#get possessed gay boy

[foolsocracy]

Hi, hello, I’m new to your blog. I’ve made myself at home. Lovely carpet.

Can I please know more about your spider Robbie pie? Can’t seem to find the silverware.

but of course, kind anon

Spider Robbie is an au in which Robbie Robertson takes up the spider mantle after the death of the one before him. He is the third, following Ben Urich and, most notably, Peter Parker.

This au is very much canon divergence from Eyes Without a Face, where Peter makes it in time to save Robbie from his original fate but dies in the process. Peter is shot while rushing Robbie and the others out. In his panic and elation at finding Robbie physically unharmed, Peter outs himself as the Spider Man to his best friend. Robbie stays with him as he bleeds out and resolves to continue to hide Peter's identity.

Peter is buried and remains that way for... an undetermined amount of time.

Robbie is left with a mask, a jacket, and the question of just who was this other half of his friend. As he learns more of who this... Spider Man was, he gets more and more involved in the spider's cases and conflicts. Robbie gets more sure of his own abilities and makes a bit of a name for the Spider Man within his own community, though the people of Harlem are largely unaware that the appearances of a masked vigilante match the interests of one Robbie Robertson.

It is to be noted that none of these aforementioned abilities are spider-god-induced powers like Peter's. Robbie, especially at the beginning of his spidering career, leans more into Urich's role than Parker's. To me, Robbie has been passionate about the press and journalism in a way that Peter never was. For Pete, his job as a photographer and reporter was a job he took until he could get into college and study science. Robbie has a way with words and communication that Peter frankly lacks. Of course, that isn't to say that Robbie won't be kicking ass, because he will. It will just take him a bit of time to get some of those skills as he's, well, a normal guy. Not everyone can get their biology scrambled like Pete.

And just because Robbie hasn't been scrambled doesn't mean he's completely separate from all things supernatural either!

I think the marvel noir universe is at its best when there's a magical, supernatural undercurrent. This concept isn't super prevalent in the actual comics, but HoplesslyLost on ao3 has done some really cool world building with it.

I think in Robbie's case, where he would be the narrator, "magical realism" would be an interesting avenue to take it. I use this term in particular because I most closely relate it to Toni Morrison in my head, when I first learned about it through her work in high school. For Morrison, the concept was inseparable to blackness and I think for Robbie, where his blackness is so central to his character and his motivations, drawing on that could be more of a service to his character. It feels better to do that than ignore how incredibly racialized his society and story is. It will make his relationship with the spider god, Peter (who I will get to very very shortly), his community, and his own mythos as The Spider Man really interesting and complex.

So it's been established that Robbie doesn't have spider powers. And we all know that Peter did-- or should I say does. One of the spider god's abilities is to bring Peter back to life. She does this in the comics, but not in any of the runs from 2008-2010 (the runs that make up this au). When Peter dies on Ellis Island, he does not think he is coming back from that. Waking up again is a surprise.

Here's where I think the au really takes a left turn. Do I think the Spider God is purely evil and spiteful and has it out for Pete? No, not really. Will I be ramping said traits up to 11 for the au? Yeah, I guess I might. This is because I love a little bit of horror and the came back wrong trope. I will hopefully be fleshing the spider god out in the near future, but I really haven't given her the many hours of thought I have the other characters. For that I'm sorry spider god </3

Peter digs himself out of his grave, more spider than he ever has been. For much of his new, waking life he is more animalistic than not. There is clearly something wrong with him; his joints are too flexible and loose, he's got some eye-shine going on, his skin is pale and his veins are starkly dark beneath it. He's possessed. Someone is puppeteering him, someone who knows a lot-- almost everything about him, but it's clear that the someone isn't him.

And Peter--- the body, it can't be Peter. At least, that's what Robbie thinks when the figure catches his eye the first time. Because Peter is dead and buried, and he has been dead and buried for weeks.

[mrsillie]

It’s so fantastic to see all the comments on my guys posts of all the girls thirsting for him, all of them unaware that he is busy calling me his pretty boy as I cuddle in his arms. <3<3

[jimmyandthegiraffes]

Old straight doctor who fans get SO upset abt the idea of yates being gay it’s so funny. ‘EU content is canon until I don’t like what it says’ kind of vibes. Of all the information abt yates on his tardis wiki page, regardless of how tenuous or briefly mentioned in canon the only bit that’s ‘disputed’ is about him being gay

[scolek]

also the tou in touma is the kanji for bitter citrus, (kunyomi ‘daidai’ if youre like me and went ‘oh that’) so like. what if his image color isnt red, its blood orange.

myamu:

[androgynealienfemme]

"We go from store to store, trying to things on and inspecting them. I give my opinions on dresses and shoes, blouses and lipstick colors. Sometimes I say things that make the other women look at me, agape, as though my mouth has been possessed by that flighty queen from Queer Eye even while the rest of my body still looks like any other big dumb boy's. I say that I like a skirt but I wish it were bias-cut instead of A-line, or that I am not fond of the fashion for surplice tops, or that the post-WWII idiom in shoes this season is amusing but rarely looks good on actual feet, or that I like the look of a bolero jacket. I know the names of colors, heliotrope and coral and Nile blue, and I can say without hesitation whether a lipstick might look better matte with a bit of powder.

These other women look at me with wonder, their boyfriends and husbands having made a fetish out of refusing to learn such words under any circumstances, as though merely pronouncing the word "periwinkle" or "princess seam" could easily turn a strong man gay as a box of birds. They say to her, "That's your husband?" in voices that loiter between admiring and disgusted, as though they know that there's no force on earth that could make their men or boys take such interest in their clothing and they think they might really prefer that to the spectacle of me, filling an armchair, legs crossed ankle over knee, looking just right until I say "tea length."

The point is that she wants other girls to see what it looks like to have a boy so cracy in love with you, as I am, that he will spend an afternoon talking about capri pants to have a boy so delighted by you that he never calls you by your name, but addresses you always as "beautiful girl," or "my love" or occasionally and with great fondness, "boss." To have a boy who will happily fetch your next-size-down and carry your bags and charm the salesclerks at the register without flirting overmuch and just generally try to make himself as useful as possible, all for the dizzy and undying pleasure of making you happy. And even though I am not a boy, I look like one, and so I can be complicit with her in this kind of wonderful afternoon, part indulgence of her great beauty and style, part guerilla feminist activism.

Later, when we walk through the mall or down the sidewalk, me laden with packages that are clearly hers, I watch the eyes of the people we pass: the women who look at me with a certain longing, wishing they had their own boys to carry the bags. The men who look at her with an unmistakable hunger, wishing that they had the honor of schlepping for a girl like her, and then look at me with a certain edge of disbelief, not quite clear about why I get to squire this marvelous example of femininity around when they are clearly wealthier, more handsome, better hung. I have learned to meet all of these gazes with a calm kind of sweetness. There's no point in defensiveness or sheepishness or challenge. I'm the one holding her bags."

"Being a Shopping Switch” Butch is a Noun essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)

[rafeandonlyrafe]

you're not his girlfriend

words: 700

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, riding, angsty/sad ending, controlling rafe, drinking/partying, mention of physical violence, drug dealing, reader taking drugs/getting high

you’re not his girlfriend, but you do attend every party on rafes arm, his hand placed securely around your waist, giving warning looks to any man who stares a little too long at you, a little too long at your long legs in the short dress or your cleavage spilling out the top.

you’re not his girlfriend, but rafe saves the best of his stash for you, of course never making you pay. his eyes are possessive and lustful as you snort the line of coke off of his finger before collapsing into his body. he cares for you throughout your high, getting you whatever you need, talking to you, keeping you calm and happy.

you’re not his girlfriend, but spend hours riding his dick, bouncing and grinding after you convinced him to finally let you take control, his arms behind his head, a lazy grin on his face, watching your tits bounce with every movement, determined to make him cum as deep as possible inside of you. rafe only helps out when you cum, body shaking as he pushes you down onto his cock, cumming in time with you.

you’re not his girlfriend, but when ward kicks him out of the house, you’re the first person he calls. he pretends hes doing it for you, eating the ice cream and watching the cheesy movies, but when you cuddle up in bed, your arms around him, you both know that all the comfort is for him to feel better, to feel at home.

you’re not his girlfriend, but when you are chatting with another guy at a party, rafe gets furious, pulling you away, about to deck him straight in the face when your hands wrap around his bicep, explaining that the guy is gay, and you weren't flirting. rafe doesn’t punch the guy, but does take you upstairs into the bathroom and fucks you against the sink.

you’re not his girlfriend, but when he has to go away for a week for some business with ward, he tasks topper with looking after you, adding kelce in as well, needing to make sure you were looked after, with strict warnings not to touch you or get too friendly. you’re nice to the boys, inviting them inside for lemonade, knowing they’ll follow whatever rafe says.

you’re not his girlfriend, but he moans into your ear about how much he loves your pussy as he’s thrusting into you, making a mess of your cunt, his cock splitting you in half as his hands grip your waist, leaving bruises on your skin from how tight he’s holding you, but you love the marks, physical reminders of his impact on you.

you’re not his girlfriend, but you hang out with his little sister wheezie, taking her on shopping sprees with rafes credit card and out to ice cream.

you’re not his girlfriend, but rafe invites you over for movie nights, cuddling close to you. he holds you throughout the night, for once not putting his hand down your pants as he strokes a hand over your hair absentmindedly, eyes on the screen.

you’re not his girlfriend, but he invites you as his date to midsummers, matching his tie with the color of your dress. he spins you around the dance floor and looks happy being there for once. 

you’re not his girlfriend, but he makes sure you get your favorite drink at a party, holding it for you when you go to dance with your girls, fingers twitching impatiently as you move on the dance floor under his watchful eyes, waiting for you to be back within reach. he lets out a breath of relief when you rejoin him, press yourself into his side and finish off your drink.

you’re not his girlfriend, even though you wrap your arms around him and kiss as his hips move slowly, his cock pushing gently in and out, slowly, deeply. he moans into your mouth, enjoying the slow and smooth motions of your bodies connecting, of being one.

you’re not his girlfriend, so you don’t say anything when you see him dancing with another girl.

you’re not his girlfriend when you watch him take her upstairs.

you’re not his girlfriend, but it doesn’t stop your heart from shattering.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude

[magicpotatothoughts]

TGCF reread new finds #1

Xie Lian actively and consciously knows that he is attracted to HC the MOMENT THEY MEET in the Ox Cart. Like it’s not just blank gay panic, he knows.

