#college era naturally

[lovespelt]

tfw your tall-ass friend is too drunk to walk home (and also he’s gay) 🙄😑 🍻

[border-collie]

Finished a league of their own and its just so nostalgic despite the fact I hated playing softball. The first girl I fell in love with was through girls scouts and the backpacking program I was part of was 45% young queers between the ages of 12 and 18 and it changed my life and showed me who I was. My first introduction to butchness was in the older members of the group. My first queer media was a screening of rocky horror in a bunk room during a planning meeting for the hikes of the year. That part of my life has long past and I haven't truly backpacked since my freshman year of high-school 7 years ago but the impact is still there, and I can look in the mirror and see myself.

[owlgirl495]

so you remember when i was rebloging all that marauders stuff a while ago? yeah…

[wifelinkmtg]

TUMBLR POST EDITOR WON'T LET ME TITLE THIS POST ANYMORE SO I GUESS THIS IS THE TITLE NOW. WEBBED SITE INNIT

So let's say you grew up in the nineties and that The Lion King was an important movie to you. Let's say that the character of Scar - snarling, ambitious, condescending, effeminate Scar - stirred feelings in you which you had no words for as a child. And then let's say, many years later, you're talking about it with a college friend, and you say something like, "oh man, I think Scar was some sort of gay awakening for me," and she fixes you with this level stare and says, "Scar was a fascist. What's the matter with you?"

The immediate feeling is not unlike missing a step: hang on, what's happening, what did I miss? You knew there were goose-stepping hyenas in "Be Prepared," but you didn't think it mattered that much. He's the bad guy, after all, and the movie's just pointing it out. Your friend says it's more than that: the visuals of the song are directly referencing the Nuremberg rallies. They're practically an homage to Riefenstahl. This was your sexual awakening? Is this why you're so into peaked caps and leather, then? Subliminal nazi kink, perhaps?

And then one of your other friends cuts in. "Hold up," he says, "let's think about what Scar actually did in the movie. He organized a group of racialized outcasts and led them against a predatory monarchy. Why are you so keen to defend their hereditary rule? Scar's the good guy here." The conversation immediately descends into a verbal slap fight about who the real bad guy is, whether Scar's regime was actually responsible for the ecological devastation of the Pride Lands, whether the hyenas actually count as "racialized" because James Earl Jones voiced Mufasa after all. Your Catholic friend starts saying some strange and frankly concerning shit about Natural Law. Someone brings The Lion King 2 into it. You leave the conversation feeling a little bit lost and a little bit anxious. What were we even talking about?

INTRODUCING: THE DITCH

There is a way of reading texts which I'm afraid is pervasive, which has as its most classical expression the smug obsession with trivia and minutiae you find in a certain vein of comic book fan. "Who was the first Green Lantern? What was his weakness? Do you even know the Green Lantern Oath?" It eschews the subjective in favor of definitively knowable fact. You can't argue with this guy that, say, Alan Scott shouldn't really count as the first Green Lantern because his whole deal is so radically different from the Hal Jordan/John Stewart/Guy Gardner Corps-era Lanterns, because this guy will simply say "but he's called Green Lantern. Says so right on the cover. Checkmate." This approach to reading a text is fundamentally 1) emotionally detached (there's a reason the joke goes, oh you like X band? name three of their songs - and not, which of their songs means the most to you? which of them came into your life at exactly the right moment to tell you exactly what you needed to hear just then?) and 2) defensive. It's a stance that is designed not to lose arguments. It says so right on the cover. Checkmate.

And then you get the guys who are like "well obviously Bruce Wayne could do far more as a billionaire to solve societal problems by using his tremendous wealth to address systemic issues instead of dressing up as a bat and punching mental patients in the head," and these guys have half a point but they're basically in the same ditch butting heads with the "well, actually" guys, and can we not simply extricate ourselves from the ditch entirely?

So, okay, let's return to our initial example. Scar is portrayed using Nazi iconography - the goose-stepping, the monumentality, the Nuremberg Lichtdom. He is also flamboyant and effete. He unifies and leads a group of downtrodden exiles to overthrow an absolute monarch. He's also a self-serving despot on whose rule Heaven Itself turns its back. You can't reconcile these things from within the ditch - or if you can, the attempt is likely to be ad-hoc supposition and duct tape.

Instead, let's ask ourselves what perspective The Lion King is coming from. What does it say is true about the world? What are its precepts, its axioms?

There is a natural hierarchical order to the world. This is just and righteous and the way of things, and attempts to overthrow this order will be punished severely by the world itself.

Fascism is what happens when evil men attempt to usurp this natural order with the aid of a group or groups of people who refuse to accept their place in the order.

There exists an alternative to defending and adhering to one's place in the natural order - it consists only of selfish spineless apathy.

Manliness is an essential quality of a just ruler. Unmanliness renders a person unfit for rule, and often resentful and dangerous as well.

And isn't that interesting, laid out like that? It renders the entire argument about the movie irrelevant (except for whatever your Catholic friend was on about, since his understanding of the world seems to line up with the above precepts weirdly well.) It's meaningless to argue about whether Scar was a secret hero or a fascist, when the movie doesn't understand fascism and has a damn-near alien view of what good and evil are.

There's always gonna be someone who, having read this far, wants to reply, "so, what? The Lion King is a bad movie and the people who made it were homophobes and also American monarchists, somehow? And anyone who likes it is also some sort of gay-bashing crypto-authoritarian?" To which I have to reply, man, c'mon, get out of the ditch. You're no good to anyone in there. Take my hand. I'm going to pull on three. One... two...

SO PHYREXIA [PAUSE FOR APPLAUSE, GROANS]

We're talking about everyone's favorite ichor-drooling surgery monsters again because there was a bit in my ~*~seminal~*~ essay Transformation, Horror, Eros, Phyrexia which seemed to give a number of readers quite a bit of trouble: namely, the idea that while Phyrexia is textually fascist, their aesthetic is incompatible with real-world fascism, and further, that this aesthetic incompatibility in some way outweighs the ways in which they act like a fascist nation in terms of how we think of them. I'll take responsibility here: I don't think that point is at all clear or well-argued in that essay. What I was trying to articulate was that the text of Magic: the Gathering very much wants Phyrexia to be supremely evil and dangerous fascists, because that makes for effective antagonists, but in the process of constructing that, it's accidentally encoded a whole bunch of fascinating presuppositions that end up working at cross-purposes with its apparent aim. That's... not that much clearer, is it? Hmm. Why don't I just show you what I mean?

Atraxa, Grand Unifier (art by Marta Nael)

In "Beneath Eyes Unblinking," one of the March of the Machine stories by K. Arsenault Rivera, there's a fascinating and I think revealing passage in which Atraxa (big-deal Phyrexianized angel and Elesh Norn's lieutenant) has a run-in with an art museum in New Capenna. The first thing I want to talk about is that, in this passage, Atraxa has no understanding of the concept of "beauty". A great deal of space in such a rushed storyline is devoted to her trying to puzzle out what beauty means and interrogating the minds of her recently-compleated Capennan aesthetes to try and understand it. In the end, she is unable to conceive of beauty except as "wrongness," as anathema.

So my first question is, why doesn't Atraxa have any idea of beauty? This is nonsense, right? We could point to a previous story, "A Garden of Flesh," by Lora Gray, in which Elesh Norn explicitly thinks in terms of beauty, but that's a little bit ditchbound, isn't it? The better argument is to simply look at Phyrexian bodies, at the Phyrexian landscape, all of which looks the way it does on purpose, all of which has been shaped in accordance with the very real aesthetic preferences of Phyrexians. How you could look at the Fair Basilica and not understand that Phyrexians most definitely have an idea of beauty, even if you personally disagree with it, is baffling. This is a lot like the canonical assertion that Phyrexians lack souls, which is both contradicted elsewhere in canon and essentially meaningless, given Magic's unwillingness or inability to articulate what a soul is in its setting, and as with this, it seems the goal is simply to dehumanize Phyrexians, to render them alien, even at the cost of incoherence or internal contradiction.

Atraxa's progress through the museum is fascinating. It evokes the 1937 Nazi exhibit on "degenerate art" in Munich, but not at all cleanly. The first exhibit, which is of representational art, she angrily destroys for being too individualistic (a point of dissonance with the European fascist movements of the 20th century, which formed in direct antagonism to communism.) The second exhibit, filled with abstract paintings and sculptures, she destroys even more angrily for having no conceivable use (this is much more in line with the Nazi idea of "degenerate art", so well done there.) The third exhibit is filled with war trophies and reconstructions from a failed Phyrexian invasion of Capenna many years prior, which she is angriest of all with (and fair enough, I suppose.) But then, after she's done completely trashing the place, she spots a number of angel statues on the cathedral across the plaza, and she goes apeshit. In a fugue of white-hot rage, she pulverizes the angel heads, and here is where I have to ask my second question:

Why angels? If you are trying to invoke fascist attitudes toward art, big statues of angels are precisely the wrong thing for your fascist analogues to hate. Fascists love monumental, heroic representations of superhuman perfection. It's practically their whole aesthetic deal. I understand that we're foreshadowing the imminent defeat of Phyrexia at the hands of legions of angels and a multiversal proliferation of angel juice, but that just leads to the exact same question: why angels? To the best of my knowledge, the Phyrexian weakness to New Capennan angel juice is something invented for this storyline. They have, after all, been happily compleating angels since 1997. We could talk about the in-universe justification for why Halo specifically is so potent, but I don't remember what that justification is, and also don't care. Let's not jump back in the ditch, please. The point is, someone decided that this time, Phyrexia would be defeated by an angelic host, and what does that mean? What is the text trying to say? What are its precepts and axioms?

Let me ask you a question: how many physically disabled angels are there in Magic: the Gathering? How about transsexual angels? How many angels are there, on all of the cards that have ever been printed for Magic: the Gathering, that are even just a bit ugly? Do you get it yet? Or do you need me to spell it out for you?

SPELLING IT OUT FOR YOU

There is a kind of body which is bad. It is bad because it has been significantly altered from its natural state, and it is bad because it is repellent to our aesthetic sensibilities.

The bad kind of body is contagious. It spreads through contact. Sometimes people we love are infected, and then they become the bad kind of body too.

There is a kind of body which is good. It is good because it is pleasing to our aesthetic sensibilities, and it is good because it is unaltered from its (super)natural state.

A happy ending is when all the good bodies destroy or drive into hiding all of the bad bodies. A happy ending is when the bad bodies of the people we love are forcibly returned to being the good kind of body.

Do you get it now?

ENDNOTES

It's worth noting that the ditch is very similar to the white American Evangelical hermeneutics of "the Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it," the defensive chapter-and-verse-or-it-didn't-happen approach to reading a text, what Fred Clark of slacktivist calls "concordance-ism". I don't think that's accidental. We stand underneath centuries of people reading the Bible very poorly - how could that not affect how we read things today? We are participants in history whether we like it or not.

