looks like they're gonna have a fun dynamic!!! i hope that it's kind of a bad relationship but that at some points there can be some appreciation, or respect. i think they said that it could be change, depending on you

cameos!!! - we know there will be some. confirmed morrigan cameo! my bets for others are on dorian (and mae), fenris (copium), zevran (copiumx2). and maybe these are reaches but... perhaps cassandra? leliana? illario? alistair? sten? either way im looking forward to it!

700 characters (wtf)

140,000 lines of dialogue (wtf x2. almost double of Inquisition's (80,000))

DREADWOLF WOLF FORM! DREADWOLF WOLF FORM!!! *scratches his belly*

LORE

visiting places we have never seen before like Tevinter, Antiva, Anderfels, Nevarra, Rivain, etc

more thedas deep lore!!! - elven gods! and this hasn't been confirmed, but since we'll go there... will there be tevinter lore? anderfels lore? rivain lore? antivan lore? titans lore (my theory is because of Harding)!?

GRAPHICS and CUSTOMIZATION

possibly a camera mode

beautiful textures!

beautiful landscape!

very nice hair physics! (big improvement)

gear customization + transmog

enable/disable helmets for cutscenes

COMBAT

I rly like the subclasses… they feel so…. gothic

combat looks more dynamic overall!

combos with the companions!

finisher animations!

mages can move while attacking apparently?

and they^ can use staffs, daggers and orbs :0

parry + shield toss :0

and i'm just excited to see how it actually feels while playing and how everything progresses!

things I'm kinda sad/disappointed about. just a little

only can bring two companions along (probably a 3 party total?)

probably no trans, they/them or they/x companions? :( (im assuming there will be characters that are trans (mae) and go by them/them or multiple pronouns, but i mean companions specifically)

only 7 companions. i was a little disappointed at first but tbh im fine w it now haha

they haven't talked about rook as a character much so im a little worried about that, their personal journey, their dialogue etc :')

that rook doesn't seem to have different beginnings depending on his origin :( not a huge deal but tbh i loved that about origins

can't choose multiple pronouns :( perhaps it's possible? they've explicitly said that you can go by he, she or they, but i don't think that implies multiple at the same time. it can't be that hard to program it so that it randomly changes between two or more pronouns, right? idk about game development so i dont actually know, sorry if i'm ignorant

this is suuuper nitpicky but in relation to the graphics.. i kinda wish the skins looked slightly.. different? idk how to put it, but they look kind of smooth? maybe too much? i just wish they had a little bit more texture, it kinda looks like they have a beauty filter, imo, and i think it would look better if they look slightly differently

and i have mixed feelings about how the characters are stylized overall. like... y'know, the whole "cartoony" discourse. at first i didnt like it at all, but since we've seen more im way more on board. still... i kinda feel like some things could look a bit nicer

idk how i feel about how the darkspawn look. like it's not a huge deal to me either, but... i just wish they looked different. lol. they do look a little bit goofy

and idk if i like the... veiny/nervous system looking-thing in demons either? like, i like it in theory but tbh in practice im not too sure

the remake of the warden's logo :((

that's it!

tbh im just happy about most things they've said and shown so far. i think a lot of these things are a good sign. also, things like the "not ea app necessary" make me inclined to believe that this is something they've had to fight for (cause you know, if ea could choose they'd do things their way) and that's something i appreciate a lot. that's why i think this and a lot of other choices and changes they've made in relation to the last game, are good signs that they've listened to our feedback in a lot of things! and i hope this reflects in the entirety of the game. i hope it's the case. idk i'm positive about this game! a little scared ofc, because i care and i want it to be as good as possible, but excited nonetheless!

are there things i didn't include but that you are excited about? what are you looking the most forward to, overall? i'd appreciate to see your excitement and know what you like the most!