His beauty was deadly like a sword, sharp and mesmerising. Xie Lian only met his eyes for a moment, then lowered his eyes in defeat.

MATE, normally wouldn’t you continue to be mesmerised and can’t peel your eyes away? That is, UNLESS YOURE WHIPPED. XL knows that SL's looks affect him to this degree. Defeat is the key word here.

Also

The distance between them had closed too fast. he suddenly didn't know what to do[...]Xie Lian blanked on the spot. He watched as the tall and slender youth walked away with his giant bag of junk as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and it made him mutter inwardly, Forgive my sins.

Making a rich young lad carry your things? Making him sleep in your crappy temple? That doesn't warrant the weighty thought? FORGIVE WHAT SINS Xie Lian??!!!

Many village girls saw (HC) and blushed [...] Xie Lian didn't know what they were going to ask, but felt instinctively that it must be stopped at once, and cried, "No!"

Jealous jealous boi! XL WAS POSSESSIVE after ONE night spent together at Puqi Shrine. Didn’t XL just say to SL that he will have no problem in the love department because girls will throw themselves at him? Yo, why are you cock-blocking? Everyone says HC is insane, no XL is equally insane for the other!

Also, when HC revealed that it's his real skin after the Banyue arc, XL instinctively poked him. Then

He looked at his own finger then hid it away, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

What thoughts XL ?!! Explain yourself right now!

Jumping back to OX CART scene, Xie Lian's character development was foreshadowed when they were talking about the gifting of ghost ashes.

Book 1: Xie Lian sighed. "It certainly is painful to think about, to have given everything for love and lose everything in return."

This is what Xie Lian is most afraid of! Like even thinking back to Xie Lian pushing Feng Xin away in Book 4, he definitely operated under that mindset. Love is a risk, it's something to be feared. Even now 800+ years later, he still feels that way and doesn't allow himself to get close to anyone. It just hits so much harder thinking that he operated under that for so many centuries.

Then Hua Cheng says

"What there to be afraid of? If it were me, I'd have no regrets giving away my ashes"

Which I think really changed the way that Xie Lian thought about love. Book 5 Xie Lian completely operates with Love is empowering and isn't something to be afraid of.

TGCF isn't about XL realising his feelings, literally from Book 1 it's about him wondering if it's worthwhile to act on them.

Three things, is this person worth losing cultivation over for?

He needs the reassurance that this person must reciprocate his feelings.

Then HC changed his perspective on love from FEAR -> EMPOWERMENT.

XL is soooo self-aware (unlike SQQ from SVSSS and WWX from MDZS), he's an unreliable narrator in the way that he doesn't reveal everything to the reader, especially his own feelings until he was absolutely sure that there really was both a physical and romantic attraction. I wanted to make this post to dispel the assumption for XL it was easy to forego 800+ years of cultivation. It was not? He ABSOLUTELY thought about it carefully.

[unfinishedslurs]

gay bar (steddie)

“Well, well, well,” says a voice from behind. “Steeeeeeve Harrington. I must be dreaming.”

Steve turns around to see a guy, dressed in black and chains. Rings decorating his fingers, studs in his ears, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s hot, yeah, but something about him has Steve squinting, trying to figure out why he looks so familiar. 

“I know you from somewhere,” he says, pointing out the obvious. The guy knows his name.

The not-a-stranger snorts. “Of course you don’t remember me. Why would the likes of King Steve stoop to—“

As soon as the nickname leaves his mouth, Steve’s brain lights up. “Munson!” He exclaims, snapping his fingers. “You used to climb on the lunch tables to give speeches.”

It was so obnoxious, too. The kind of thing that had him and Robin reminiscing late at night, celebrating some of the weirder shit about Hawkins that didn’t come from monsters, or Russians, or government conspiracy. Remember that one asshole? Yeah, he stepped on my lunch one time!

Condolences to Robin’s pb&j. She never sat at that table again.

Munson’s whole face turns pink. “Seriously? That’s what you remember?”

“It was pretty fucking memorable, dude. Like, gross, doesn’t this guy know not to put his feet where people eat? Dustin thought you were so cool for it too. I had to nip that in the bud before he started imitating you or some shit.”

“Oh,” he says, voice gone flat. “Because God forbid some poor kid try to immolate the freak.”

Steve gives him his bitchiest, most deadpan stare. “Feet,” he says slowly. “Nasty, fifteen year old boy feet. On my kitchen table. He almost slipped and cracked his skull, and I would have sent you the hospital bill.”

He had to get creative to make him stop, too. Stood there, hands on his hips, and made Dustin tell him exactly how many germs he thought were on his shoes. Then when he tried to do it barefoot, decided the only course of action was to stuff Dustin’s abandoned sock in his mouth and ask if he wanted that shit with every meal. Erica still has the photos. 

Munson has the decency to look embarrassed, face flooding an even brighter red that wouldn’t be out of place in a tomato patch. “What are you even doing here, Harrington?”

What does he think Steve’s doing here? It’s a fucking gay bar, it’s pretty self explanatory. “My friend is here somewhere,” he says, waving out at the crowd of people. “She’s going through a dry spell, so…”

“Right,” Munson says. Steve squints at him. Does he look disappointed?

Eh. Doesn’t matter. 

“You gave my kids the best freshman year of their nerdy little lives,” he tells him, because he knows Dustin would want him to. Plus, the guy was Mike’s gay awakening. He should probably get some credit. “So thanks for that.”

He lights up. “Yeah! How was Hellfire in my absence?”

“I had to hear them bitch and moan for months about how it ‘wasn’t the same,’ but it’s doing pretty all right. Erica Sinclair is running it now.”

“Erica Sinclair…” Munson mutters, snapping his fingers. “Lucas Sinclair’s little sister? Lady Applejack?” He beams when Steve nods. “She kicked ass. Best finish to a campaign my entire high school career. How’s Lucas, anyway? And the rest of the runts.”

“He’s doing great,” Steve says. “College basketball at Yale. Pretty sure he’s dying under the workload, but that’s what you get for majoring in physics. Dustin’s at MIT, and Mike’s taking a gap year.”

He whistles lowly. “Yeesh, I don’t blame him. How about Byers?”

“Which one?”

“Zombie boy.” Steve’s hackles raise, but Munson just grins. “God, that nickname was badass.”

“How do you even know about that?”

Munson taps the side of his nose. “A magician never reveals his secrets. Besides, all it took for you to remember me was calling you by your high school nickname.”

“That wasn’t my nickname.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Literally three people ever actually called me that, and you were one of them.”

He has a feeling it was Tommy who started it, bitter and vicious. Told himself Steve was self possessed, high and mighty, above it all. That’s why he left his old friends behind. Not because he was in love, or because he wanted to be better. No, King Steve just sits alone in his castle, looking down on the peasants with contempt. 

Billy must have taken his angry ramblings and run with them. After all, what better way to get a start in a new town than declaring yourself royalty? Never mind that Steve hadn’t cared about anything like that for almost a year by then. 

Munson had just been a drama-loving asshole. 

“That can’t be right.”

“I stopped being popular in junior year. Why the hell would anyone call a sophomore King?” Steve points out. 

“You were Prom King.”

“Again, in junior year. Pickings were slim. Who else would it have been? Tommy?” He has to laugh. 

Luckily, Munson takes the hint and swerves the conversation into new territory. “You know, I always figured you’d be homophobic.”

Steve snorts. “What, and get kicked out for nothing?”

Munson stares at him, and Steve furrows his brow, looking into his glass like it will have the answer to why the hell he said that to this guy he barely knows. He just decided he wasn’t going to spill all his daddy issues to a near-stranger in a dingy bar, dammit. Is he already on his fifth drink?

Actually, this might be his sixth. That tracks. 

“What?”

“My dad caught me kissing a boy,” he says. If he’s going to give Munson his life story, he might as well commit. “Can you believe that boy ruined my life in three different ways? Two of them didn’t even have anything to do with the gay thing.” 

Maybe four ways, if you accounted for the way he broke his goddamn heart, but everyone and their mother saw that coming a mile away. Even Steve. Especially Steve. 

No offense to Jonathan. None of those things were really his fault. Or actually life ruining, but it sure fucking felt like it at the time. 

He should give him a call soon, actually, see how he and Argyle are doing. He misses the guy. Maybe he and Robin should save up for a visit to Cali. Get Nancy on it. They could see San Francisco while they were there, that’d be cool. Apparently it was the queer capital of the country. 

He’s thinking about asking the bartender for a napkin and a pen to write down the plans he’s forming when Munson speaks up again. Steve honestly forgot he was here. 

“I thought you said you were here for a friend.”

What?” Steve blinks, confused, and then catches on. “Yeah, to get her laid. I’m not in the mood right now.”

Munson cocks an eyebrow. “Wearing that? Could’ve fooled me.”

Steve looks down at his Springsteen T-Shirt that Robin cropped, and picks at the frayed hem of his shorts. Okay, yeah, they’re on the skimpy side, but in his defense it’s summer and even if he’s not cruising Steve likes being looked at. “Yeah, yeah. What about you? Here for anything in particular?”

“Just to talk to some pretty boys,” Munson says, leaning on the bar to flag down the bartender. Steve smirks, reaching out a hand to tug at the hanky in his back pocket. Pinned, damn. 