I sincerely hope I haven't come across as condescending in this essay. Close reading is legitimately difficult! They teach college courses on this stuff! And while it is frustrating to have my close readings interrogated by people who... aren't doing that, like. I do get it. I find myself back in the ditch all the time. This stuff is hard. It is also, sorry, crucial if you intend to say something about a text that's worth saying.

I also hope I've communicated clearly here. Magic story is sufficiently incoherent that trying to develop a thesis about it often feels like trying to nail jello to the wall. If anyone has questions, please ask them! And thank you for reading. Next time, we'll probably do the new Eldraine set.

[urhoneycombwitch]

I know what they call you.

🍯 honey flavour: You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you.

🐝 the bees: Eddie x shy!Reader, best friends Steve + Robin

wc: 11k 

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous.

Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

___

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after. 

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music. 

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm. 

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways. 

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask. 

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him. 

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return. 

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me. 

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm. 

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. ���Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot. 

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house. 

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids. 

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of. 

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again. 

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty. 

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair. 

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke. 

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code. 

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter. 

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive. 

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily. 

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending.  “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out. 

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them. 

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in. 

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it. 

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom. 

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth. 

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits. 

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring. 

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence. 

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music. 

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around. 

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows. 

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic. 

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms. 

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate. 

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart. 

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down. 

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement. 

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?” 

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn’t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard. 

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs. 

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands. 

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel. 

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves. 

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own. 

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks. 

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form. 

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours. 

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. 

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch. 

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights. 

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you. 

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him. 

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation. 

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam. 

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders. 

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh. 

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,” 

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips. 

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao

[transmutationisms]

can u elaborate on posture being a lie

As Beth Linker explains in her book “Slouch: Posture Panic in Modern America” (Princeton), a long history of anxiety about the proximity between human and bestial nature has played out in this area of social science. Linker, a historian of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, argues that at the onset of the twentieth century the United States became gripped by what she characterizes as a poor-posture epidemic: a widespread social contagion of slumping that could, it was feared, have deleterious effects not just upon individual health but also upon the body politic. Sitting up straight would help remedy all kinds of failings, physical and moral [...] she sees the “past and present worries concerning posture as part of an enduring concern about so-called ‘diseases of civilization’ ”—grounded in a mythology of human ancestry that posits the hunter-gatherer as an ideal from which we have fallen.

[...]

In America at the turn of the twentieth century, anxieties about posture inevitably collided with anxieties not just about class but also about race. Stooping was associated with poverty and with manual, industrialized labor—the conditions of working-class immigrants from European countries who, in their physical debasement, were positioned well below the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant establishment. Linker argues that, in this environment, “posture served as a marker of social status similar to skin color.” At the same time, populations that had been colonized and enslaved were held up as posture paradigms for the élite to emulate: the American Posture League rewarded successful students with congratulatory pins that featured an image of an extremely upright Lenape man. The head-carrying customs associated with African women were also adopted as training exercises for white girls of privilege, although Linker notes that Bancroft and her peers recommended that young ladies learn to balance not baskets and basins, which signified functionality, but piles of flat, slippery books, markers of their own access to leisure and education. For Black Americans, posture was even more fraught: despite the admiration granted to the posture of African women bearing loads atop their heads, community leaders like Dr. Algernon Jackson, who helped establish the National Negro Health Movement, criticized those Black youth who “too often slump along, stoop-shouldered and walk with a careless, lazy sort of dragging gait.” If slouching among privileged white Americans could indicate an enviable carelessness, it was seen as proof of indolence when adopted by the disadvantaged.

This being America, posture panic was swiftly commercialized, with a range of products marketed to appeal to the eighty per cent of the population whose carriage had been deemed inadequate by posture surveys. The footwear industry drafted orthopedic surgeons to consult on the design of shoes that would lessen foot and back pain without the stigma of corrective footwear: one brand, Trupedic, advertised itself as “a real anatomical shoe without the freak-show look.” The indefatigable Jessie Bancroft trained her sights on children’s clothing, endorsing a company that created a “Right-Posture” jacket, whose trim cut across the upper shoulders gave its schoolboy wearer little choice but to throw his shoulders back like Jordan Baker. Bancroft’s American Posture League endorsed girdles and corsets for women; similar garments were also adopted by men, who, by the early nineteen-fifties, were purchasing abdominal “bracers” by the millions.

It was in this era that what eventually proved to be the most contentious form of posture policing reached its height, when students entering college were required to submit to mandatory posture examinations, including the taking of nude or semi-nude photographs. For decades, incoming students had been evaluated for conditions such as scoliosis by means of a medical exam, which came to incorporate photography to create a visual record. Linker writes that for many male students, particularly those who had military training, undressing for the camera was no biggie. For female students, it was often a more disquieting undertaking. Sylvia Plath, who endured it in 1950, drew upon the experience in “The Bell Jar,” whose protagonist, Esther Greenwood, discovers that undressing for her boyfriend is as uncomfortably exposing as “knowing . . . that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files.” The practice of taking posture photographs was gradually abandoned by colleges, thanks in part to the rise of the women’s movement, which gave coeds a new language with which to express their discomfort. It might have been largely forgotten were it not for a 1995 article in the Times Magazine, which raised the alarming possibility that there still existed stashes of nude photographs of famous former students of the Ivy League and the Seven Sisters, such as George H. W. Bush, Bob Woodward, Meryl Streep, and Hillary Clinton. Many of the photographs in question were taken and held not by the institutions themselves but by the mid-century psychologist William Herbert Sheldon. Sheldon was best known for his later discredited theories of somatotypes, whereby he attributed personality characteristics to individuals based on whether their build was ectomorphic, endomorphic, or mesomorphic.

[...]

Today, the descendants of Jessie Bancroft are figures like Esther Gokhale, a Bay Area acupuncturist and the creator of the Gokhale Method, who teaches “primal posture” courses to tech executives and whose recommendations are consonant with other fitness trends, such as barefoot running and “paleo” eating, that romanticize an ancestral past as a remedy for the ills of the present. The compulsory mass surveillance that ended when universities ceased the practice of posture photography has been replaced by voluntary individual surveillance, with the likes of Rafi the giraffe and the Nekoze cat monitoring a user’s vulnerability to “tech neck,” a newly named complaint brought on by excessive use of the kind of devices profitably developed by those paleo-eating, barefoot-running, yoga-practicing executives. Meanwhile, Linker reports, paleoanthropologists quietly working in places other than TikTok have begun to revise the popular idea that our ancient ancestors did not get aches and pains in their backs. Analysis of fossilized spines has revealed degenerative changes suggesting that “the first upright hominids to roam the earth likely experienced back pain, or would have been predisposed to such a condition if they had lived long enough.” Slouching, far from being a disease of civilization, then, seems to be something we’ve been prone to for as long as we have stood on our own two feet.

[inkskinned]

sometimes i think about the span of human existence and how if you spread your arms out in a long line and said my body is acting as a poem of all the universe's birthdays, the smallest sliver of your furthest nail would be our entire history as humans. and you, doing this, feeling your sternum crack into place because you're-getting-old and all of your bones crunch these days: you are the universe, measuring its own timeline. you're the memory of a starburst saying i gave birth to humans at the tip of my finger.

and i think about how crocodiles have been around for way longer than that fingernail and how sharks have been here forever too and how there are sea cucumbers that understand time like an angel would; their ages so astronomically long that i get dizzy looking down into them. i think about my dog, and how i am so fantastically ancient to him (an impossible number, staggering) and how, at the same time, i can order my life in eras of pets-i-have-loved and how my childhood died when my cat did.

and i wonder if the earth does the same thing, if nature keeps time in epochs. if the tree in the house where i grew up said oh a new family and got upset when one by one we all left for college and left behind our climbing and screaming and birdhouses. that same tree collapsed during a bad storm this winter; heartbroken. the whole inside was a hull, shivering and empty. it missed our roof by a whisper, almost like it held itself together so it couldn't pass a hole into the house it's been looking into for years now. the people who took it away clicked their teeth. it was a hundred years old, at least.

there are things that went extinct in my lifetime. there are memories that don't extend to the tip of the finger. four years ago, for the first time: i saw a bald eagle in the wild. ever since they've been sprouting strangely in my life, their origami frames hunched in a racket of brown feathers. something in the motion of wild animals braced against the new england weather - like we all (all of nature, all of the fingertip) have the same shared hate when it's cold sorrow. like in years and years and years of history we never really evolved a better method than to close your eyes and brace yourself against it.

i saw a butterfly today, staggering drunkenly in the early spring air. it's too early for her other friends. i want to tuck her back into bed and say it's not your time yet! her life like a pinprick in my own. in butterfly school they'd have to stretch out their scales and say - at the end of your furthest wing is where you are in the life of a human. she is in my life, isn't she. something about how my heart seized at the sight of her, so brave and lonely and unfair; and how it snowed yesterday (and will snow again, probably), and how, in spite of that, she was out there and flying.

something about waking up this morning and thinking - i'm too old for this. how my hips and knees and back all make new noises. how the other day at a grocery store i picked up the gloves an older woman had dropped, how she'd laughed and thanked me - i can't bend down like you young folks anymore.

something about the theory that there's been no visible life on other planets because we are too early. that we are the first butterfly of spring. all this bravery. we know it is probably hopeless, and still we go. breathless, the same tactic - we brace against the cold.

[probablyasocialecologist]

A system of ancient ceramic water pipes, the oldest ever unearthed in China, shows that neolithic people were capable of complex engineering feats without the need for a centralized state authority, finds a new study by University College London researchers. In a study published in Nature Water, the archaeological team describe a network of ceramic water pipes and drainage ditches at the Chinese walled site of Pingliangtai dating back 4,000 years to a time known as the Longshan period. The network shows cooperation among the community to build and maintain the drainage system, though no evidence of a centralized power or authority. Dr. Yijie Zhuang (UCL Institute of Archaeology), senior and corresponding author on the paper, said, "The discovery of this ceramic water pipe network is remarkable because the people of Pingliangtai were able to build and maintain this advanced water management system with stone age tools and without the organization of a central power structure. This system would have required a significant level of community-wide planning and coordination, and it was all done communally." The ceramic water pipes make up a drainage system which is the oldest complete system ever discovered in China. Made by interconnecting individual segments, the water pipes run along roads and walls to divert rainwater and show an advanced level of central planning at the neolithic site. What's surprising to researchers is that the settlement of Pingliangtai shows little evidence of social hierarchy. Its houses were uniformly small and show no signs of social stratification or significant inequality among the population. Excavations at the town's cemetery likewise found no evidence of a social hierarchy in burials, a marked difference from excavations at other nearby towns of the same era. But, despite the apparent lack of a centralized authority, the town's population came together and undertook the careful coordination needed to produce the ceramic pipes, plan their layout, install and maintain them, a project which likely took a great deal of effort from much of the community. The level of complexity associated with these pipes refutes an earlier understanding in archaeological fields that holds that only a centralized state power with governing elites would be able to muster the organization and resources to build a complex water management system. While other ancient societies with advanced water systems tended to have a stronger, more centralized governance, or even despotism, Pingliangtai demonstrates that was not always needed, and more egalitarian and communal societies were capable of these kinds of engineering feats as well.