[rey-jake-therapist]

So far ever since S2 ended, I been watching ao3 and the haladriel fanfics have been growing. It's amazing. We're getting so fed. Meanwhile on X Antis are coping hard about Cele/born and his return, which is whatever, it will happen anyways, but now it's like they're demanding they want the S3 arc to revolve around him and Galadriel like Sauron is some side character (lol). It sounds like they want what haladriel had in S1, which was purposely directed in a way to make the viewer ship the two characters because lore-wise, most people wouldn't automatically think of them in a relationship. But whatever headcanons they come up with their reunion, it's their business. The weird part is tho, they always like to latch onto this idea that Gal was this poor, innocent elf who never wanted any part or involvement with Halbrand, and they're just now emphasizing the part where he lost control and tried to kill her (while again, cognitive dissonance blinds them to the part where she was trying to kill him first) It's always pretty funny watching antis and their double standards with violence and killing between men and women.

It's amazing that the ship gets bigger ! It seems that the Haladriel finals made a significant impression on many social media users who didn't watch the show before.... It's good, very news !

Lol, It's actually hilarious to see this character suddenly become so popular, while Tolkien himself didn't care that much about the guy, and certainly didn't write Galadriel and Celeborn's marriage as this "epic love story" that these people imagine.

Whatever floats their boat, but if they seriously think that their reunion will get as much screen time as Haladriel season 1 did, they're going to be disappointed. Galadriel and Halbrand's story took much screentime because it was a part of a bigger story : how did Sauron deceive everyone, including Galadriel, and got to Eregion where he could forge his rings. The romantic bits was just a nice bonus !

(Almost) nobody wants a Galadriel/Celeborn rom-com in season 3, (almost) nobody cares, because it will have zero impact on the overall story. Halbrand and Galadriel's story had to be told to understand what would happen next. If not for Arwen, Galadriel could be remain single that it wouldn't change anything to the overall plot : she needs Celeborn only because she must have Celebrian, so Elrond can marry her and have Arwen. Sorry guys but he's just not important, except for Galadriel's personal happiness. I'm not saying their love story doesn't matter at all, but it's not enough important to hijack the overall plot of TROP !

And I say that as someone who wants Celeborn in the show, because I love Galadriel and I think she deserves some peace of mind, healthy love and stability, all things that Celeborn can give her. Do I think it deserves several hours of screentime? Sorry, but no. I'm more interested in seeing Sauron corrupt men with the Nine rings, for example.

And for the love of Eru, Sauron didn't try to kill Galadriel in season 1, he also didn't try to kill her in season 2. He just never did. Galadriel was drowning in an illusion. Sauron wanted to punish her for rejecting him, so he maintained the illusion to make her believe she was drowning and that this time, he was not going to save her. He wanted her to despair, which she did. This scene's actually hearbreaking, because we can see that for a moments she's still hoping that he will come for her.

It was cruel, but it was definitely not a murder attempt. Her drowning was an allegory of the despair she felt over Sauron's deception, but physically she was always safe. He literally had a dagger he could have used to kill her ! And he's Sauron ! He can kill anyone. Can we be serious a minute ? please ?

In the real world, she attacked him with the dagger like she did in the illusion, he pushed her in the river, where she had no risk of drowning for real, and he left when he heard Elrond come, probably. He didn't even have to maintain her face in the water, like I've seen suggested once. Her face was NOT under water, she was clearly not drowning for real and as soon as Elrond broke the illusion, she was well awake and ready to cut his throat !

Does she look half dead to you?

Besides, she never told anyone that he tried to kill her? Why ? Because she knows he didn't.

And in season 2, he didn't want to kill her with Morgoth's crown : again, he wanted to punish her for rejecting him, and also bind her to him. He knows where the heart is... If the point was to kill her he would have aimed right.

So actually, only Galadriel tried to kill Sauron, repeatedly, and I suspect that this situation will never change.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Yes I’m born ready for THAT convo about the real MVP of moms 💪💪💪 Anything for MBFW 🫠

Babe she is the fuckin shit as a mom. Okay? Cuz for for the majority of her teen years she never really thought she'd want to ever have kids considering how she grew up, but then she met Clarke and the entire Griffin broad basically adopted her and it was like "👀 wait a min... this family thing's kinda the tits..." But even after that, she really had no intention of actually giving birth. It wasn't that she was against it per se, it was just... when they'd abstractly talked about having kids sometime in the distant future, it was always with the unspoken understanding that Clarke would carry them. It was just such a given that neither even really discussed it, even after they got married and settled in and decided to actually start trying.