Munson whirls around, a flush starting to crawl onto his ears. 

“Wearing that?” Steve echos snarkily. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He swears that for a minute Munson’s eyes darken. 

He’s almost tempted to follow through, high school reputation be damned, when someone crashes into his side and nearly sends him careening. 

“Steeeeeve,” Robin yells happily into his ear. “This is Bernie, she’s gonna take me home, see you la—oh, hi!” She says, noticing Munson. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Eddie Munson,” Munson greets. “Steve and I went to high school together.”

“Munson! That’s it, you climbed on tables and had shit music. I’m Robin. Okay, I’ll call the apartment and leave a message when we get there. Bernie’s waiting on me, it’s-nice-to-meet-you-bye!” Just like that, she’s gone. 

Munson’s mouth has dropped open. “You told her I had shit music?” He demands. “Wait, you talked about me?”

“She went to school with us, dumbass,” he says, as if he can talk. He still barely remembers her as more than a vague, glowering figure in his peripheral. “It’s not my fault you blasted your screamy music for everyone in the parking lot. Such a fucking headache, God.”

Munson turns his nose up. “Sorry for having offended your jock sensibilities.”

“Oh, I don’t play anymore,” he says, and knocks on his head. “Concussions, yanno. Apparently brain damage will fuck you up. Who knew?”

“What, like the fight you had with Byers? He did you that bad?”

“He did me just fine,” Steve blurts out, before he can stop himself. Munson chokes. “Shit, sorry, I’m kind of a horny drunk.” Weird thing to say, Steve. “Also, I cannot stress enough how much I needed to be punched in the face. It was a monumental moment for me, you know. Started me on the path for changing my entire worldview. Plus, he was my first guy crush.” He swirls his empty glass, lost in thought, before brightening up. “I should call him!”

Munson is staring at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Well, yeah. Duh.”

“I should probably stop you from booty-calling the guy who punched you in the face.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “It wouldn’t be a booty-call,” he says. “He and Argyle are happy together, man. I’m not gonna ruin that.”

“Oh, so you’d call him because…”

“I call him all the time,” Steve says, confused as to why this is such a big deal. “We’re friends.”

“Jonathan!” He yells happily into the pay phone. Munson is standing to the side, looking on in annoyance. Whatever, it’s not like Steve asked him to do this. “Jonathan, man, how are you?”

“…Steve?”

“Yeah!”

“It’s like…” he hears something clatter in the background, like Jonathan is looking for something, “two in the morning there. You okay?”

“I’m doing great!” He exclaims. “How about you? It’s been ages, man, I miss you.”

“This is so fucking weird,” Munson whispers behind him. Steve ignores him. 

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” he says. “Well, maybe a little. Do you not miss me too?” He pouts, and Jonathan sighs loud enough he hears it over the phone. 

“I just talked to you yesterday.”

Steve frowns. “Yesterday? That can’t be right, it’s been, like, forever. Oh, hey, have you heard from Nance lately? How’s your mom? I love your mom, she’s so fucking cool. Does she know I think she’s cool? How’s Will? It’s been so long, is he taller than me yet? How’s Argyle doing with his degree? I miss you guys.”

“We miss you too, Steve.”

“Awww, Byers, getting soppy on me? Gross, man.”

“You literally just—yeah, okay. Are you alone?”

“Nah, I’ve got this guy with me, he’s walking me home. Oh! Dude, do you remember Munson?”

“Munson?”

“Yeah, Eddie Munson! From high school! The one who used to climb on tables and shit, remember him?”

“Jesus Christ,” Munson groans. “Please let that die.”

“No one is dying,” Steve informs him seriously, and turns back to the phone. Munson sighs. 

“Wasn��t he a drug dealer?”

“Yes! Yeah, drug dealer Munson! Did you ever buy from him?” He turns to where Munson is looking around furtively. “Did Jonathan ever buy from you?”

“How about we not talk about this here,” Munson says through gritted teeth. Steve sighs and turns back to the phone. 

“Never mind, he says he doesn’t want to talk about that. Not like we can judge him, but whatever. Maybe the guy’s turned into a prude—“

“Okay, give me that.” Munson wrestles the phone out of his hand, and Steve whines at him. “Hey, Byers,” Munson says. “Yeah, it’s Eddie. Or Munson. Whatever. Listen, I’m getting kind of sick of standing here watching Harrington slobber all over the receiver, can he call you tomorrow? What? No, I don’t sell anymore—yeah, total bummer, whatever. Listen, I’ll get him home safe—no, I’m not going to serial murder him. He’s gonna be fine, he’ll call you tomorrow—Nancy Wheeler? Like that girl he dated? Didn’t you—shoot me? Jesus, okay! I’m not gonna kill the guy, Christ. He’s gonna be fine, oh my God. He’ll call you tomorrow. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, okay. Bye.” He slams the phone into its holder with more than a little contempt. 

“Hey!” Steve protests. “You didn’t let me say bye.”

“You can call him tomorrow and apologize,” Munson says. “Now c’mon, Harrington. I’ve been tasked with getting you home safe, and if I fail, apparently Nancy fucking Wheeler is going to shoot me in the balls.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s really hot when she does that,” Steve says fondly, and Munson splutters. 

“What, does Wheeler just go around shooting people? Does she even have a gun?”

“Of course Nancy has a gun.” Steve frowns. It was one of the sure things in the universe at this point. The sky is blue, Hawkins is fucked up, and Nancy Wheeler has a gun. “And she doesn’t shoot people, stupid. Well, she shot at Billy, but he deserved it.”

“Billy?” Munson mutters, starting to usher Steve in the direction of home. “Who the fuck is Billy?”

“He was trying to kill her first!” Steve defends. “I hit him with a car before he could, so she was okay.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t you hit some guy with a car? 

“It wasn’t some guy,” Steve says. “It was Billy. He was, like, possessed or some shit. Oh, and he beat me up. Total psycho.  And that was before the melted flesh monster.”

Munson stops and stares at him. “You know what, sure. Demonic possession. Yeah, okay. Some guy named Billy kicked your ass—wait, are you talking about Billy Hargrove?”

Steve lights up. “Yeah! You remember that? That’s one of the concussions I was talking about. I gotta wear glasses 'cuza that shit. Man, fuck that guy.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve frowns down at the ground. “Shit, I’m, like, speaking ill of the dead, aren’t I? Max wouldn't like that. Unfuck him, or whatever.”

“You wanna come up?” He asks. “For old times sake?”

Munson stares at him like it’s the craziest thing he’s said all evening. “‘Old times’ was your asshole friends calling me a satan worshiper and pushing me around in hallways, Harrington.”

“I know.” He grins. If he was sober he’d definitely feel worse about that, but as it is he’s pretty single minded. “Don't you kind of want to make me cry about it?”

Deer in headlights isn’t usually a good look, but Munson’s got the eyes to make it work. Or Steve is drunk. Either way, it’s kinda cute. 

“You’re drunk,” he finally says, stumbling over the words a little. If Steve pays close attention and ignores most of reality, it almost sounds like he’s trying to convince both of them. “You’re so incredibly drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.” He totally is. 

“I just had to supervise you calling Jonathan Byers so you didn’t say something you’d regret in the morning.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks, offended. “I love Jonathan! I tell him all the time. Just because I said he ruined my life—“

“That was him?”

“Did I not say that? Huh. Whatever. Point is, I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re definitely drunk,” Munson says. “I’m not—yeah, no. I’m not coming up.”

“Damn.” Steve shrugs, not too put out about it. It’s a bummer, sure, but he handles rejection like a champ. Just ask Robin. “Worth a shot. See you ‘round, Munson.”

“Don’t kill me,” Steve says. 

“Oh, god, did you punch him?”

“No, I, uh.” Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. “I think I tried to fuck him.”

He has to hold the phone away from his face so Dustin’s screeching doesn’t break his eardrums. 

“Your exes are weirdly protective of you,” Munson says blandly. “Also, didn’t they date?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, not exactly eager to start spilling his life story again now that he’s sober. Munson doesn’t need to know more about his dating history than he already does. “We’re all a little weird about each other, sorry.”

“Weird about your exes,” he hums. “No wonder you’re single.”

“Oh, fuck you. It’s not like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Are you always this nosy?” Steve asks, a little waspish. 

“Absolutely,” Munson replies without hesitation. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not. When did you even date him?”

“Dude.”

Munson just cocks an expectant eyebrow, hip resting against the bar. He can’t imagine why someone would be so interested in the romantic lives of their old high school classmates. It’s not like Steve is about to ask what was going on between him and Chrissy Cunningham. 

“Well, Harrington?”

“First grade,” Steve answers, deadpan. He grins when Munson chokes. “Nah, it was actually after he and Nancy broke up. Fall of ‘86.”

Arms squeeze him from behind, and Robin slides into view, leaving one hand wrapped pointedly around Steve’s waist. She gets clingy when she thinks someone is bothering him, or when she’s just on the side of drunk that she gets possessive. She told him, embarrassed and hungover, that it’s because she registers someone he’s getting along with as infringing on “her Steve time.” Steve thinks it’s hilarious and kind of sweet, an obvious lesbian trying to pretend he’s her date. Especially because he gets the same way when he’s tipsy and feels like he doesn’t have enough of her attention, so she can't yell at him for being a cockblock. Cuntblock. Whatever the lesbians call it.

He wonders what category she thinks Eddie is. Of guy, that is. Not block-anything.

He'd actually be pretty damn happy if the guy miraculously changed his mind and decided to sit on his cock instead.

“What’s going on here?” She asks, almost cattily. He loves when Robin gets bitchy. It brings him back to their Scoops days, except he gets to see it turned on someone else. 

“I’m telling Eddie my life story,” Steve says blithely.

“Ugh. Who would want that?”