[morphodae]

Gregory Violet |Headcanons

Including general, relationship (x reader), and some modern au as a bonus!

These headcanons kind of trickle down into a story/narrative so please bear with it lol (plus: these are to warm up! I have ideas for future oneshots)

cw: none

Read more P4 headcanons here: 🦉x ,🌹 x ,🌱 x

General:

I see Gregory coming from a well-off family. They might not have the highest rank out there (they’re probably a viscount or baron nobility rank), but they have enough to send Gregory to Weston.

Either Gregory is an only child, eldest, or youngest. I have a feeling that he may not be super close with his family; perhaps he comes from a blended family or doesn’t have many siblings.

Naturally, his talents sent him to Weston College— which is unnatural for a lot of noble, rich London boys. Most get in for status and money, Gregory got sent there for his talents. Gregory was born with talents and had great expectations placed on him while he was content to create art and do things on his own.

When he was younger, he was obviously different compared to noble boys and girls around him— or general kids of the era. Being so “different, odd, and weird” was something that bothered him in his younger years, but once he turned 18 he stopped caring about others’ opinions. He’s his own person and he couldn’t care less what others have to say about it.

As such, he’s very obviously not thrilled to go to a crowded, renown, high-end school, but thankfully he was sorted into a House that accentuates his eccentricities with others like him. Still, he tends to keep to himself (as most introverts) save for a few close friends— Redmond, Greenhill, and Bluewer.

He’s “eccentric” by many peers but if he were in modern times, he’s definitely neurodivergent at the least. Definitely not me projecting my own autism /s lol.

One misconception is that people believe him to be antisocial or too “moody” when this is not the case. Gregory has a vibrant inner world and is an excellent observer; which allows me to transition into how a relationship with him might be.

Relationship:

Gregory isn’t one to actively seek anyone out, let alone a significant other. For any sort of relationship to have with this artsy fellow, you’d have to either 1) be someone who stands out with the time period’s standards (like him) or 2) have to be brought into his life suddenly and stay for a while before anything remotely romantic happens.

It’s fun to see him with someone who is either a lot like him or someone who is a bit of an opposite— although mostly in external appearance and I’ll explain why.

I don’t think someone who is a polar opposite to be someone who suits Gregory.

If say, someone preferred cutesy girly things or pastel colors and sunlight, that’d be fine. However, I see a calmer personality with a lot of empathy and respect being something he’d need. Otherwise I don’t think a boisterous loud person to be someone that he’d see himself with romantically.

With that said, courting you is… a feat lol. It takes Cheslock (poor Gregory), and the rest of the P4 to really push him in the direction of you.

When it finally happens and Gregory and you are able to formally meet and court, all five of them practically cheer lol. No one thought he’d be the type to find a s/o and Gregory’s parents were concerned he’d die alone :(

Because of expectations of his nobility, I do expect he’d marry you in some way irregardless of gender. But with you, someone he’s not arranged to and someone he truly loves, he tends to view it as a romantic and passionate expression of his commitment towards you.

A relationship with Gregory is majorly spent in comfortable silence. I’d say quality time is a major thing with him. However, he, like a lot of introverts, still needs ample time to himself— so don’t expect him to be glued at your hip. Plus, for that time period, PDA and general overt displays of affection whether in public or private was generally seen as odd. Gregory, for one, doesn’t care too much for the status quo but he is still figuring out his first relationship with you and how to navigate it while respecting you.

In a modern au, he’d be a bit more clingy in private. I see him as the type to play with your hair, study its shape and color for his sketches but mostly because it feels nice to him. If you are reading or gaming then I see him the type to sit behind you with his chin on your shoulder just enjoying quiet contact. It’s very wholesome. Alternatively, whether you lay with him on his chest or he on yours, he just enjoys quiet moments where he can be close to you.

He’s very reciprocal. By this I mean; you respect him and his hobbies, he respects yours. You show him kindness and care, so does he. He’s actually quite a classically romantic guy and is one to surprise you with flowers, food, and of course, sketches and art! He definitely cares and worries about your well-being and happiness (as seen in manga with his friends too!), so he will have his moments where it seems like he’s mother-henning you if he feels that you aren’t taking care of yourself.

Don’t be surprised that one of his first drawings of you was during his pining phase before the two of you formally spoke or courted lol.

Overall a relationship with Gregory is mostly spent in quiet understanding in silence with a partner who is able to empathically express and respect him mutually. Despite being a bit of an oddball for the time period he lives in, he still is a traditional romantic who loves to look after your well-being and give you gifts 💜

[saigethearies]

saige’s terrortober presents…

future

seeing how good tetsuro is with kids has you wanting him to put one in you.

camp counselor!tetsuro kuroo x fem!reader

contents/warnings: breeding, unprotected doggystyle, vaginal fingering, kitten and mama petnames, mentions of marriage and babymaking, no pregnancy reader is on birth control, reader and kuroo are in college and work at a camp

wc: 1.4k

18+ MINORS DNI

the crisp fall air felt even more refreshing at night. the changing colors surrounded the camp in pretty hues of orange and red, matching the warm flames crackling away in the middle of the circle. storytimes are firepit were always a hit during the fall season, when the camp operated more as a babysitting service for couples on a date night rather than the usual summer sleepaway. it was honestly nice, allowing you to keep your counselor job into the start of the semester without having to work as many hours so you had time for your coursework.

the convenience wasn’t the only thing you loved, though.

“the group inched closer to the closet, flashlights held tight in their hands as they crept through the dark,” kuroo narrated, voice projecting so every kid listening in could hear.

you smiled at the way your boyfriend had them all on the edge of their seat, everyone’s undivided attention on the rooster head as he told his tale. he knew exactly when to pause for dramatic effect or when to emphasize a certain point. it was honestly impressive how great of a storyteller he was.

“they finally reached the door, turning the knob slowly and opening the door with a loud creak only to find…a report card! full of f’s!”

the kids all laughed, seemingly amused with the funny twist kuroo chose to end his story with. he didn’t want to send the kids back to their homes too scared, now. you chuckled along with them, heart feeling all warm watching the way he interacted with the children.

in your three years of dating, it was not lost on you how naturally amazing kuroo was with kids. he always treated them with the same kindness and respect he would give an adult, and you could see the content smile that would come onto his face whenever a youngster would engage in conversation with him.

not only was it precious, but it was honestly attractive. you were nearing the end of your college years, graduation on the horizon, and he’d already brought up the m word multiple times- not to mention you caught him studying the sizes of your rings that one time. while you told him not to rush anything, you knew he was the one you were going to marry. not only that, but this was the man that would most likely be fathering your children, and every time you saw him bring a smile to a kid’s face, it just reminded you of how amazing of a dad he was going to be.

and that made you want him so much.

knowing that he would take such good care of you and your potential babies drove you up the wall, wishing you could skip to your white picket fence era despite telling him that the two of you were young and didn’t need to be in a hurry.

kuroo caught you staring at him from across the firepit and sent you his signature grin, and you had to resist the urge to press your thighs together, knowing that this wasn’t the place.

the thoughts were still shuffling around in your mind when kuroo drove the two of you back to his apartment later, shift finally over now that all of the children had been picked up by their guardians. visions were dancing across your brain of him gently rocking a little baby, giving piggyback rides to a toddler, teaching a child how to spike a volleyball.

your boyfriend had noticed you were much more quiet than usual but chose not to question it. he figured you would talk once the two of you got home.

the elevator trip once you arrived was silent, and kuroo was starting to worry that there really was something bothering you.

so imagine his surprise when your lips were crashing against his the second he locked his front door, smaller hands gripping his shoulder and pulling him down to your height. his eyes went a little wide in surprise before he closed them and melted into the kiss, never one to look a gift horse in the face.

you pulled away to gasp for air and he grinned, bringing a thumb up to press against your bottom lip.

“what’s gotten into you, kitten?”

nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your eyes glassy and breath labored.

“wanna have a baby with you.”

now wasn’t the time, both of you knew that, and it was mainly just the lust talking at the moment. however, the idea still filled both of you with a sense of excitement and adrenaline. you were on birth control, but a little practice for the real deal in the future couldn’t hurt, right?

you felt his large hands snake under your t-shirt, forehead coming to rest against yours.

“is that right? my pretty girl wants to become a mommy?”

you nodded. “wanna make you a daddy.”

he hummed at that, beginning to kiss you once more as he backed you towards his bedroom, tugging both of your shirts off in the process. each of you were shedding your clothes, nude as can be by the time you reached the bed.

kuroo gave you one final kiss before commanding you to get on the bed.

“all fours.”

you did as you were told, keeping your ass towards him and arching the way he liked. you heard him step towards you and almost cried when you felt his fingers teasing at your entrance.

he slowly pumped his index and middle in and out of you, amazed at how wet your cunt already was. how long had you been wanting this?

not in the mood to waste time, you craned your neck to look at him, a desperate look in your eyes.

“inside, tetsu! want you inside now!”

he normally would refuse, insisting on prepping you. but tonight you had asked for a baby. you asked for a baby as if you knew about the endless dreams and fantasies in his head of you with a sweet little bump on your belly.

he’d give into your plea to forego foreplay tonight, but only this once. only because you managed to hit him where it really hurts.

the moan that tore from your throat as he split you open was the neediest he’d ever heard, and he wasted no time in starting to cant his hips as deep as possible. you were mewling, trying to push back to meet his thrusts each time, the want to be filed fogging your mind.

“so good! so good!”

you felt his hand between your shoulder blades, pressing down to arch your back even more. he groaned as he started to hit even further down in your walls, as if he was trying to get as close to your cervix as he could.

“good girl, such a good fucking girl for me.”

he didn’t think he’d ever felt your pussy grip him this tight. you were going to milk him for everything he was worth, and he honestly couldn’t wait.

you felt him lean over you, his chest against your back as his hot breath fanned against your ear.

“gonna be the prettiest mama ever. can’t wait to see how beautiful you look carrying my baby.”

you whined at his words.

“baby! want your baby, tetsu! want it so bad!”

“fuck.”

your cries had him pistoning into you even faster, so ready to give into your pleas and grant you your wish. maybe not today, but someday.

the coil in his stomach had grown so taught, and from the way your thighs were shaking, he knew yours had, too. he brought his thumb to your clit, knowing it would be the last shove you needed to tumble over the edge with him.

“where do you want it, kitten?”

he already knew the answer.

“inside! inside inside inside, please!”

one last rub at your sensitive nub had the wave of pleasure crashing over you, your orgasm sending kuroo into his own as he spilled his cum deep into your cunt. you’d never felt so full in your life.

you slumped against the bed, boneless. you heard kuroo chuckle behind you and felt a kiss pressed to the crown of your head.

“come on, mama,” kuroo said. “don’t go tapping out on me just yet.”

____

saige’s terrortober masterlist

[idollete]

– 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲.   ⋆ ˚｡ 𖹭

𝑤arnings: conteúdo exclusivo para +18.