And then Clarke had two miscarriages.

And was told it probably just wasn't going to be a reality for them.

And as soon as that was made clear by the doctor, Lexa held up her hand and was like "haha no, we're having these kids 🙋‍♀️Griffin baby uterus right here ready to go, hi 🙋‍♀️"

Cuz honestly, what could be better? She not only gets to be a part of this familiy that took her in and cared for her even when sometimes she maybe didn't always deserve it, but she also gets to bring another little one into the world?! She gets to have her own little Griffins??? Every family reunion and holiday gathering she gets to have her own little pack of the chaotic broad running around? Hearing the, uh, more senile members grumbling "which ones are those again?" and somebody saying, "That's your great grand-niece, Marvin. You remember. Clarke and Lexa's kids."

Insanity.

Amazing.

10/10 experience.

And the best part?

She got to give that to Clarke. She got to make Clarke a mother too. For all of her fuck ups in life, she get to give Clarke the thing they'd been dreaming about since they were 19.

And she was not going to take it for granted. So Lexa absolutely becomes the kind of mom who works to find the right balance. Schedules chore charts and play dates and the quintessential soccer mom SUV, saying ok to ice cream before bed but only if they eat three bites of broccoli. She reads bedtime stories with funny voices after Clarke handles bathtime and makes a big deal over all their finger painting (and is much better at remembering to empty the trashcan when they throw them away in 2 weeks before their little artists can see 😬). She shush's Clarke's yelling whenever she's embarrassing their daughter from the stands when Madi eventually starts little league. She's the first one to learn sign language after Aden comes along and is intensely serious about raising him with all the tools he needs to be exactly who he is.

She still keeps her career going as a writer, but after... well, everything. And how badly she once fucked all this up with Clarke, she always tries and takes the steps to keep work and home life balanced. She wants to raise their kids knowing that their mother's are not only wives and partners in every aspect of life, but are also the epitome of best friends.

She's not perfect by any means. She loses her patience and gets worn out and sometimes makes the wrong call when it comes to their kids. But she tries, and never stops trying, and she always comes back and apologizes right to their little faces whenever she realizes she's messed up. Because she'll never want their kids to feel the same kind of sadness and fear of being a disappointment like she felt when she was growing up. She'll never want them to ever wonder if they matter less to her than her own happiness, like she'd struggled with when thinking about her own mother when she was a kid.

So yeah, she may never have envisioned her life the way it turns out. But, like Clarke reminds her every time she's feeling insecure or like she's not doing Enough, Lexa really was born to be a mom

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfic - Win

Words: 809

@wolfstarmicrofic

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

The ten-year Hogwarts reunion had been an interesting evening so far. While a lot, maybe even most, of their classmates were married, many with kids, neither Sirius nor Remus had settled down. In fact, they were still sharing the house just outside Hogsmeade that Sirius had bought with his inheritance from his uncle. James, Lily and Pete had also lived there at various times over the last decade, but it had just been the two of them for over six years now.

While doing the rounds at the reunion, Sirius found himself fielding questions about Remus, in the same way that he was sure James was fielding questions about Lily, and Pete about Mary. By the time he went back to sit with Remus at their table, he was amused.

"I'll bet you twenty quid that someone is going to just outright ask us if we're dating by the end of the night." He said, causing Remus to choke on his wine. He rubbed Remus’ back until he could breathe again and then realised this was probably the kind of thing that made people think they were dating.

"No chance. I'll never win that bet.” Remus spluttered. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“Fine then, we bet on who will come over and ask us outright. Whoever loses has to buy dinner tonight." They’d made plans to floo into Edinburgh, have a late dinner at the Pompadour and stay overnight so they could both have a drink.

“Ah yes, dinner. That’s a prime example of why we're not beating the dating allegations." Remus’ eyes sparkled dangerously.

"Are you taking the bet or not?” Sirius huffed. “My money’s on Emmeline. She’s going to come over and say ‘I say, lads, did you finally get yourselves together?’” He imitated Emmeline’s high-pitched, posh voice.