Eddie grins. “I’m curious about the adventures of a former king.” He dips his head in a bow, waving his hand in a flourish. “I don’t know if you remember me from last time, I’m Eddie—“

“Munson, I know. You stepped on my lunch in junior year.”

Eddie turns beet red in record time. 

“Aww, Robbie,” Steve almost coos. “Leave him alone. I wanted to be the one who made him blush like that.”

“It’s not my fault your boy’s easy.”

“Not my boy, clearly,” he mutters under his breath. “And if he were easy, I’d have gotten fucked by now.”

Eddie’s mouth drops open with a choked little sound. Whoops. Steve forgot volume control again. 

Robin takes one look at Eddie’s face and bursts into cackles. 

“He was asking about,” he waved a hand in the air, “the whole Nancy-Jonathan thing.”

Her eyebrows jut up. “You told him about the threesome?”

“The what?”

Steve sighs. “No, Robin. I did not tell him about the threesome.”

“…oops.”

“When?” Eddie demands. 

Robin gives him the evil eye. “Why are you being weird about this? It’s not gonna make him fuck you.”

Steve wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

Eddie does not. “Your boy here already asked,” he smirks, leaning closer. “I said no.”

Then, as an added punch to his ego, he twirls a strand of Steve’s hair around his finger and tugs slightly. Steve’s too stunned to protest. 

Robin watches the exchange. “Oh, no thank you,” she says. “Nope. I’m out. I don’t want to see whatever this is. Ugh, stop making me hear about your sex life.”

Hypocrite. “We have thin walls, Buckley,” Steve reminds her. He turns to Eddie and stage whispers, “She likes her girls loud.”

“Steve!”

“You do!”

“Oh, because you’re so quiet,” she snaps, smacking him. “How many times have I had to bang on the wall because you couldn’t keep it down? You wanna talk about loud? I know more about you than I ever wanted to.”

His mouth drops open in mortification. “You know it’s rude to be mean to the man who told you how to eat out,” he hisses. 

“I’m not dying without fucking Eddie Munson,” he declares. “I mean, his high school nickname was literally ‘The Freak.’ He’s got to be good in bed, right?”

“I think that was mostly because everyone thought he was communing with the Devil or something.”

“Maybe the Devil gave him sex magic.”

“Of course he thinks I’m cute.”

“I do?”

“Do you not?” Steve turns to him, widening his eyes in the same pout that always has Robin throwing something at his face, or the kids reluctantly agreeing to do what he wants. He’s found it’s useful for guys too, especially if he ducks his head to seem smaller and looks through his eyelashes. Makes them imagine him looking like that on his knees. 

Munson is no exception. He melts faster than Steve can say gotcha. “You’re very cute, Harrington,” he purrs, and Robin snorts into her drink. 

“You’re a weak, weak man, Eddie Munson,” she tells a blushing Eddie. Then she kicks Steve. “Stop bringing out the ‘fuck me’ eyes when I’m around, I’ll gag.”

“You could leave.”

She gasps, affronted, and kicks him harder.

“So you would fuck me if I wasn’t drunk?”

“Uh…” he looks everywhere but Steve’s face, which is just rude. He has a very nice face. He’s been called dreamy before. 

Which made Robin laugh so hard she fell off the couch when he told her, but he’ll take the lesbian’s opinion with a grain of salt. 

He makes his way onto the dance floor. He’s not a particularly good dancer, but he shakes his ass like he means it. Gets up close with a guy, stares at Eddie the whole time. Keeping eye contact as the guy puts his hands on his hips. 

Look, he means to say. This could be you. You could lose your chance if you’re not careful. 

From the burning in Eddie’s eyes, he gets the message. 

The message is a bunch of bullshit. It’s been over four months, he’s in too deep to go fuck off with someone else now. Still, he enjoys the way Eddie’s hands flex on his thighs, like he had to stop himself from reaching out. 

The thing is, Steve’s not an asshole. He can take a hint. No means no, and all that jazz. If Eddie really didn’t want him, he’d fuck right off and find someone who did. He even started to.

Except Eddie pouted up a storm when he flirted with someone else. Got even clingier when Steve tried to back off. At this point, he’s accepted that Eddie does want to fuck him, and maybe even be more (no one flirts with someone as long as they’ve been doing without wanting something like a relationship out of it. At least, he hopes there’s something more on the horizon), but has some weird hang up about Steve being even a little bit buzzed when it happens. Even though they only ever see each other at this fucking bar.

The problem is Steve has no idea when Eddie will be at the bar. He’ll stay sober one night, hoping to see him, and then go home alone only for next time to be when he sees telltale curls and a wide smile. It’s driving him up the wall. 

Robin has been similarly affected.

“It’s been six months,” she growls as Steve looks eagerly around. “Six fucking months of you two dancing around in the worlds most annoying mating ritual. I’m going to kill both of you.”

“We’re not that bad,” he says absently. 

“You don’t even have his phone number. It’s pathetic. I swear to God, if you see him again and don’t get laid I’m reviving the scoops board. I will go out and buy a whiteboard to keep track of all the times you strike out with a man who used to walk on tables. He stepped on my lunch, Steve. Do I need to keep bringing up the fact he stepped on my delicious, nutritious PB&J? I can’t believe that’s the guy you decide to be obsessed with, that’s so fucking embarrassing for you.”

“Embarrassing? You mean like your crush on my ex girlfriend?”

She screeches wordlessly, pulling her keychain off her belt loop and attacking him with it. 

Naturally, that’s how Eddie finds them. 

“I swear you guys get weirder every time I see you.”

Steve grins guilelessly at him, holding a flailing Robin in a headlock. 

“Eddie! Hey! It’s been a minute.” He hasn’t been able to come in a month, and it’s been longer since he’s seen him. It’s honestly one of the deciding factors on whether it’s a passing fancy or a full blown crush. He still went to sleep every night thinking about Eddie. It didn’t even have to be about sex. 

Although maybe not sleeping with anyone else for half a year should have tipped him off sooner. 

“Sure has, big boy. I was starting to think you were getting sick of me.” It’s a joke, but Steve catches an undercurrent of insecurity. 

“That’d make my life easier,” Robin snorts. She finally wiggles her way out of his hold. “I saw Arty somewhere around here, I’m gonna see if I can crash at her place tonight.” She levels Eddie with a look. “He hasn’t had anything to drink. If you don’t put him out of his misery, I will. And it won’t be the good kind. It will be the bad kind. With bad screams. Lots of screaming, and someone will call the pigs, and I’ll be arrested and jailed for life. Do you want me to go to jail, Munson?”

Eddie shakes his head dumbly. 

“Good! Then do something about it.” She slaps Steve’s back, a mocking echo of his jock days. “Go get ‘em, slugger!” 

With that, she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd. 

“She is,” Steve remarks with amusement, “the worst wingman on planet Earth. Mars too, probably.”

“I dunno, I think it might be working.”

“I’m not doing anything without a condom,” he says, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for an argument. 

“Me neither,” Steve agrees. “Robin has, like, this big fear of diseases. Totally got me with it. She pulled out the library books, those pictures were fucking disgusting. Shit showed up in my dreams, man. Neither of us do anything without protection.”

“I’m going to be totally honest with you, because I haven’t been and it’s starting to eat at me,” Eddie says, hovering above Steve. 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “What is it? Are you a spy or something? Are you Russian? Do you have superpowers? Is your name not actually Eddie?” He pauses. “Oh, God, you’re not even Eddie Munson, are you? I’m just some asshole who’s been calling you by my old classmates name and you were too embarrassed to correct me. Shit, we made so much fun of you for walking on tables too—“

“What?” Eddie covers his mouth, expression hovering between amused and baffled. “What the fuck, why would I go along with that? No, Jesus, I’m Eddie Munson. Moved to Hawkins when I was eleven, took senior year three times, walked on the fucking tables, could you let that go?” He moves the hand covering Steve’s mouth to play with his hair, looking annoyed for a minute before it smoothes to trepidation. “No, I, uh, I just felt like I needed to tell you that I used to have a hate-boner for you in high school. Like, I used to jack it to the thought of kicking your ass and making a mess outta you. In more ways than one.”

Steve stares. 

“Also, that’s kind of why I approached you in the bar in the first place,” Eddie blabbers on. “And then you said you were just there for a friend, and I was disappointed but it’s whatever, yanno? And then then you told me about your dad, and threw my expectations to the fucking wolves, and then you asked me to come up to your apartment except you were drunk and you probably didn’t mean it. But then the next time I saw you, you kept flirting with me, which you were not supposed to do, and I kept pretending that wasn’t the reason I even talked to you in the first place, and, uh, yeah.” He smiles nervously. “Surprise?”

“I mean, not really.”

“You’re such an asshole, fuck off. At least pretend to be shocked.”

“It’s not my fault you stare at my legs all the time,” Steve says, affronted. “I know I didn’t do too good in school, but I’m not dumb enough to miss that. Like, hello, my eyes are up here.”

Eddie lets his arms give out, flopping on top of Steve heavily. Steve wheezes. “Am I really that obvious?” He whines into his shoulder. 

“You got sad and pouty when I even looked at another guy.”

“You could’ve fucked him,” he mumbles. “The guy you were dancing with. It wasn’t any of my business. I’m a big boy, I can deal.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to fuck him,” Steve says. “I wanted to fuck you. Can we go back to that please?”

“Thought I was fucking you.”

“Someone’s getting fucked or Robin will kill both of us. I’d like to live tomorrow morning. And not have to deal with any more of her teasing for having no game.”

“You have unfortunate amounts of game,” Eddie sighs, tracing the side of Steve’s neck. It tickles. “It’s kind of embarrassing for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, are we using those condoms or not, Moodkiller?”

“Oh, I’m the mood killer?”

“Yes,” Steve says matter of factly, and pulls him in for a kiss before he can protest.