ೀ ׅ ۫ . ㅇ fran!fwb; college!au; menção honrosa ao esteban (e ele é canônico nessa história); do mesmo universo de ‘fran ♡ is typing…’ (não é uma continuação tho, eu só fiz uma rápida menção); pet play; palavras no diminutivo (tipo, muitas); uso de apelidinhos (‘gatinha’, ‘gordis’, ‘bebita’); penetração anal (gente sério tô muito fogosa); sexo desprotegido (PFVR NÃO FAÇAM EM NOME DA SANTINHA DAS FANFICAGENS); fingering; creampie; size kink (é bem implícito mas tá aí nas entrelinhas); rimming; muita saliva; oral (fem.); nipple play; uma lambidinha inocente no umbigo (hj eu tô freaky delulu insana me desculpem por isso); dirty talk; uma apalpada na bundinha do fran; uso de termos em espanhol (‘listo’ - pronto).

idollete’s typing… ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ. oiiiiiii foi aqui que pediram smut do fran romero? dinner is served mwah vcs foram dar palco pra minha loucura e saiu isso. pfvr não levem muito a sério o fato de eu estar escrevendo isso aki do nada hahahaha eu sei que disse que só ia escrever com outras pessoas hahahahaha mas é que me deu tesão e eu não resisti im literally just a girl ☝🏻😣🎀🕊️ also eu tô morrendo de vergonha das coisas que escrevi aqui hahahahahahahahahahahaha [ meme do coringa enlouquecendo ]. mas boa leitura eu espero que vcs gostem dessa palhaçada ♡

Nossa, ‘cê ainda tem isso aqui? Já saiu de moda séculos atrás…Fran já deveria ter repetido essa mesma frase mais de cinquenta vezes a essa altura do campeonato. Desde que ele decidiu fuxicar o pequeno guarda-roupa no dormitório que dividia com outras duas colegas, você havia perdido o resto que paz guardada para um final de semana entediante. 

Chamou o seu melhor amigo para ficar de bobeira contigo na esperança de tirar um término terrível da cabeça, um relacionamento de seis anos que acabou por uma baita injustiça do destino, seu namorado, agora ex, havia passado na prova do intercâmbio e você não. Você não tinha sorte mesmo. Sentia muita falta de Esteban, mas acreditava que uma tarde ao lado de Fran melhoraria o seu ânimo e repararia os danos ao seu coraçãozinho, o que se provou impossível, uma vez que tudo que ele havia feito até agora era criticar o seu armário e te colocar em uma deprê ainda mais. Quer dizer que agora você era uma sem-namorado e sem estilo também?!

– Mas é confortável! E custou dinheiro, Fran, ele não nasce do chão, sabia?! – Nervosa, você bufou, se jogando de qualquer jeito na cama, as esperanças de algo divertido acontecer naquela tarde minando a cada segundo que passava enfurnada no dormitório. – Será que dá ‘pra você parar de mexer…

– Dios mío! Qué es eso, gordis?! – Sua reclamação foi interrompida pela exclamação do argentino, a pergunta em um tom zombeteiro e surpreso. 

Você pensou em ignorar. Certamente ele só iria falar mal de algum vestido que você comprou e se arrependeu logo depois, mas a risada perversa que ecoou pelo quarto chamou a sua atenção. Colocando-se de bruços e apoiando o queixo nas mãos, você se virou a tempo de enxergar o garoto segurando dois objetos felpudos que te fizeram corar instantaneamente. 

– Francisco Romero! – Em segundos, você já estava voando em direção ao loiro, desesperada para esconder os seus adereços. – Me dá isso agora, nossa, me dá, cara. – Suas súplicas eram em vão, porque, se aproveitando da altura estatura e agindo feito um pirralho irritante, Fran ergueu os braços, fazendo com que os objetos pairassem no ar e muito longe das tuas mãos afoitas. 

Seu rosto queimava em vergonha, as bochechas ganhando um tom cada vez mais avermelhado enquanto encarava as palmas masculinas. Embora você e Fran fossem amigos de longa data e, vez ou outra, tivessem trocados uns beijinhos e outras coisinhas, sempre foi algo muito natural, até mesmo bobo, acontecia quando vocês estavam bêbados ou entediados demais, ao ponto de recorrerem um ao outro. Não era ruim, mas também não era sério o suficiente para que ele soubesse de todos os seus segredinhos sujos.

– Ay…Não acredito que você escondeu isso de mim o tempo inteiro. – O sorriso dele ia de orelha a orelha. – E que safada! Não sabia que você curtia esse tipo de coisa.

O Esteban gostava quando eu usava…Era mais fácil jogar a culpa em quem não estava presente para se defender, porque não era só o teu ex quem gostava da dinâmica. Você é quem a sugeriu, na verdade. Fran te conhecia muito bem, no entanto, mais do que você gostaria, porque ele não comprou o seu teatrinho, não se convenceu pelo jeito retraído, as palavras em um sussurro tímido. Não, ele sabia bem o tipo de garota que você era, mas não perdeu a oportunidade de alfinetar. Sempre soube que ele era um pervertido, aquela cara de nerd que tem medo de buceta nunca me enganou. 

Quando estava prestes a se deixar levar pelo comentário brincalhão, encontrando uma escapatória para mudar de assunto e tirar o foco de si, Francisco te surpreendeu ao ajeitar a tiara na sua cabeça, posicionando as orelhas felpudas e pontiagudas no meio dos seus fios. Ele te encarava de uma maneira difícil de descrever, era diferente, mais intensa. E você não podia negar que te intrigava, fazia com que você se sentisse desejada. Bonitinha. O elogio te amansou um pouco, o jeitinho que a voz dele se prolongava nas sílabas finais, cantarolando as palavras. 

– Gatinha, gatinha! – Provocativo, ele tentou te chamar, arrancar alguma reação de ti, mas você estava envergonhada e atônita demais para falar. – Não?! – Sonso, ele tombou a cabeça para o lado, rindo com uma falsa inocência. – Hmmm, já sei. – Fran parecia não dar a mínima para estar praticamente falando sozinho, se aproveitando do teu silêncio para enfeitar o seu pescoço com a gargantilha rosinha e delicada, um pingente de coração pendendo dela. – Listo. Agora sim, né? Gatinha, gatinha! – Ele realmente te tratava como se você fosse uma felina e aquilo poderia ser patético para qualquer pessoa que visse, mas fazia o pé da sua barriga revirar de uma forma preocupante. – No?! – Você sabia o que viria em seguida, parte de ti esperava por isso. – O que será que falta ‘pra você ser uma gatinha completa, hein? Acho que… – Observou pelo canto do olho quando ele levantou o plug delicadinho, a penugem branquinha com alguns detalhes rosados ficando entre os corpos. – Isso aqui, né?

– Fran… – Sua intenção era alertá-lo, pedir que parasse com a brincadeira sem graça, mas o apelido soou completamente carente dos seus lábios. – Para com isso…

– Não quer ficar de gatinha ‘pra mim? – O beiço formou um biquinho triste, a expressão caída, embora teatral. – Poxa, queria tanto ver…

O comportamento brincalhão contrastava com o olhar lascivo, incapaz de esconder a curiosidade em te montar e deixar bonitinha. Quando ele se aproximou mais de ti, você recuou. Assustada, a princípio, feito uma gatinha mesmo, mas relaxou com o toque familiar na sua cintura, te lembrando de que vocês já haviam feito isso outras vezes. Os lábios se encontraram em um selinho, suave no começo, carinhoso até, a destra te juntava ao corpo esguio, aprofundando o contato ao deslizar a língua para a sua boca.

Beijar Fran era sempre extasiante. Poderia facilmente ser o beijo mais gostoso que você já recebeu, era babadinho na medida certa, tinha o ritmo ideal e ele sabia muito bem o que fazer com a língua. O quarto era preenchido com o barulho estaladinho dos músculos se enroscando e pelos arfares que ambos soltavam. Sentiu quando o argentino soltou uma risadinha entre o ósculo, aumentando o aperto no seu corpinho, te guiando até a cama, fazendo seus joelhos cederem e te colocando deitada sobre o colchão macio. 

Suas pernas automaticamente se fecharam, expostas com aquela posição, a camisa larga revelando as coxas e a ausência de um short, vulnerável. Necessitada também. Era inegável o quanto a dinâmica mexia contigo, te obrigando se manter retesada, lutando contra o impulso de empurrar o quadril contra o nada só para encontrar um pouquinho de alívio, acalmar o pontinho que pulsava. Poderia culpar o término recente e a rotina corrida da faculdade, coisas que te colocavam em um celibato completamente involuntário…

Mas Fran tinha um papel nisso também, o jeito soturno que ele montou sobre ti, quase te encurralando, o toque delicado da pontinha dos dedos subindo pelas suas pernas, arrepiando ao sentir as unhas curtas arranhando a derme até alcançar a barra da camiseta, subindo o tecido, revelando a calcinha com uma estampa boba de corações, você sequer estava preparada para qualquer tipo de ação lá embaixo, não que ele se importasse com isso. Não se esconde de mim, não, ele pediu, pouco a pouco exibindo mais centímetros da sua pele, até te ter peladinha para ele, as roupas esquecidas em um canto qualquer do quarto pequeno.

A primeira coisa que Fran reparou foram os seus seios, os biquinhos duros chamavam a atenção do argentino e faziam a boca dele salivar, o olhar brilhar como quem acabou de ganhar um prêmio. As palmas grandes estavam te agarrando no segundo seguinte, ele brincava com os mamilos, beliscava de levinho, esfregava o polegar, espremia um peitinho no outro, tentava capturar um pouco dos dois de uma vez só, guloso. Sua pele queimava diante do toque masculino, ardiam quando os dentes eram pressionados na região sensível, se arrepiava por onde o rastro de saliva dele era deixado. 

Fran Romero era sujo e bagunceiro. Deixava o seu corpinho cheio de marcas, cheio de baba, brilhando de tesão para ele, fazia o seu melzinho escapar sem controle algum, melecando o cantinho das coxas. Fazia os estalos serem propositalmente mais altos que o normal, reverberando pelo cômodo e disputando com os seus chiados dengosos. Erguendo o tronco, você pode observar a cabeleira loura descendo pelo seu tronco, beijando, mordendo, lambendo, ia desde as costelas até o seu umbigo, onde enfiou a pontinha da língua, lambendo de um jeito completamente sugestivo, sorrindo cheio de malícia, arrancando de ti um gritinho esganiçado, indignada com o quão despudorado o seu amigo conseguia ser.

– Ay, perdón! É que você é tão gostosinha que eu quero te lamber em todo canto. – A justificativa não poderia ser pior e você, que estava pronta para xingá-lo, emudeceu ao sentir suas perninhas serem arreganhadas e um filete de saliva escorrer desde a buceta encharcada até a entradinha mais apertada, umedecendo o caminho. – Mas acho que aqui ‘cê gosta mais, né? Lembro até hoje de quando você sentou na minha cara pela primeira vez, ficou se esfregando em mim feito uma gatinha manhosa. – Os dedos em um ‘V’ abriram os seus lábios, deixando agora os seus dois buraquinhos expostos, os dois pulsando involuntariamente, sensíveis diante dos estímulos. – O cheirinho da sua bucetinha ficou no meu rosto pelo resto da noite, sabia? Docinha, docinha. 