"Well, if she does I'm going to kiss you on the mouth and then tell her never in a million years.” Sirius blinked at him, surprised. “My money’s on…” He scanned the room, “Edgar. He always had a thing for you.”

“He did?” Sirius followed Remus’ gaze. “Those jeans are really working for him, to be fair.”

“And what if someone else comes and asks, or nobody asks?” Remus leaned his head on his hand and looked at Sirius, he already regretted the last glass of wine.

“Oh, somebody’s bound to ask.” Sirius grinned. “I’ve just had half an hour of ‘How’s Remus?’, ‘Remus is looking well’, ‘You and Remus look so happy’.”

“Well, that's… nice?” He mumbled. “Oh, shit. Edgar and Emmeline are on their way over.”

“It’s going to be a photo finish.” Sirius ruffled Remus’ curls affectionately before turning to smile at their approaching friends. At the last moment, Emmeline caught sight of Mary Macdonald and changed direction. Sirius frowned.

“Remus!” Edgar grinned, sitting down opposite him, “Long time no see!”

“Must be a decade.” Remus smiled at him, and there was something in his eyes that made Sirius suddenly feel like he was intruding. Interesting. “How’s things?”

“Oh, can’t complain. Been working for the Department of Mysteries for a while now.”

“Sounds interesting.” Remus nodded.

“What about you?” Edgar asked politely.

“You’re looking at the longest-serving Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor for decades, Bones.” Sirius butted in as Remus shrugged humbly.

“Oh, incredible!” Edgar said to Remus, pointedly ignoring Sirius. “You always were an amazing tutor, I bet the kids love you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s very rewarding.” Remus looked over at Sirius. “Not as rewarding as being a healer, but…”

“No, it’s every bit as rewarding,” Sirius said. “You don’t even have to clean up sick, so maybe more rewarding.”

“So you two are finally together, then?" Edgar asked, somewhat dejectedly.

"Please, he couldn't tie me down even if he tried,” Remus said, not looking back at Edgar. The corners of his mouth twitched as Sirius gasped dramatically. “No, we just live together. Bachelor pad.”

Edgar seemed to perk up slightly at this but still didn’t look convinced. “Ah, right, sorry for assuming, Re. Look, if you fancy going for a drink one night, here’s my number.” He produced a ministry business card and slid it across the table to Remus.

“Thank you,” Remus smiled at him mildly. “That would be nice. I’ll be in touch.” Edgar nodded as he stood up and looked around, before heading towards Emmeline and Mary.

“You think I couldn’t tie you down?” Sirius murmured in Remus’ ear, sending a shiver up his spine. “Challenge accepted.”

Remus leant back to look at Sirius. His eyes were mostly pupil, with a slither of grey around them, a blush sat on his aristocratic cheekbones and his jaw was set. Eyes never leaving Sirius’, his voice was low, “Alright then, since you’re buying dinner anyway. Do your worst. Give me the full Sirius Black date experience. Prove me wrong.”

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

[Notes:

At some point during dinner:

"Wait, I thought you said that Edgar had always been into me," said Sirius.

"Oh, did I say that he was into you?" Remus smirked, "I meant me."

And Sirius is like damn he played me, and I'm not even mad.]

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

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

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

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

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

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

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

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

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

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

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

You'd be lying if you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate.

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

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

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

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

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

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

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

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

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

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

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

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kit-Kat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” you prod. 

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

“I’m scared to ask where.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort despite your woes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

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

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

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

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

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

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

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

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

Your body thrums with anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message received. Loud and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

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

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

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

His frankness sears your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

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

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

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

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

Your surprise drips down his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you like what you heard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’ tease.

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

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

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

But not tonight, not right now.

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

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

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men notice.

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

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

Charming as ever.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent pardon.

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

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

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

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

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

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

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

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

“Pause.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

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

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

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

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

You actually yelp.

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

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

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

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

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

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

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

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

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

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

This is the best he’s felt in months.

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

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

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

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

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

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

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

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

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

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

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

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

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

He wants you on display.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll handle it.

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

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like, right fucking now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyson balks. “Me?”

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

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

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

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

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

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

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

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

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

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

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

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

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

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

Your boyfriend grins.

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

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