[nose-nippin-fun]

Huskerdust Intimacy Headcanons Part 1 (contains nsfw)

* Above all else, Husk values consent. If the boys are drunk, it’s a no-go on sex. Later in their relationship, he’s fine if it’s only him that’s tipsy, but he’ll never go further than kissing when Angel’s not all there.

* Husk is careful about his movements near Angel. One time he lifted a paw to gesture or grab something, and Angel flinched. It broke his heart, so now his movements are very intentional.

* Husk doesn’t have many personal possessions, but he is a dice gremlin. When Angel finally sees his collection, he sets out to find another impressive set he can gift Husk.

* During their first time, Husk refuses to let Angel service him, focusing entirely on Angel’s care and pleasure. Angel is shocked to discover that softer “vanilla” sex is extremely hot when there’s feelings involved. Husk either lets Angel stay on top or makes sure he’s not pinning him down, giving Angel control over everything.

* Angel helps Husk get back into self care with hair and skin products. When they’re not hanging out at the bar, they’re lounging in Angel’s room having spa nights. Husk also discovers a love for candlelit baths (especially if Angel joins him).

* Husk comes to approximate when Angel will be home after every shift and always has a drink and an open seat waiting at the bar. If Angel’s ever later than expected, he just gives the old drink to Niffty.

* Husk makes it a point to befriend Cherri. She’s important to Angel, so she matters to him too. He ends up learning a lot about Angel through her, and in turn, he lets her open up about herself.

* When Angel leaves Fat Nuggets in Husk’s care, he gets stupid protective over that pig and potentially spoils him more than Angel.

* Husk actually enjoys when Angel carries him, often forgetting just how physically strong Angel actually is from all his pole work.

* Husk actually has major rizz, but he’s often oblivious to when he’s turned the charm up to 11. He eventually catches on if Angel gay panics hard enough.

* Once they’re an established couple, Angel and Husk coordinate their daily outfits so they’re always matching like cute old people.

* Angel likes to kiss the heart patterns on Husk’s ears, forehead, and hands, and Husk melts every time.

* Angel convinces Husk to bring out his overlord/demon form in the bedroom when they’re feeling extra spicy. Everyone else can tell when this happens because Angel has trouble walking the next day.

* Angel starts practicing with aerial silks because he wants to have an elegant/non-sexual talent to show off for Husk.

[randombush3]

you're not sorry to go

ona batlle x reader

summary: ona and you are best friends, but it's a bit more complicated than that

words: 4.5k

notes: this one is based on true events x

also let's ignore the result of my poll because i want the next part to have smut and it wasn't fitting with the vibe of this part

oh and the title is a quote from 'this side of paradise' by f. scott fitzgerald

January, nine years ago. 

Nothing about today has been out of the ordinary. 

The weekend is starting, winter drags on, and Ona is all set to train later on in the evening, provided you confirm whether or not you are willing to accompany her to the local pitch. 

Barcelona B usually allows for Fridays off, but Ona isn’t stupid. No one becomes the greatest footballer of all time by not playing more. School is beginning to bore Ona to death, and she knows that she wants what she always has: to go professional. 

“I have a plan,” she tells you confidently, glad you don’t mind sitting on the uneven, grassy sideline as she sets up her cones with determination. You hold the ball between your hands, though Ona is amused by how foreign it looks to you, and you seem to be holding her prized possession hostage so that she spills. “It sounds simple and obvious out loud, but it’s that I am going to play for Barça while you go to the university. You can introduce me to your smart friends so I can meet my wife, and you’ll have all the boys after you anyway so–” 

“Ona.” Her monologue has led her eyes to the ground, but your voice makes her head jerk upwards, not needing much authority to get her to look at you. “I’ve actually had a… realisation, of sorts,” you say with a bashful grin, chin jutting out the way it does when you are gearing up to tell her something that no one else will get to know. “Your cousin is really pretty.” 

“I’ll tell her you said that.” It’s a nice thing to say, and you are partly aware that Ona’s cousin knows who you are because she doesn’t shut up about you ever, but you can’t help the frustration that begins to bubble up inside of you.

“No, Ona,” you try again, “she’s really pretty. Like, I would kiss her.” 

Ona frowns, then. “Don’t be one of those.” She means the girls who experiment, who toe the line of liking girls but don’t, not really. She has been warned about them by her older teammates, the ones who go out for drinks and kiss girls in clubs. The budding footballer really admires them, because their advice is always good and she gets to explore her sexuality without feeling like a creep. No one in Vilassar de Mar cares much that Ona does like girls, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling judged all the same. 

You are one of her best friends, but Ona isn’t sure she can forgive you if you become someone like that. 

“I’m not! I wouldn’t do that.” Your offence is suspicious, and you have been so caught up in destroying her worries that the ball has been dropped and is now rolling towards Ona’s feet, where it is instinctively flicked upwards and caught. “I wouldn’t, Oni, because I know it’s unfair to you guys.” 

“But you want to kiss my cousin? That makes you interested in girls in general too, you know.” 

You bite your lip. 

“Ona, I think I’m gay.” 

The ball is dropped, along with her jaw, and you shift uncomfortably in your seated position, not enjoying how big of a deal she is making this out to be. 

People realise that they’re gay all the time! Why should it be any different for you? 

“Oh,” is all Ona can manage to breathe out, wondering what to do next. Although your friendship cracks the padlocks of most secrets, there is one that hasn’t ever been shared. One that now means substantially more than it did five minutes ago. 

“Say something, please,” you groan in mock annoyance, moving aside your textbooks so that you can grab Ona’s hand and pull her down on top of you. She is much stronger – she trains every day – but something about your skin touching hers injects a surge of patheticness into her well-earned muscles, and she falls, of course she does, because she always falls for you. 

…

A year passes. 

You kiss Ona’s cousin, as intended, and Ona knows the breakup is going to be rough but nothing prepares her for when it comes. 

She’s conflicted, and she’s older now. No longer left behind by her teammates, Ona gets to go out with them when they don’t have football; she gets to talk to the girls about their sex lives, she gets to be involved in it all. She has met Alexia Putellas and been treated like an equal, and she made out with her fourth ever girl last week, this time progressing past tongues and confidently letting her hands roam. 

Ona would say that she has learnt a lot since you dropped your nuclear missile, and she has managed to forget the initial hope she had felt. The secret had been near-faded. 

Until you are calling her, sending her a text when she doesn’t reach her phone quick enough.

‘Ona, I really need you.’ 

She hears nothing from her cousin – they were closer when they were younger – and that, she reasons, is why she is by your side in an instant, meeting you at the windy beach you go to when you are sad, hair damp from running and eyes a little wide as she tries to wake herself up. 

“She said she can’t do it anymore,” you whisper, voice cracking under the strain your sobs had put on it. “She said that she really likes me but that it’s not enough, and she doesn’t want to break my heart but she knows she has to.” 

Ona doesn’t get a chance to respond, because you have flung yourself into her chest before she can think of the right words to say. 

Your shoulders shake as you cry, devastating howling joining the whistles of the wind and the thrash of the waves. The sand is unsteady beneath your feet and you stumble, but Ona holds you firmly, as though she has only ever trained to hold you up. Though you feel her biceps, hard and significantly larger than the last time she had held you this way, you are too caught up in your first heartbreak to acknowledge the tiny, tiny spark between you. 

As you cry and cry and cry, Ona can’t help but feel a little bitter towards her cousin. Clearly, your affection wasn’t false and, though it was working towards the severance of your friendship, you actually cared quite a lot for her. 

Ona chooses to abstain from her jealousy because she is embarrassed that it is possible. 

She is there for you the next day, ensuring you have eaten and allowing you to sleep, but the sun soon sets and Ona vows one thing to herself: she will not take advantage of it. 

“I’m going home,” you mumble when you wake from your restless nap, rolling over into the empty space in your best friend’s bed. The sheets there are cold and unused. Ona must not have moved a muscle since you fell asleep. “My parents must be a little confused, and we have people coming over for dinner. Thank you for looking after me.” 

“No problem.” Ona nods and you awkwardly stand up. “I think I’m going out with the team tonight, but don’t hesitate to call me if… Well, if you feel sad again.” 

“It’s going to feel shit with or without you.” 

You are trying to distance her, to tell her that she can have fun. It might be an issue that your friendship only seems to work when the two of you discuss your recent conquests or latest flings, but it is not one that either of you wants to address for now. 

“I’m just making sure you know I’m here,” she defends indignantly, rolling her eyes at the glimpse of your happier self making its return. 

“Are you going to be drunk?” Your question is pointed and you should really cross your arms and tap your foot impatiently to match your tone. “Don’t you have training tomorrow?” 

“Maybe, and not tomorrow, no. I’ve been asked to join the first team the day after so they’ve given me an alternative rest day.” 

“Ona, if you get drunk, you won’t be there for me at all. You’ll have your tongue down some poor, poor girl’s throat and your phone will be dead.” You laugh from experience, having grown accustomed to how she behaves under the influence. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I swear that alcohol is what fuels your hormones. I’m not going to burden you with my fucking pathetic crying, and, well, you know me, I’ll just find a boy to talk to. I am going to be fine.” 

No one in the room is convinced. 

You swat the air between you two, telling her to get on with getting ready. “Now, enjoy your night, and tell me all about it tomorrow morning!” 

Ona wonders if you are over-compensating by insisting to hear about whoever she has gotten off with, but you are practically flying out the door the minute you have said goodbye to her family and she is stumbling around her room trying to find a clean bra. Life goes on. 

If time did not tick on its own, one of you would task yourselves with turning the hands of the clock manually. 

You try to recover from how much it fucking kills to have a girl break your heart by reminding yourself of your worth in the best way possible: male attention. They hound you, but you enjoy it. You crave it, most of the time, even if the feelings are never quite believably reciprocated. 