Chegando bem pertinho de ti, o loiro inalou profundamente o seu aroma, fechando os olhos e soltando um arfar pesado, matando a saudade. O nome dele saiu dos seus lábios novamente, dessa vez com mais vontade, em um pedido para que ele acabasse com aquela tortura e te desse o que você tanto queria. Seu corpo inteiro estremeceu quando a língua ágil desceu desde o clitóris até o canalzinho estreito, fazendo com que você se agarrasse aos fios clarinhos quando Fran começou a - literalmente - te devorar com a boca. Sem pudor ou vergonha alguma, ele esfregava os lábios e toda a face contra o seu íntimo, não poupando na saliva e espalhando toda a lubrificação pela região. Os lábios finos envolviam o botãozinho sensível, mamando, sugando, usando os dentes para te provocar, às vezes descia, se afundava em ti, rodeava o interior com o músculo esponjoso. 

Da sua boca escapavam os murmúrios e frases mais desconexas, esquecendo-se da movimentação nos corredores do edifício universitário e da possibilidade de serem pegos no flagra a qualquer momento pela zeladora ou até mesmo pelas garotas que moravam contigo. Alucinadinha, você não conseguia pensar em mais nada enquanto Fran te comia com a língua, arrancando de ti um miado dengoso quando ele te tocou o cuzinho, babando o buraquinho para se enfiar ali também, te deixando preparadinha. 

Os olhos azulados só te deixavam quando eles eram fechados, quando o tesão tomava conta da cabeça do argentino e o fazia se deliciar no seu corpo, começando a esfregar o quadril contra o colchão, desesperado por um pouco de alívio também. Mas, no momento, Fran queria que fosse tudo sobre você, embora o pau estivesse pulsando freneticamente dentro da cueca. Por isso, te chupava com afinco, praticamente enfiando o rosto nas suas curvas, as mãos te mantinham parada, ou ao menos tentavam, apertando sua carne, espremendo os dígitos até eles deixarem marquinhas. 

Quando ele se afastou, a imagem não poderia ser mais indecente; os fios estavam desgrenhados, a pontinha do nariz brilhava, cheia do seu melzinho, assim como o queixo e os lábios, e um fio de saliva ainda o conectava ao seu corpo, te fazendo revirar os olhos em puro tesão. O indicador foi pressionado contra o seu rabinho, lentamente te alargando ali, enquanto os dedos da outra mão esfregavam o pontinho sensível, te fazendo derreter diante do toque, inquieta, rebolando em busca de mais.

– ‘Tá gostosinho assim, gatinha? – Fran questionou, apoiando o rosto na sua coxa, sem nem ligar para a meleira que ia toda para a bochecha dele. – ‘Tá sugando o meu dedo com esse rabinho guloso. Posso colocar outro, posso?

Sua resposta imediata o fez soltar uma risadinha soprada, empurrando mais um dígito para o seu interior, acumulando mais um pouquinho de saliva e cuspindo ali, facilitando a entrada deles. O punho se movia em uma lentidão torturante, o jeitinho que ele te olhava, meio carente também, fazia o seu corpo reagir com ainda mais intensidade, querendo sentir o toque dele em cada cantinho da sua pele. Você se tornava extremamente necessitada, lágrimas se acumulavam nos olhos, escorrendo pelo rostinho bonito, te fazendo fungar, carentinha, chega dava dó. 

Quando os dedos abandonaram o seu corpo, o seu olhar perdido automaticamente buscou pelo argentino, encontrando-o já de pé no meio do quarto e se livrando das roupas com pressa. Observou o físico magro, se demorando no caralho teso grossinho e rosinha claro na ponta, era médio, mas o suficiente para te fazer ver estrelas quando estava enfiado até o talo em ti. Abriu mais espaço para ele, controlando um sorrisinho sapeca ao admirar a mão envolvendo toda a extensão, bombeando rápido, apenas para se preparar. 

Com tanto tesão acumulado, você sabia que gozaria rápido. Por isso, estremeceu em antecipação no momento em que Fran usou mais saliva para espalhar na própria ereção, deixando babadinho para deslizar com facilidade em ti. Uma vez acomodado entre as suas pernas, ele te roubou um selinho demorado, rindo de modo descontraído, como em tudo que fazia, Fran parecia completamente à vontade e desinibido. Pincelando a cabecinha na sua entrada menor, um gemido arrastado escapou de ambos quando, de pouquinho em pouquinho, o pau começou a abrir caminho no seu interior. 

Sentia suas preguinhas alargarem ao redor do argentino, seus lábios entreabertos em um ‘O’, te dando uma expressão tolinha, como se todos os seus sentidos estivessem fora de ordem naquele momento. Com uma mão na sua cintura, Fran acariciou a derme, te distraindo da típica queimação, deixando vários beijinhos estalados pelo seu colo. Você fazia assim com o Esteban também? O questionamento infame fez um chorinho cheio da manha escapar de ti, a menção ao seu ex em um momento de intimidade com outra pessoa te deixando ainda mais sensível, fazia tudo parecer mais sujo.

– Ele não…Ele não botava a língua do jeitinho que ‘cê fez… – Você confessou, entorpecida pelo prazer, levando as próprias mãos aos peitinhos e brincando com os mamilos. 

– No lo puedo creer! – A exclamação veio cheia de surpresa, exagerada, mas a informação o fez aumentar a velocidade dos movimentos, socando com tudo no seu buraquinho apertado, te fazendo miar baixinho. – Que coisa mais feia, ele não mamava o seu cuzinho? – Quando você respondeu, toda carente, um ‘não’ choroso, o argentino juntou os lábios em um biquinho, sonso. – Aw, pobrecita…

Embora a expressão estivesse convertida em pena, o quadril de Fran não aparentava possuir nenhum pingo de dó do seu corpinho quando passou a meter em ti, a pontinha do pau alcançando o ponto que te fazia estremecer da cabeça aos pés, buscando desesperadamente pelos lábios do loiro novamente, em uma tentativa de abafar os seus gemidos que certamente já haviam denunciado para quem quisesse ouvir o que estava acontecendo dentro do dormitório. 

Frases incoerentes ecoavam de ambos, inebriados no prazer que davam um ao outro e envolvidos demais para se importarem com o barulho da cabeceira batendo contra a parede. Suas mãos percorriam as costas largas do argentino, deixando arranhões que marcariam toda a pele alva, indo desde a nuca até as nádegas, apertando a carne, empurrando ainda mais para perto de si, fazendo-o ir cada vez mais fundo e firme, certeiro nos movimentos. 

O seu orgasmo veio avassalador, arrancando da sua garganta um gritinho abafado por um beijo desengonçado e molhado, que cobriu também o gemido arrastado de Fran, levado ao seu limite ao sentir as suas paredes espremem o pau dele, com a boca grudada na tua, ele urrou quando a porra começou a vazar diretamente no seu rabinho apertado, te deixando molinha nos braços dele, a cabecinha vazia, tão desatenta que não se deu conta da movimentação alheia. Foi só quando sentiu o friozinho do metal te preenchendo que arregalou os olhos, desperta, dando de cara com um sorriso perverso estampado por toda a face delicada do loiro. 

‘Pra você guardar tudinho aqui, foi o que ele disse, enfiando o plug e descendo o olhar por todo o seu físico, brincando com a pontinha felpuda que agora te deixava uma gatinha por completo. Caindo ao teu lado, as palavras seguintes de Fran te fizeram soltar um grunhido irritadinho, embora todo o seu corpo tenha reagido positivamente. Quando você quiser brincar assim de novo é só me chamar, gatinha, eu te dou até leitinho quentinho, ó.

　　₊　⠀　⏖　　⠀⁺　　𐙚　　◌　⠀　✧ tag, you're it: servidas, senhoras?! @lunitt @bestgirlie @creads @daylighthts @jenniejjun @enzocoquette @pacifyherz @geniousbh @groupieaesthetic

[cheriladycl01]

Request

Max Verstappen x American Fem Red Bull Driver

Max is in love with her and wants a chance to make her happy, but she can't forget her ex-boyfriend, with whom she has an on-and-off relationship. Her ex-boyfriend is not a total stranger. Joe Burrow, one of the main players of the current generation of American football, in which he plays as quarterback for the Cincinatti Bengals, has known Y/N since childhood, as they are both from the state of Ohio, he is also very passionate about her and tries to make the relationship continue at a distance, as she lives in Monaco. Y/N needs to make a decision about who will occupy the space in her heart. P.S: I don't know anything about American football, but one day a Joe Burrow edit appeared on TikTok and I fell in love with it. This is not to mention anything related to American football, just to mention that Burrow also wants to fight Max for her heart.

Take my heart and do as you want - Max Verstappen x RedBullDriver! Reader x Joe Burrow

Plot: You are a RedBull driver with one of the most notable relationships on the grid due to it's on and off nature. After a really rocky patch, they are currently broken up and she starts to see her team-mate in a different light.

Credit to a-moment-captured for the GIF

You'd had the best season of your life after being promoted to RedBull. But that came with it being an insanely busy season, more exhausting and more duties to attend to. When you were in the beta RB team it hadn't really mattered as you weren't as admired as a driver on the grid but now being in a top performing team there was definitely more media attention on you.

This really affected your relationship with your now ex-boyfriend Joe Burrow, you'd dated him when you were both in high school and continued that relationship on into your adult lives.

At first when you didn't have the money to move out of state because all your money, and all your parents money went on racing, which wasn't as cheap or easy a career path as it was for Joe getting into Football and being given scholarships for college.

You had to work tooth and nail for your place in the sport. But you and Joe recently had been struggling with, well just being together in general. You'd made the decision to move to Monaco it made sense as a lot of your colleagues and friends resided there and now that you were earning more from being in Red Bull, it meant that you benefited from the tax regime there.

But that move put a massive strain on your relationship with Joe, you'd know each other for years and were childhood sweethearts, so of course you tried long distance.

It was hard because it wasn't just long distance, you both had such busy schedules that finding just time to call each other was unlikely.

Eventually Joe called it quits over the phone, the very next day you crashed out when Charles Leclerc's brakes disconnected and he cut you off going into a turn.

Joe had text you straight away that he was flying out to come and see you and make sure you were okay.

Thus was the start of the post-relationship era into the weird era where nobody not even yourselves knew if you were together or not. You loved each other so much, you were each others first in everything and this is the man you thought you'd end up marrying one day.

To the media, you were in this weird on and off relationship. When your schedules linked up, you were seen together for days on end be that in a random country where you race was, a football stadium in America where you were cheering him on, or in your new home of Monaco. But when you weren't together or close to having to separate you'd be seen arguing and fighting. You'd once even gone as far as to an-add each other on socials when a video came out of Joe in a club where he looked pretty close and cosy with a girl.

You obviously knew you couldn't stop him from seeing other people, that would be insane but you would have liked confirmation that you guys were seeing other people. As that would have been your final straw to cut emotional tie's with Joe.