It annoys Ona to no end, the way you play with the boys chasing after you. She hates the push and pull, fed-up with the constant complaining from your end. Often, because Ona speaks her mind when she can, she tells you that it’s not fair on the ones who hand their hearts to you only to watch you pierce through them with sharp, I-was-never-a-lesbian nails. 

You don’t talk about her cousin. At least, not to Ona because you have been informed by some other friend that blood is thicker than water.

Or maybe it’s because Ona begins to avoid you, begins to spend more time with her teammates, who don’t hide their sexuality and who like the things she likes. (Once, in a hateful frenzy, Ona thinks to herself that the only thing the two of you have in common nowadays is that she likes you and you like you too.) 

“What happened to your best friend?” Laia Aleixandri asks thoughtfully once after training. Ona is helping her collect the water bottles the other girls had left lying around on the pitch. There have been more injuries than what’s comfortable within the first team, and maybe some of the reserves have forgotten that they are not yet professionals. “You’ve stopped talking about her.” 

“We’ve fallen out,” Ona answers, settling on that because she doesn’t know how else to describe the shift in your relationship. 

“Over what?” comes Laia’s obvious sequential question, more a due dalliance than genuine interest. Laia is one of those girls who plays to play and can sometimes be too busy to spend time with the team outside of training. Because of this, she is largely unaware of Ona’s growing reputation within the squad. As Ona has grown up, her confidence has increased. Girls like that, and they are in plentiful supply to her. She no longer needs to be drunk, but something almost certainly occurs if she is. 

“She dated my cousin and, I don’t know, the way she acted in the fall-out was horrible. She likes girls, I know she likes girls, but I think she has been scarred and her ego has been bruised. No boy has ever made her cry like that, and I think she’s traumatised. And it’s valid! I understand, completely and totally, but she is acting as though she never had a thing with my cousin and it’s annoying. It’s as if being gay is a joke to her.”

Laia senses that Ona’s not done, and she is correct to think so. 

The next wave is this: “Laia, I really don’t agree with it, and it is hurting me. It hurts to see my cousin be messed around by a straight girl, it hurts to see my best friend hate part of herself, and it hurts me because, well, it just– it just does! I can’t explain it.” She can; she doesn’t want to. Her secret is still heavily guarded and it is going to take more than Laia asking about you to get her to confess. “I just want peace for everyone involved,” she says after taking a deep, diplomatic breath. 

“Peace,” Laia repeats with a giggle. “Ona, the things I have heard about you are the opposite of ‘peace’. Aita’s been keeping me in the loop, and she says that–” 

“Okay, Laia, I don’t need a lecture.” 

What probably would have been very helpful for Ona to know is lost to the devastating final blow of her eye-roll as she jogs to the water cooler to return the bottles and head home. 

…

The reconciliation of a decade-old friendship is fast and natural. Things do not quite go back to normal, and the two of you are not as close as before, but your group of friends at school breathe out a collective sigh of relief when the ice thaws and Ona starts to turn up to their gatherings instead of the ones held by her beloved blaugranas. 

It’s a camping trip. 

Their first year of bach has ended, and someone – Ona doesn’t know who – has suggested a camping trip because her grandfather’s brother owns a farm and the farm has a field and the field is far-removed enough for the smell of cigarettes and red-label whiskey to dissolve before reaching the house. 

“Are we really going?” Ona asks, making you all laugh as you haul your bags and tents along the tractor path. 

“I do think we should’ve gotten in the tractor,” you agree. Ona nods at you, thanking you for your support. 

Everyone else says it’s good fitness, and then hurls insults at Ona for the remainder of the trek because she should be the last to complain if she is going to become a professional athlete. 

It’s not as far as it seems, and the tents are set up quickly, along with some chairs, a foldable table, and a hefty stash of various bottles of alcohol. 

You start smoking the minute someone flashes their lighter, and Ona uses that as a reason to stay on the other side of the small campsite for a good hour or so. 

She stays away from you no matter how much you stare, but you watch her all the same. 

The boys you talk to are not satisfying. Some may have innocent intentions but the majority don’t, and you know that you are pretty but you are not shallow like that. You don’t even meet the boys half the time unless they corner you at school and demand a slot of your in-person attention.

The boys you talk to explain football and the gym and why they have to play FIFA until the sun rises because it will definitely help Barcelona win on the weekend. They take you for an idiot, and they hardly acknowledge that your best friend (sort of) plays for their darling club so of course you know the rules and the positions. You know that Ona is a defender, and that she is good at it. You don’t want to be patronised and you don’t care about this kind of thing unless it involves Ona. 

Therein lies the issue, actually. 

You don’t care about much unless it involves Ona. Ona, who sways to the music bursting out from the speakers just as stiffly as she always has, not exactly blessed with dancing talent but not for lack of trying. Ona, who declines alcohol tonight because she is following a summer strength and conditioning programme with the hopes of playing in the first team’s preseason matches. Ona, who looks beautiful. Always. 

Smoke billows from your cigarette, right towards the point of your focus, and, suddenly, doe-like eyes are staring back at you with a small, small smirk. She waves, as if to say that she has caught you, and you lean back on the camping chair you are slouched in, pretending to laugh at whatever your friend has just said beside you.

Later, when everyone else is knocked out from the bad quality of the whiskey, snoring comfortably in the other tents, Ona and you kiss. And once you start kissing, you don’t stop. 

Ona is good at this, you assume, because she knows exactly what to do. Contrary to popular belief, you are far more active in theory than in practice, and she surprises you a little bit. Or maybe she doesn’t, because it’s Ona and Ona is good at everything. 

You strive to match her, and you do by the time you finish school. 

Sporadic, non-committal, and in complete disregard for your friendship, the arrangement of hooking up when you feel like it sees you out of Catalonia, with Ona naturally in tow. 

Madrid CFF is happy to have her, and you quite enjoy the challenge of the Spanish capital. It’s not Barcelona, it’s not ideal, but change is good and you need space to explore who you are without watchful eyes and nosy gossipers. 

Homophobia isn’t quite a thing in your family. Your parents are not radically against gay people. In fact, you’d say they are relatively supportive. However, that doesn’t stop you from feeling some discomfort. You lived through Ona’s struggle to come out, and her parents are ever more care-free than yours. 

Madrid is a brand-new place, and word about how you are doing is easily controlled. Updates come from either you or Ona, and that means there is a filter easily applied to all anecdotes. 

Your friends know about the sex, more or less. They know, they don’t approve, but they let you guys sort it out yourselves because everyone agrees that that is just how you and Ona are. They won’t understand it and they have given up on trying to.

Both of you make half-hearted efforts to separate the arrangement from your friendship. You don’t talk much afterwards until the other has left the realm of I-am-in-love-with-you. It’s nice to be in Madrid together, but you find different social circles soon enough and then you are reaching out more for sex than friendly activities and… You stop sleeping with each other upon the footballer’s request. She wants to focus on her career, on her success. She tells you over the phone because she cannot bring herself to end whatever occurred over the last two years in person, knowing that she’d take back her decision in a heartbeat. Ona really, really likes football, and she knows that she has to become obsessed with it to get to the top; more obsessed than she is now. How can she do that if you are distracting her? 

You’re disappointed, but you respect her wishes. 

Girls in Madrid stop seeming as shiny. The world is a bit duller, because although there had been no exclusivity between you and your best friend, there had always been that guarantee that the other would be ready and waiting. Your growing misery makes studying boring, and you find answers for your emotions in a science textbook, desperately running away from the obvious truth. Less sex means that you are unhappier. It’s biology. 

It’s not a crush. 

Not on Ona. 

No. 

And it’s certainly not this not-realisation that flies you to Milan the minute a modelling agency inquires about whether you have ever thought of, well, modelling. They scout you someplace random, and your mother claims that she could have helped you start your career earlier if only you’d have been interested. 

When you explain to your best friend what you are moving for, she is oddly unsurprised and uncaring. Her reaction is sickening, because you’d have rathered her get an ego boost from having slept with a model than be so fucking apathetic. 

“I’m going to Milan, Ona,” you repeat, just in case she has not heard you. “I’m moving. We did the trial shoots last week, and they loved me. They want me to update my social media and work on building up a following, and they said that I should start learning English because I might end up in New York.” 

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” She doesn’t sound like she means it, and you grow annoyed about how she is not even trying to sound enthusiastic. 

“Can’t you be happy for me? Or is it only acceptable for you to have dreams?” 

“I am happy for you, I just said that.” 

“The words left your mouth, but they definitely did not come from your heart.” 

“You’re being dramatic.” Ona rolls her eyes and the pent-up sexual tension builds and builds until the bottle it has been shoved into can no longer withstand the pressure. You haven’t argued since you moved to Madrid, which makes no sense considering you literally broke up – even if it absolutely wasn’t dating. Neither of you has processed your broken heart, and you’re pretty sure you are still too traumatised from the first girl you fell in love with to be capable of revisiting those kinds of emotions. 

Ona hasn’t had sex in weeks, and it is affecting her performance. She can’t sleep if she has the energy she does, and she can’t get through her workouts because not sleeping makes her lose her appetite and then she does not have the energy to complete them. Her coaches are worried, but they know that she is young and though almost idiotic, they mostly assume that she is repulsed by the idea of playing for a club in Madrid. They get that a lot with the Catalans that come over from La Masia, whose dreams have been delayed because the first team had thought it necessary that they gained more experience elsewhere. 

Ona has wanted to shout and scream every minute of every day, and so have you. Therefore, everything explodes. 

…

You inhale deeply, exhaling when it feels as though some of the stress has dissipated. This casting is one of the more important ones of the week. It’s odd to be judged on your appearance, to be paid for it, but it has been almost a year since you moved to Milan and you are enjoying yourself. 

You don’t miss university, and you don’t miss your parents. Your friends visit you lots, loving the idea of your career, loving the excuse to escape their dreary weekends in where they have always been. 