Joe was special to you, and you thought he always would be. There was part of you that would always love him, and there was part of him that would always love you. But it was hard to ever let go of that which is where this vicious back and forth cycle came from.

However, the most recent time you'd been in one of your off periods your team-mate Max who you'd known also from childhood, not as early on as Joe but from about age 13 when you were doing Karting had started acting differently towards you.

"Hey Y/N, I saw these and remembered you like them" he said on the first occasion handing you a box of chocolates that you only really would treat yourself to around Christmas.

"Hey Y/N, I brought you this last weekend because you won!" he exclaimed handing you a little Monaco flag on a keychain because you won your race there.

"Hey Y/N! Marko said you needed a drink, so i brought you that Gauva juice your trainer makes for you" he smiled handing you the glass while you were sat in the Red Bull hospitality watching your on board from FP1.

And it continued, random little acts and gifts. Max had always been rather affectionate to you even before you were team-mates, sending you small compliments and making extra efforts when he pulled your name out for secret Santa.

You also started to notice his sourness whenever Joe was around particularly when you guys were racing on home turf where all of your friends came from.

"Joe baby, can you grab my helmet for me?" you asked him politely as you struggled getting all your wispy bits of hair tucked fully into your balaclava. However, he was scrolling on his phone, not listening to the request at hand.

"Here you go, at least I listen... unlike some of us" Max frowned looking directly at Joe to see even if that would get a reaction form him, which it did.

"Oh I'm sorry love. It's so loud in these garages! Here let me put it on for you. You know I like doing that!" he smiles at you placing his phone in his pocket and looking towards you.

"Thank you for grabbing it Max!" you smile at your team-mate before handing it to Joe. He makes sure your braid is in the best position before slipping it onto your head and kissing the top of you helmet. He kept looking over at Max the whole time.

He'd always been a little suspicious of Max's intentions towards his girlfriend, even before the move to become his team-mate and now that they shared a garage it was ten times worse.

He was constantly worried he was loosing you and the more you focused on your sport the more you would be prey to Max's advances and he'd win you over which Joe didn't want at all.

Joe loved you and he always would which is what hurt so much about the distance created between you two.

"Good luck in the race baby. i love you so much and your gonna do great!" he smiles down at you.

You give him a hug before running off to the garage where they would roll your car out onto track ahead of the formation lap.

You won that race, you and Max had a tense race constantly taking over one another while defending together from Lando who was in P3 until the last two laps where you got the upper hand and pushed in front despite being on the older tires.

Come the next race weekend you and Joe had probably had one of your most spiteful arguments to date.

"No, because why is it always me making the travel?" he had asked you.

"Because you play in just America baby. I drive round the world and it fucks me up with all the time difference changes espeically if I'm doing the Middle East back to you or Australia back to you" you try to explain but you could tell he was getting more frustrated with everything yoy said.

"Look, I love you, and you know I do. But right now I feel like I'm the only one making the effort!" he sighs rubbing his head.

"How can you say that?" you gasped in horror thinking of all the things you had sacrificed to try and make this work.

"It's always me coming to see you, you're never home anymore. I see your parents more than you do. All our friends miss you but your out here playing happy driver?" he chides throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"You know The States haven't been my home in a while Joe. How dare you fucking say this when you're the one who gave up on us first! I fought for us but YOU said you couldn't do this distance. Then when it got to much you came crawling back begging for my forgiveness..." you said raising your voice.

"It's just not fair when I'm making all these sacrifices for you and I see nothing in return!" he exclaims looking at you as you stood up to go get a glass of water.

"How is it just you making sacrifices! I declined my first shot in a RedBull seat for you and they gave it to Checo! I'm lucky they asked me a second time to replace him! Not many other people would have had that offer. I send you money to help pay for the house because I chose to move out! I've left the race track without doing media duties so i can catch a 15 hour direct flight just to come see you, yet I don't do enough?" you yell at him.

"Y/N please let's not argue. You know I love you and I'd do anything for you, for us please!" he cries looking at you his eyes a little glassy from the argument.

"No! I've been so stressed these path months and you keep telling me, it's fine, its going to be fine, we're going to be fine, this bad patch will pass soon, when all i wanted was you to comfort me and hug me and tell me it's okay to feel that way not try and dismiss my feelings!" you scream at him and he looks at you in shock.

After that it was like something possessed both of you to say what you both hated about the other which when you looked at it after they were actually all the things you loved about him because they were what made him, well him the man you fell in love with.

However, it was such a bad breakup that Joe was once again spotted in a night club. He'd text you the next morning apologizing saying he didn't mean any of it and it was just all a really big mistake.

You'd spent the day crying in your drivers room before the start of FP1. You felt so alone and like you couldn't talk to anyone.

"Y/N?" you heard the soft Dutch accent ask from the other side of the door. You held your sobs in and waited until it sounded like Max had left before you let a jagged breath out.

"Y/N, let me come in" you hear Max as making you get up and unlock the little bolt on the door.

"Are you-" he asks before he can fully look at you. You go back to the sofa and curl up into the ball you were in before he got there.

"Oh Schat, come here" he says as he takes a seat next to you with his arms open.

"I don't know what to do!" you cried into him while he played with your hair and rubbed your back comfortingly.

"Why do you keep doing this to yourself" he sighs pulling your chin up and looking you in the eyes.

"What do you mean?" you ask cocking your head to the side.

"This on and off toxic, viscous circle with Joe. It's not healthy and you only ever make yourself upset" he sighs, pulling some hair behind your ear.

"I don't know..." you sigh, thinking about all of it.

"Maybe I can help" he smiles. In Max's mind this may be the only chance he gets to admit his feeling for you, to you. And he wasn't going to waste that opportunity no matter the potential out come.

He leaned in and pulled you in for a kiss, you kissed back shocked what was going on. And eventually molded into it until a voice in the back of you head reminded you of how much you loved Joe even if you were broken up.

"Max no s-stop!" you mumble as you push him back and when you look over your team-mate he looks heartbroken.

You sit there for a second, kissing Max was so different to kissing Joe. Kissing Joe was familiar and comforting and full of love and the kindness that was Joe Burrow. But kissing Max was passionate, impulsive and a different kind of affection. Something new. And you couldn't put your finger on why Max made you feel like that from something as simple as a kiss.

You wanted to try it again.

So you leaned in, pulling his jaw closer to you until your lips met and the kiss was aggressive and both of you were fighting for more power. Just like you did on track.

But again, you pulled away a little voice at the back of your mind telling you this isn't something you should be pursuing as Joe will come back and apologize for the argument. Just like he always did.

"I-I'm confused ..." you say tears welling in your eyes. As you look over at Max.

"You need to leave!" you say immediately pushing him out the room and locking the door.

You stood there, not knowing what you were feeling or what to even think.

The only thing on your mind is that you were hopelessly stuck in between two boys and your stuck feeling for one of them, whilst growing feeling for the other.

Taglist:

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[milky-fixx]

day 9, sesshomaru: ruts

kinktobruary day 9

sesshomaru x reader // inuyasha

—sesshomaru has been acting strange lately. the last thing he needs is your oblivious questions.

tw/cws: knotting, ruts, dubcon, sesshomaru being too horny to have self-respect

It is troublesome, this burning heat. It stirs, just beneath the surface of his skin, coils between his muscles. It calls to him, urges him to find a warm body, to mount it. His claws elongate as he observes the heat diffusing from his palm. Hm. Even a demon of high caliber such as himself is powerless to nature’s calling.

Much less… his thoughts began to drift to you, his very human companion. There are things he wants to do to you, thoughts that he’s repressed in the past that come snarling towards him, breaking out of their cage. He frowns. This won’t do.

—

“Gosh, Sesshomaru really has been cranky all day, huh,” you remark, after the third time he’s evaded your presence. His silence and occasional ignoring is something you’re used to, but not him outright using his demonic speed to dash seven paces away from you.

Jaken shushes you urgently, glancing fearfully towards his master. “Lord Sesshomaru is going through a… difficult period.”

You frown. You disappeared to the modern era for a few days to sort through your college midterms, and when you came back, Sesshomaru was in this bristly mood. You can’t help but think you’re missing something.

“Is it Inuyasha?” You ask lowly, knowing all too well of his tumultuous relationship with his brother. “Does it have to do with his father?”

“No, and no, you daft human,” Jaken nags.

You’re more than used to Jaken’s insults. “Okay, so…. what’s up with him?”

The imp glances eyes you, before quickly changing the subject. Your frown deepens as you finish bending the stems to Rin’s flower crown, before calling her over and placing it on her head. While she chatters excitedly to you, you find your gaze straying to Sesshomaru’s tense form in the distance, just far enough where he can still keep an eye out for enemies, but not too close to your group. 

Whatever his problem is, you would get it out of Jaken some way.

—

You just don’t anticipate how you will. 

Sesshomaru’s been acutely avoiding any and all interactions with your group all day. It’s almost as if he’s a specter, lurking just outside of your field of vision. Except whenever he does get closer, you’re overwhelmed by a sense of—bloodlust? Malice? Something that simmers with intensity. You can’t quite pinpoint it, and whenever you ask Jaken, he seems to evade your question. Whatever it is, it sends shivers down your spine. 

When you set up camp for the night, he disappears entirely.

Your thoughts are plagued by worries for him, and you fall into a fitful sleep. What could possibly be causing him to be so on edge all day? You’re stirred into consciousness by something brushing against your nose. Your face scrunches up, and when you open your eyes, you see a flash of silver hair, curtaining your view, the same wave of bloodlust—

“Sesshomaru?” Just as his name leaves your mouth, his presence is gone in a flash, the air around you stirred. You sit up, glancing towards the direction of his after-image.

You weigh your options. Jaken did say he was going through a difficult time…. but you aren’t sure what is troubling him. Maybe it’s a demon thing? Should you really risk getting your head bitten off? 

Against your better judgement, you go searching for him. Sure, he’s a big, bad demon, but something is clearly bothering him. And as his.... friend—as loathe as he is to admit it—you can’t just leave him be. 

What you are not expecting is to see Sesshomaru hunched over by a tree as if in pain. You call out his name, running towards him, but are stopped by a feral snarl as he turns towards you, his eyes flashing red.

“Leave. Now.”

“What’s wrong? I—”

As you approach closer, you notice several things. His claws are sunk into the tree, the poison leeching from it and decaying the bark. The markings on his face are fiercer, more striking, and his fangs protrude from his lips. His eyes flash more and more red with every moment; he looks every bit a wild animal. But, and perhaps the most scandalous of all, he grips his cock in one clawed hand, erect and red, and apparently he was jerking off.

You try not to stare, you really do, but your eyes instinctively dart down there as you feel heat creep to your cheeks at the position you’ve caught him in. 

His hand has stopped moving, but his cock stands throbbing, looking painfully erect. You gulp.

“You’re just a mere human. You wouldn’t understand—”

“You’re… horny,” you state, blandly.

“Human—” His eyes flash dangerously.

“You’re...” Your mind flashes through possibilities. Sesshomaru seems unable to control his... not bloodlust, but carnal lust. He is a dog demon, which means.. he could possibly be... “In a... rut?”

He stills. A vein pops out in his jaw, his fangs seeming even more prominent.

“I… I studied this in school. Once.” Freshman biology, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Do you need—” You’re not sure what you’re asking him. What does he need? A hole? A demonness to fuck?

This is awkward. His eyes follow you like a predator, that wave of lust washing over you again. You stifle a shiver.

“Before your arrival,” he says suddenly, the piercing quality of his words startling you. “I had no such issues dealing with these… urges. But now, they are quite...” His claws dig into the bark further, and the bark snaps. “Incorrigible.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I’m… sorry?”

“This is partly your doing,” he growls.

“Uh-huh...”

“I... am tempted to ask you to fix it.”

This is where your brain grinds to a halt, your jaw dropping. His sharp gaze hones in on the way your mouth opens enticingly, and you notice, snapping it shut. “I—you want me to—”

He makes a frustrated growl in the back of his throat. “Disregard that.” And then he’s stalking away, each step seeming painful, emphasized even more by the engorged flesh sticking out of his pants.

“W-Wait, Sesshomaru—”

He’s on you in a flash, before you can even blink, and you freeze. “I suggest—” The warmth of his breath washes over you, and this close you can feel just how hot he’s running, his entire body diffusing heat. “That you don’t—call me—like that—”

“Like what?” you blurt out. “I’m just saying your name.”

His lip curls over his fangs. His eyes clench in frustration. You seem to be testing the limits of his patience.

“Sesshomaru, what—”

In a flash, he’s pressing you against another tree, and his lips are claiming yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, his fangs digging into your lip. You flinch when you feel blood trickle down your chin, and he snarls at the taste of it, before pulling away.

“For one of the less idiotic humans, you can be quite obstinate.”

“I’m...” You blink, dazed. “Sorry?”

His mouth is claiming yours again, his chestplate pressing you into the bark. You feel the heat of his cock pressed up against your thigh, and you shudder at the sensation. It’s hitting you now.

Sesshomaru, one of the most ethereally beautiful people you’ve seen, the most powerful demon in the Feudal Era, wants to... he’s this frenzied up because of... because of you. You, an average human.

Your thigh nudges against his length, and he breaks the kiss to snarl, his fangs lowering to graze your collarbone. Your breath hitches, and one, clawed finger comes up to shred your shirt. You yelp as the cold air hits you only to be devoured by the heat of his mouth on your skin. His fingers claws through the material of your bra, and you yelp again.

“Hey, that was one of my favorites!” you say, indignant. He scoffs, his mouth suctioning over the give of your flesh possessively.

You moan, arching into his touch, as you stare down at him. You don’t dare touch his silver hair, afraid of how he may lash out on you, but your hands do come up to his shoulders, tugging the fabric.

You tense when one of his fingers lowers itself to your hip, and then he’s ripping the panties and skirt off in one clawed swipe.

“We really... have to talk about you ruining all my clothing,” you say, weakly, your affront tempered by his actions.

He scoffs again. “You won’t need such flimsy things in just a moment.”

“Ah...”

His finger slides against your slit, collecting your release, as you writhe against his touch. He’s aware of the softness of your flesh in comparison to his demon claws so he doesn’t do anything much other than rub his finger back and forth along you. He growls once he’s satisfied with the amount of slick coating your area, before leaning back and aligning the his cock to your entrance.

“A-ah wait—“ Your eyes widen at his considerable length; you’re not nearly ready to take him in. But then he’s canting his hips forward, not penetrating you, but sliding his cock along your slick till he reaches your ass cheeks. He continues this rocking motion, his lips pulled back in a snarl. You moan, dropping your head back, before wincing as it hits the unyielding bark. His hand comes up to cradle your head. “Thanks,” you murmur.

His sharp gaze is fixated on the way his length slides against you, and rubs against your slick; the way your arousal gleams on his shaft under the moonlight.

His hips begin to rock faster now, a growl building up in his throat. You wince at the dig of his armor against your bare skin, gripping his shoulders as you attempt to find some grounding.

You feel his cock throbbing insistently against you, his pre-ejaculate mixing with your arousal to make for an easy slide against you.

He growls, his eyes narrowing. His grip digs into your hip as his thrusts become choppier. You get the sense he’s frustrated.

“Do you want to... put it in?”

His gaze flashes up to you, surprise in the bleeding red, as you continue. “I... that’ll help abate your rut right? I don’t mind... you using me.”

You have little else you can say, because Sesshomaru sheathes himself inside you in one thrust. You gasp, your eyes clenching at the feel of him stretching you to your limits.

“Ever heard of a... a warning?” you manage to choke out.

He shows no mercy, his hips ruthlessly pounding into yours once given the go ahead. It’s clear Sesshomaru is losing his grip on rule or reason now, his eyes maintaining their blood-red state. You wince as his elongated claws press into the meat of your waist. He fucks you like he takes down foes: with ruthless precision. Once his cock hits that spot that has you keening against him, he begins hammeringinto it, and your eyes began to water at the sheer intensity and rapidness at which your pleasure is mounting.

At the sight of your tears, however, he seems to slow down. His tongue darts out to lick them off your face, and he’s observing you, before his thrusts slow to a leisurely lull. When the palm of his hand comes down to press against your clit, the stimulation, combined with the way his cock is plunging into you in long, deep thrusts, has you writhing against him.

“S-Sesshomaru—”

You feel something bulbous forming at the base of his cock, stretching you wider, and you look down. Protruding from his cock is a thick knot, and you gulp once you realize that’s going into you.

You’re approaching your end. He snarls as you tighten around him, both his hands gripping your hips to him now, as your walls clench around him, nearly trapping his cock with their grip.

Sesshomaru thrusts once before pressing deep inside you, a throaty grunt tearing from him. You shiver as you feel copious amounts of warmth seep into you, and it remains inside you due to the knot plugging you up. The moment seems to stretch on forever, his hips jerking into yours in minute movements, and then it’s over.

The two of you are stuck together. You shift only to wince once it jerks at his knot. He grunts, keeping your hips in place.

“Sorry,” you say. And then, when a few more minutes have passed, and the two of you are still in the same position, you ask, “Ah, when can we.... detach?”

Sesshomaru grunts. “Once it deflates.”

“Ah... and when will that be?”

He shifts. “This Sesshomaru is claiming you as his. It will take awhile.”

“Ah, okay—wait, what?”

He presses you closer to him, and you rest your head against his chest. While the feel of cooling cum usually is gross, the heat of his body keeps you warm and feeling full. His clawed fingers gradually begin to trail through you hair. After several minutes that seem to stretch into eons, the bond keeping you to him diminishes, and you shiver when you feel some of his spend trickle down your thigh.

Instead of the hard flesh inside you softening, however, it stays stiff. You still, glancing up at him to see his markings still vibrant, his red eyes glowing distinctly.

“Did you really think we were done, human? The Demon Lord of the West surely does not possess such a meager drive.”

—

The next morning, you come up with some half-assed excuse to Rin about why you’re wearing a kimono from the local seamstress, and not your usual outfit. And why you can’t seem to walk anymore, and Sesshomaru has to carry you everywhere.

“(Y/N) must have fallen and hurt themselves.” She giggles.

“Yes, Rin... on a very large... stick.” Sesshomaru’s claws dig into your backside in warning. “I mean—tree branch.”

“Silly (Y/N)! It’s a good thing Lord Sesshomaru is around to take care of you.”

(Meanwhile, Jaken has yet to be seen since he encountered the two of you this morning. He’s too busy cleansing his eyes and nose out in a lake.)

[thesonicpunk]

My favourite SNS fanfics (part 1)

Someone in the comments of my own fic asked for NaruSasu recs, so I thought I'd also make a post compiling my absolute favourites here! I've been so fortunate with the response to my work on AO3 so I hope this is a nice way to share the love around:

Inside this place is warm by magma. One shot, a cozy night in with Sasuke and hokage!Naruto where they figure out what they are to each other. It's short, so well written and the author really grasps the subtleness/complex nature of their relationship! (the author is @magmavox on tumblr!)

Swimming against the current by GODZILLA90095. Part 1 of the series with the same name. College AU. When I tell you I devoured this fanfic........ Lowkey-emo!Sasuke, hockey-player!Naruto. It's funny, it's got lots of pinning, it's got feels, it's got Naruto figuring out his sexuality in the most typically Naruto way, basically it's got IT ALL. And the writing is amazing. It was the fic that inspired me to get on the website and post my own work.

Tears don't fall by GODZILLA90095 (again bcs they rule). Part 1 of the series A different way but just as good. Modern AU. It's kind of a Naruto and Sasuke get a second chance in their 30s after a huge break-up. Naruto has kids with Hinata, but he's gay. It's heartbreaking, raw, real, beautiful.... fuckkkk read it!!!

The Symposium series by candlewix. Told from the perspective of ace!Kakashi. We see Naruto and Sasuke's love story across the years from his eyes. No one, I mean NO ONE, is as funny as this author. The way they write Kakashi's POV is hilarious, but so well balanced by the profound and beautiful descriptions the author writes about what Nart and Sake mean to each other. ugh.

We Deserved a Better Ending My Love by narutophobia. Reencarnation babyyy! Naruto and Sasuke in modern times, but everything that was in canon was real just reaaally long ago. Naruto remembers, searches for Sasuke (who doesnt remember!!). SHENANIGANS ensue. Beautiful love story and such an interesting take on things.

love like this is forever by moonplums.  Part 1 of the series forever. It's set in Boruto era/world - I am not usually into that tbh, it gives me anxiety to think about Sasuke and Naruto not getting together after the war BUT this series does it quite nicely, kind of like they have their awakening later in life and it's very cute how they have a family with the kids. Sarada's POV. Worth reading for sure!

when it all comes together, there's just you by kintou.  It's short fragments of both Naruto and Sasuke discovering their sexualities across the years, with and without each other. Super cute and interesting, and smutty! I love the concept. (author is @ao3-kintou on tumblr!)

I might one day make a part 2 to this, but so far these are the ones I've read that I really love! I hope it was ok to share these on here, if you are the author and would like me to remove (or tag you!) just message me.

If you read any of these and you like 'em, remember to leave a comment (any comment!). You can make the author's day with just a little emoji. <3

[csmiclxtte]

Solar Return Observation (Mars Edition)

Early Degree Mars (0°~1°) can show that you strive for independence. You may have difficulty in directing your energy, which may lead to feeling of frustration, anger, and restlessness. Pay attention to the sign and placement. See if any people close to you have natal Mars in the same sign, because they may be the subject of your frustration too. They might do nothing wrong and being their usual self and yet it still irks you. House placement also cues to what you seek independence from e.g. home (4H), daily life, work, coworker (6H), friendship (11H).

Mars in Aries you want to get moving, channeling your inner energy through physical activity. You may feel pumped and eager to take opportunities. Exercises could help you to ease your mind. Staying active. You may pay attention more to your physique. You may be more confrontative, even if you are naturally not like that. I personally love this placement lol. This is the time when you stop giving a f to anyone and just go with your guts, what makes you feel good, what feels right to you. It's just an easier energy to move with, because Mars is in domicile.