Milan is great. You make friends with a few other models, though they come and go depending on work, and the more experience you get, the more your following count goes up. Brands send you things, nice things, and events start extending invites to lure you into the glamour of the industry. 

Milan is great, you tell yourself on repeat. 

Milan is great, but it would be better if Ona were here. 

Milan is great, but you regret the way you left things and want to take it all back. 

Milan is great but– 

“Your fitting is tomorrow,” says the assistant, reading off her iPad. You suppress your wandering thoughts, nodding. You need this job, you need the money to pay for a flight. The agency has given you some advancements – an impressive thing, apparently – but not enough to cover the cost of the ticket to New York for the start of Fashion Week. This show will fluff out your experience, and increase your chances of walking at one of the bigger shows. 

You’ve been told that you are quite a good model; attractive, funny, with just the right amount of personality to be both a mannequin and an interesting figure. 

The lifestyle is different but good, and you realise that you’d never wanted the mundanity of studying and then working and selling your soul to some kind of tall office building. Not everyone gets the concept of living away from home, especially not those from your tight-knit community who think the city is stretching the distance slightly (the train works, you can live with your parents and have a good job – you’ve been told that a few times), but you don’t mind. You can explain it as much as you want and they would still be confused. 

You stay in touch, but you don’t stay present. 

As your career snowballs over the next two years, you pull away from your home, always on a flight, always busy. You go to LA and Paris and London, and you rent your flat in Milan out as an Airbnb whenever you’re not there. You love the city, you start to think of it as yours, and slowly but surely, everything else fades into the background. 

Apart from Ona, of course. Your friends still visit, or you meet up with them if you ever find yourself in Barcelona, and they continue to affirm just how proud they are of you. They talk about her a lot, too; about where she’s playing now, about injuries and fame and representing Spain. They know you are too stubborn to search it up for yourself, but these are the people who have grown up with you: they know you would like to be informed. 

When you hear that Ona has moved to Manchester, you don’t quite think your actions through. 

You have had enough. You miss her terribly.

Her number has changed, but someone passes it onto you. 

You: I saw that you’re playing Arsenal next week. I’ll be in London then. Do you want to get a coffee? 

Ona takes her time replying, but that is only because she wants to delay the inevitable. 

Her eyes shine and her hair is damp, but the kick-off had been early and you don’t have anything to do today. You meet her in the carpark, picking her up in a black BMW that’s sleek and shiny and 100% not yours. Her laugh is light and free as she knocks on the driver’s window and juts her thumb out, instructing you to swap. 

“I’m not getting in a car that you’re driving,” she declares seriously, though you know she has forgiven you because she would not have agreed to meet if she hadn’t. “Come on, I checked on Maps and there’s a place not too far from here that looks nice. And it’s empty, so don’t worry about the paparazzi.” 

“The paparazzi are not after me,” you shut down quickly, not wanting her to think you are a bigger deal than what you are. Successful, yes. Famous? Not so much. “One day it’ll be you worrying about them, when you’re all grown up.” 

“I’m twenty-one!” 

It comes out so whiny and childish that you burst into a fit of giggles. Ona is proud to have made you laugh. 

You don’t kiss her, but you’d like to. Then again, maybe it’s better to just be friends. 

[natriae]

10:23pm

"can i tell ya a secret"

"sure" you whispered in response as you snuggled deeper into Atsumu's neck. The two of you had just gotten home from a long day at work and were ready to fall asleep in each other's arms.

"i thought," he started, giggling a bit, "i thought ya had a crush on sunarin for a long time" you felt him shake his head back and forth lightly before continuing, "i was stupid though"

Without seeing his face clearly you could tell he was scrunching his nose remembering how oblivious he was to your love.

"nah he's not my type," you teased as you moved your body completely over his using him as a bed.

"oh yeah, what is your type?" 'tsumu questioned, wanting to see you face flush from embarrassment. His hand reached for your hair petting it to convince you to lean up and look at him in the face. You lifted your arms up and used your forearms to keep you lifted above his head. Subconsciously, his hands wrapped around your waist keeping you stationed over his lean body.

You giggled as you leaned down so your noses touched as told him, "i like boys who are loud and kinda annoying," you watched his face pout at the comment before leaning down and giving a soft kiss on his lips, "and i like boys who are twins, and love to play volleyball," you furthered your reasoning with your hands playing with his hair.

"oh well that doesn't set me apart to much," he prodded. You moved your legs so they rested on each side of his waist and felt the beginning of a boner form in his boxers. You shook your head and kept talking knowing how much this was fulling his ego.

"i like boys who seem come off as gay," you commented, reminding him that you thought he had a thing for Sakusa before you really knew him. You smiled at his reaction before whispering, "i like boys who have really pretty brown eyes that look a little yellow in the sunlight. I like boys who get pouty when someone does something kind for them," immediately thinking of when he started tearing up at the fact that you and osamu worked hard to make him nice lunches for the Olympics.

"i love boys who have big egos even though it gets on my nerves sometimes," you watched his pouty lips turn into a smirk as red flooded his face in pride. You smiled back and grinded lightly into him as you spoke your next words, "i love boys who are such gentlemen, but whisper dirty comments to me when we're supposed to be serious," you couldn't help but let out a big smile thinking about all the times he's ruined professional dinners by accidentally making you blush to hard. You leaned down and left little kisses up his neck to his jaw, "i looovvee boys who have big bushy eyebrows,"

kiss

"boys who have big meaty thighs"

kiss

"boys who always have a big smile on their face just to cheer everyone else up"

kiss

"and i especially love boys who are super protective and possessive,"

"still can't tell if yer describin' me" he teases with his hands interlocked behind his head and his eyes closed.

"oh really," You leaned up, "i like boys who are lowkey perverts, but won't admit to it,"

His body immediately shot up and held you on his lap, "hey! that's not nice," he shouted with his eyebrows drawn together. You laughed at his reaction before holding his face in your hands.

"i love boys who love their family," you said to cool him down leaving a light kiss on his nose.

Reaching down between you body you pulled his hard cock out of his boxers and moved your panties to the side before inserting it.

You left the joking aside and continued your affirmations as you tried to sink further down his cock without being prepped. "i love boys who's name's start with A, and who love dying their hair because it sets them apart"

"i love boys who love animals and will always swerve on the road if it means the animals are safe." you moved further down his cock, but the moment wasn't sexual. He turned the two of you over so you were on your back as he held himself on top of you. It was nothing more then two people in love.

You stared into his eyes and said, "my type is you and only you". The strong man leaned down and left a small kiss on your lips before letting himself relax complete over your body. He was like a big soft weighted blanket. One arm you had wrapped around his back while the other messaged his hair. "'sumu," you whispered into the night air of the master bedroom, but there was no response just quiet snores from the man on top of you. You giggled and continued to message his scalp.

Moments like these were important, moments where Atsumu was recognized for himself. Miya Atsumu a man who loves his mom more than anything, and would drop everything if his brother needed him, not Miya Atsumu MSBY star setter, not Olympic champion Miya Atsumu, not Osamu's twin, or the golden fox, but his own ordinary person. Who was important for just being himself. <3

[sagesskies]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ

✒ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴀʀᴛ

☏ - ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇᴍᴀɪʟ: ᴍʀ. ꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇʟʏ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇʟᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 ᴏꜰ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀʏ ɢᴏᴅ, ʜᴇ ᴀꜱꜱᴜʀᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ. ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ.

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴄʜᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ [ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇᴀʀᴅ], ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜱᴍᴏᴋɪɴɢ, ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇɴᴀɴɪɢᴀɴꜱ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍɪʟᴅ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅᴜʙᴄᴏɴ, ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴍɪꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ!

Yandere Spirit who was your secret boyfriend in high school. A forbidden romance between two youths, who often got to keep their secret because it’d always be excused as just ‘Boys being boys’. He was the most popular boy in school, his older brother was just as popular, but he was even more so. 

Yandere Spirit who was good looking, kind hearted, intelligent, and athletically talented as well. You never knew how you were able to get with a guy like him, you were simply another guy on the track team, and he was not only the team’s star but also the captain. 

Yandere Spirit who was possessive of you, even in life. He’d always claim you as his partner for group projects, even if there were smarter kids in class, and whenever there was an opportunity he'd always insist you wear his track jacket that had his last name on the back. 

Yandere Spirit who still dated other girls, and you tried not to mind so much. They were just a cover, he told you that and you knew it to be true, both of you were aware of what happened to gay boys in this town. He understood more than you, because his older brother Tommy was one of them, and he ran away when he was seventeen. 

Yandere Spirit who remains oblivious to how much his behavior with his girlfriends bother you. You never liked how he was always so physically intimate with them. Yeah, it'd be expected of a couple but did he have to do it so much? God, you can't bear to watch this.

Yandere Spirit who always notices how you distance yourself from him whenever he has a new girlfriend, and one day confronts you about it.

“Cmoon, [Name], why won't you just tell me!” Raphael practically whines, he refused to let go of your hand. You were both part of the track and field team but with his strength you'd argue he could be a football player. 

When you still didn't reply, he huffs, looks around to see if anybody else was around, then pulls you in close, perching his head on top of yours despite your protests. 

“Please babe?” God you never liked it when he called you babe, but you let him anyway, “Tell me what's bothering you…” He sounds like he's near to tears but you keep your lips shut.

“Raph, seriously I'm fine,” You insist, even though you're really not. 

The whole day, you had to hang around Raphael and his new girlfriend. It wasn't so bad, Raph made sure that you were included in the conversation and his girl, Cheryl you think her name was, was actually very nice. 

Your problem with the situation was seeing your boyfriend being all sweet and cuddly with his new beard the same way he always was with you. Well, there was the fact that he was technically cheating on you- But that's not the big issue here! 