Mars in Taurus is slow-progressing. Whichever house it's sitting in, you may feel like you're not making significant progress on that specific area e.g. slow progress in work (6H), dreams feel like it's faraway or impossible (11H). Achievement does not come instantly. Overall very slow, taking progress step by step. It may feel exhausting especially for mutable dominants.

Mars in 4H during this time, I spent most of my time at home. However, there is a restlessness of wanting to do more. Family may be your main motivation of taking actions. The closer Mars is to IC, it may pushes you more to move and progress away from your roots/house/home. All because you want to be more independent. Fights and arguments in family are possible, but understand that you can react differently from what you used to do in the past.

Mars conjunct Neptune can be times when one pour their energy to achieve their dreams. House placement often gives the theme (e.g. college/study for 9H, career or job for 10H). You can almost create everything in your dream to come true. From what I notice however, this aspect has a possibility to be short-lived. One moment you can "achieve" what you want, or there is a sense of achievement, but without careful planning such situation may not thrive. There may be a lot of confusions and crossroads. Your action may be taken differently by others, prone to be misunderstood.

Mars conjunct Chiron is actually not as bad as I originally thought. Maybe it also depends on the sign, but I found this aspect to quickly progress your healing era forward. You will face the wounds you had, whether you want to or not. Mars doesn't wait until you're ready. It would push you to take action and do something about your wound situation. It can be a messy aspect, of course. Not as enjoyable. Emotional outbursts is very possible. However, looking back to that time, I feel grateful because it kickstarted the journey in consciously managing wounds, and dealing with unpleasant things. Also signifies a lesson in handling your anger more efficiently.

Mars coniunct Mercury your mind is sharp, quick to process and to store information. You are decisive, assertive, even confident. Your mind is very capable, can solve problems easily. However be careful not to hurt people because of your words. You may feel lack of control/filter with your words, saying stuff you dont mean, or the word you want to say came off more aggressive than you originally intended. I'd say this is a good indication of good grades as well, because of heightened focus and mental capability.

Thank you for reading

[secretsofdbz]

So I finally caught some sleep (I woke up at 4 am, 20 minutes after the announcement, and slept a bit more after my last post announcing his passing).

First of all, this is going to be my panel: "See ya later guys, when you die we'll meet again!"

The hematoma that's mentioned in the statement announced in his passing implies a head injury (so perhaps he fell, perhaps something fell on his head, and the internal wound may have not be noticed)

The last artwork he did that was published was this new Sandland one to celebrate the upcoming series. It was revealed on March 4th, so after his passing. We don't know if it's the last artwork he did (he may have drawn this earlier and it was revealed later, who knows.

I'd also like to share some other statements, in no particular order:

Toyotaro's:

Masako Nozawa (Goku's VA) statement:

「コメントできる状況にございません」 -> "I am not in a position to comment."

(aka she was too shaken)

Nozawa update:

「信じたくない。考えたくないという気持ちで頭の中が空っぽです。それでも、お会いするたびに鳥山先生がおっしゃってくださった『悟空をお願いしますね』というお言葉を思い出すと、『私の命が尽きるまで悟空のそばにいよう』と気持ちを保つことが出来ます。先生、空から私たちを見守っていてください。どうか安らかな旅立ちでありますように。」 I don't want to believe. My mind is empty because I don't want to think about it. Still, every time we met, Toriyama-sensei said to me, "I'll take care of Goku for you, won't I?" When I remember your words, 'I will stay by Goku's side until my life is over,' I can keep my mind on it. Sensei, please watch over us from the sky. May you have a peaceful departure.

(Mayumi Tanaka, the voice of Krillin who was requested by Tori super early on will probably say something at some point too).

Oda (One Piece author) statement:

It is too early. The hole is too big. Sadness washes over me when I think that I will never see him again. I have admired him so much since I was a child, so I remember the day he called me by name for the first time. On the way home from the day you used the word "friend" for me and Kishimoto, I remember being overjoyed with Kishimoto. I also remember the last conversation we had. I was one of those who took the baton from the days when reading manga made you a fool, and he also created an era when both adults and children could enjoy reading manga. He showed us the dream that manga can go worldwide. It was like watching a hero going forward. For not only mangakas but also creators in various industries, the excitement and emotion of the time of Dragon Ball serialization must have taken root in their childhood. His existence is like a big tree. For the manga artists of our generation who stood on the same stage, Toriyama's works became more and more important to me as I got closer to the same stage. I even felt being scary. But I am just happy to see the aloof man himself again. Because we love him on a blood level. With respect and gratitude for the creative world he has left behind. I pray for his soulful rest in peace. May heaven be the joyous world he envisioned.

And Kishimoto's statement (the autho of Naruto)

To be honest, I don’t know what to write or how to write it. But right now, I want to tell Mr. Toriyama the things I always wanted to ask him and my feelings. I grew up with Mr. Toriyama’s manga, Dr. Slump in elementary school and Dragon Ball in high school. It was natural for me to have Mr. Toriyama’s manga next to me as a part of my life. Even when I was feeling down, the weekly Dragon Ball always made me forget about it. It was a salvation for me, a country boy with nothing to do. That’s how much I enjoyed Dragon Ball! When I was a college student, Dragon Ball, which had been a part of my life for so long, suddenly ended. I was overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of loss and didn’t know what to look forward to. But at the same time, it was an opportunity for me to realize from the bottom of my heart the greatness of Mr. Toriyama, who created Dragon Ball. I want to create a work like Mr. Toriyama’s! I want to be like Mr. Toriyama! As I chased after Mr. Toriyama, the sense of loss gradually disappeared. Because it was fun to create manga. By chasing after Mr. Toriyama, I was able to find new joy. Mr. Toriyama was always my compass. He was my inspiration. I may be bothering Mr. Toriyama, but I am grateful to him without permission. To me, he was a savior and a god of manga. When I first met him, I was so nervous that I couldn’t say a word. But as I met him more and more at the Tezuka Osamu Cultural Prize jury meeting, I was able to talk to him. I will never forget the time when I talked to him about how much fun Dragon Ball was, like a child with Oda-san, as Dragon Ball children, and how he smiled a little shyly. I just received the news of Mr. Toriyama’s death. I am overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of loss, even greater than when Dragon Ball ended… I don’t know how to deal with this hole in my heart yet. I can’t read my favorite Dragon Ball right now. I don’t even feel like I’m writing this text properly to Mr. Toriyama. Everyone in the world was still looking forward to Mr. Toriyama’s work. If one Dragon Ball wish really comes true… I’m sorry… It may be selfish, but I’m sad, Mr. Toriyama. Thank you, Mr. Akira Toriyama, for 45 years of wonderful work. And thank you very much for your hard work. To the bereaved family, I pray that you will find peace and comfort in the midst of your grief. I pray for the peaceful repose of the soul of Mr. Akira Toriyama.

And finally one of Toriyama's close friends Masakazu Katsura (Video Girl AI author) also had this to say:

I feel drained and unmotivated. I don’t want to write a comment like this. But I’ll write something. Once I start writing, I’ll have so much to say that it will probably turn into a long text, but I’ll try to keep it as short as possible. I apologize for the rambling, as my thoughts are still not in order. Looking back, all I have are fond memories of the times we spent together – whether it was visiting your house, having you stay over at mine, or going out on trips. Every time we talked on the phone, we would laugh so hard that we would get tired. You were a funny person. You were perverted, cute, sharp-tongued, and humble. We collaborated on some manga projects, which were also a lot of fun. But 99% of the time, we never talked about manga. As a manga artist, the gap between the way we saw things and our level of skill was too great, and I never really felt your greatness. I know it now. But when I was with you, I never felt it at all. That’s just the kind of person you were. That’s why I still can’t think of you as anything other than a friend, even though you were a great manga artist. Last summer, before I had surgery, you heard about it somewhere and sent me an email. It was really rare for you to send an email, and it was so full of concern for my health. We’ve been friends for 40 years, but that might have been the first time I felt such kindness from you. I thought it was going to snow. You know, you usually only talk about jokes or nonsense. What the hell, you shouldn’t be worried about other people, right? I called you a little before that, and I was feeling sick all over, so I said, “I’ll probably go first, so have a farewell party for me, Toriyama! And make sure you give a speech, because it’ll make me look good!” But you didn’t keep your promise. I really regret not calling you after you emailed me. I just can’t believe that I can’t talk to you on the phone for hours anymore. There are so many things I want to talk to you about. There are so many things I want to say. Even if you don’t care about what I have to say, you can just zone out like you always do. I just want to talk to you again. The last thing you said to me was “OK” in response to my email asking you to contact me again. That’s just not good enough. I’m so sad.

And the Dragon Quest LEGEND, Yuji Horii, too...

I am still filled with disbelief at the sudden news of Mr. Toriyama’s passing. I have known Mr. Toriyama since I was a writer for Weekly Shonen Jump. At the recommendation of my editor, Torishima-san, I decided to ask him to draw the illustrations for the game Dragon Quest when we were launching it. For over 37 years since then, he has drawn countless charming characters, including character designs and monster designs. The history of Dragon Quest is one that has been intertwined with Mr. Toriyama’s character designs. Mr. Toriyama and the late Mr. Sugiyama were longtime collaborators on Dragon Quest. I can’t believe they’re gone… I can’t find the words to express my sorrow. This is truly, truly a tragedy.

Torishima, his "evil editor" (the one the Mashirito from Dr Slump is inspired by), also put out a statement:

"The last time we worked together was on the book we published last year, 'Dr. Mashirito's Strongest Manga Technique.' In that book, 'Torishima and Toriyama Back Then' was the last manga we made together. 45 years, thank you very much. Mr. Toriyama, you were the best manga artist I have ever known."

(this is what he's talking about)

Jackie Chan statement:

"Akira Toriyama-sensei, thank you for creating so many classics, they will always be with the world, farewell 🙏"

French president Emmanuel Macron:

the tweet reads "To Akira Toriyama and his millions of fans who grew up with him",

The authograph says "for Ma-ku-ro-n president" (to President Macron); the hand-drawn parts are the little Goku and the dragon balls surrounding him, alongside the autograph. It was drawn over a printed paper (as per custom when getting an autograph)

The date indicates it was given to him during the Olympic Games in Tokyo.

Yabuki Kentaro (To Love Ru's author) (link to the tweet)

Takao Koyama (screen writer for 90% of the episodes and the movies) says Toriyama was sick for over a year at this point. He himself is pretty badly sick as well.

Hiroki Takahashi (Makafushigi Adventure, first DB opening)

Hironobu Kageyama (Chala Head Chala and everything else)

"Singing 'CHA-LA HEAD-CHA-LA!' is the biggest medal in my life! The loss of the sun is too much to bear But the power of Toriyama-sensei's works Will continue to be a strong light And may it illuminate people all over the world. May you rest in peace."

(some more of the Editorial department of Jump can be found here, with a good browser extension you should be able to get the gist of it)

Feel free to reblog with your favorite manga panels, interviews, trivias, and let's pay a homage to his life and work, alright??