Unfortunately for you, you shared a good quarter of your classes with the two lovebirds, and eventually you just distanced yourself from them till you were able to handle the sight of the two of them together. 

Even more unfortunately, was Raph's clinginess to you. When he saw you start to drift away, he immediately pulled you back in and when you decided to just ignore them as best as possible without looking rude, he caught on to that too. 

“Ugh, I know you're lying [Name],” Raphael pouted, “Come on, remember how we promised each other no secrets between us? Don't tell me you forgot!” 

You rolled your eyes, “Anybody would forget Raph, you made me say it in the 2nd grade.” 

“Still!” He protested, “Just tell me already [Name].” You could feel his grip get tighter around you, he was getting impatient. 

“Was it something I did?” Yes. 

“Does it have to do with Cheryl?” Yes. 

“Oh come on, don't tell me you're jealous of her!” It was Raph’s turn to roll his eyes, “Babe you know I'm only using her as a cover.” 

You glared at him, “Doesn't mean you have to be so touchy with her.” 

“She's my new girlfriend,” He used air quotes when he said the word girlfriend, “Gonna have to act like I’m head over heels for her to sell the act.” 

You knew he was right, he was saying the exact same things you told yourself whenever you tried to stop the ugly green monster that was envy from rearing its head. 

“Besides, don’t you think you kinda deserve it?” 

Your eyes widen, and you frown, “What? What do you mean?” Raphael shrugged, “I mean, you’re always tusslin’ and getting all up close with the other guys in the team,” His voice had a bitter edge to it, “I’m your boyfriend,” His hold on you strengthened, “It’s like I’m forced to watch you feel up all these other guys when the only ass you should be groping is mine.” 

“Do you hear how silly you sound right now?” You deadpanned, “It’s just guys being guys, most of us have been wrestling each other since we were kids.” 

He groans, “Ugh, but that doesn’t change that they still get to touch you so much!” 

You sigh, perhaps you and him weren’t so different after all. Not when both of you were so petty as to get jealous because of just, a really plain stupid reason. 

So you pat him on the back, and comfort him like you would a child throwing a tantrum. Till he stops whining, and you apologize to each other, then you continue to pretend that it doesn’t bother you when he presses a kiss to a girl’s lips, when he holds her hand, or even plays with her hair. 

And you pretend like he’s not playing with your heart. 

Yandere Spirit who you watch as he competes with his brother Gabriel over your younger sister, a popular junior who was vice-captain of the cheerleading team. Sometimes when he kisses you, you can’t help but think that this is the same tongue that flirts with your sister. 

Yandere Spirit who you accompany when his brother tells him to meet in the woods near Varenway cliff. Sure he was told to go alone, but you never trusted Gabe, he was always too intense for your liking. It was why he’d never be as popular as his brother. 

Yandere Spirit who you can only watch as he gets into a fight with his brother, held back by the stronger arms of Gabe’s football teammates who tease and mock you all while assuring Gabe won’t hurt Raphael too badly.

You thrash in their grip like a wild animal refusing to be caged, you kick at their feet, try to slam your head back into their stupid faces, but regardless of your attempts you are still stuck. 

“Let go of me, you assholes!” You practically spit. 

One of them, your classmate Sam Moss, sneers at you, then turns to his friend, who you recognize as Luke Herring, “Should we let [Name] go Luke?” 

Luke lets out a dumb laugh, “Huhuhu, naahh,” His tone is calm like an afternoon breeze, but his eyes are filled with only malice, “I don’t think we should Sam.” 

You click your tongue and tune out the rest of their words, they think they’re so intimidating just because they hang around Gabe, who nobody dares to pick a fight with, but they’re nothing more but tiny little pups who think the wolf’s shadow is their own. 

Instead you focus your gaze onto Raphael, who moves quicker than Gabe, but whenever a hit is able to land, it lands hard. Your heart clenches when you see the newly forming bruise above Raph’s brow, his busted lip, but you force yourself to remain silent. Raph can handle himself, and you hated to admit to it but Sam and Luke were right, Gabe may be dumb but he wasn’t that dumb to let Raph get seriously hurt. 

But still, for every hit that Raph gets in, Gabe lands another solid punch. Raph’s blood stains Gabe’s fists, and his beautiful face is marred. Gabe himself does not even need to catch his breath, the only evidence of exhaustion is a light sheen of sweat. 

You feel a sharp tug on your head, and you wince, Luke grabs your hair and has a look of anger on his face. 

“Little shit, fuckin’ pay attention to us damnit!” His spit flies in your face, and you grimace, “Should fuckin’ teach you a lesson for such disrespect.” 

Sam cackles like a hyena, “Ha! I don’t think Gabe would mind us roughin’ this arrogant prick up a bit,” In his eyes there is a hunger for violence, and you suppress the urge to shiver, you get what your mother means now when she says that men are like animals. You’ve never felt more like prey before now. 

You try to ignore them, and the fear that slowly builds in your chest, to get one last glimpse at Raph. But all you see is his head hanging low, and being grabbed by Gabe, whose bruised hands are curled tightly around his collar, before you are thrown down into the floor, and Luke gets on top of you. 

His sleeves are pulled back, and he draws back his fist for a punch, but before he can Sam who is still watching the fight, gasps, and Luke turns to see what has happened. Their eyes widen, but all you can hear that tells you of what just happened is a distant sickening crunch. 

Luke gets off of you and both he and Sam run to Gabe, who is looking down the cliff. Where is Raph? 

You get up, legs shaky for a bit before you steel your resolve and steady, you voice your thoughts, “Where's Raph?” 

When you get no response, the fear that was building from the fear of Luke getting his meaty hands on you is now growing from the possibility that Gabe let his anger get the best of him. At the thought of it, it is not only fear budding within you, but also anger. 

You march over to Gabe, and with strength you didn’t have before you grab him by the back of his collar and turn him around so you and him were now eye-to-eye, “Did you push him off, Gabriel?” Your voice is shaky, from fury, from anxiety, from both, you do not know. When you receive no response, you grit your teeth, and shake him violently, “Answer me, you bastard!” 

Gabriel’s eyes go wide, and his mouth parts but there are no words that leave his lips. But then he nods, and your sudden burst of strength fizzles away, and your hands let go of him. You walk, one step backward, another, and then another, and you fall on your own bottom, and your hands go to your head. Raph loved to do the same thing, hand going to the top of your head and holding it gently, sometimes just laying there together, his hand on your head and both of you quiet together.

You cannot let them see your tears, you cannot. But the dam breaks, and you start to sob. 

You hear them speak, Gabe, Sam, and Luke. However, you don’t want to listen to them. They killed him. Sam and Luke had less blood on their hands, but they were the ones who restrained you. If they didn’t then- Then maybe you could- You could… You don’t know. You don’t know, you don’t know. 

Gabe is standing in front of you, arms crossed, “Get up, [L/N],” His voice was gruff, nothing like Raph’s who always sounded like he was singing or speaking poetry, “Unless you want to end up like Raph did, you’ll do as I say.” Gabe was cruel too, nothing like Raph. 

Hesitantly, you get up, and wipe away the tears on your face. Sam and Luke who were looking at you like you were no better than the dirt on their shoe, now look at you with slight pity. It was no secret in school that you and Raphael were the best of friends, but they wouldn’t be looking at you so if they knew what you two were really like. 

You go down the cliff with them, traversing through the steep and rocky terrain. Till you arrived at the bottom, where Raph’s body lay. The blood had stopped flowing by then, or perhaps there was simply too much to look like there was more accumulating. Luke covers the bottom half of his face, Sam turns his head away, and only you and Gabe can look at the corpse. 

You glance at him, his face is like stone. You wonder if he regrets what he’s done tonight over your sister, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him without feeling like bile was going to start creeping up your throat. 

You help them carry the body deeper into the woods, Luke and Sam go to get the shovel Sam’s dad always kept in the back of his truck, and you are left with the boy who killed your lover. 

Both of you are silent, and your eyes go to look at his bruised knuckles stained with Raph’s blood. You must’ve been staring because he glares at you, “What? You wanna join Raph in his grave?” 

You know you should stay silent, but you’ve had enough of that. 

“It’d be better than having to bury him, that’s for sure,” You snarl out, you want to sock him across the face, but you’d have less impact than Raphael did, “You’re a monster.” 

“He got what was coming to him,” Gabriel clenched his fists, “If it wouldn’t be me, it may have been you.” 

You flinch, “The hell are you talking about Gabe?” You? Kill Raph? If that was meant to be a joke it wasn’t very funny. But Gabe had the same amount of charm as a donkey’s ass so it probably shouldn’t have surprised you.

“You think I’m blind, [L/N]?” A smirk forms on his face, it looks like Raphael's but at the same time it couldn’t be more different, “Everybody’s seen how you look at him and his girlfriends.” 

Your heart raced, did- Did he know? Did everybody know? If so, why weren’t you getting picked on? Raphael may have been the most popular guy in school, but even he would get harassed by some jerk. 

“You don’t get to chastise me for shit like this when you’re jealous of all the girls he gets,” At first you’re surprised he knows the word chastise, but when he accuses you of that, you laugh. You laugh like you would at a joke Raphael made, and when you realize that you start to cry. 

Gabe looks like he’s going to make fun of you, but thinks better of it when he sees the tears racing down your face and makes an expression of discomfort. 

Sam and Luke return, and by that time you’ve dried your tears. Gabe and Luke, the stronger ones, start to dig the grave, and Sam lights a cigarette. He hesitates, and then offers you one, a peace offering of sorts. 

You take it, even if you’ve never smoked before, and you cough as the smoke fills your lungs. 

“Sorry about Raphael,” He says, there is no cruelty, there is no mockery, only remorse for the blood that has been spilled, “Didn’t know him much, but I knew you two were close.” 

You take another puff, and you cough less this time, “It shouldn’t be you who’s apologizing,” You glare at Gabriel, who is digging his own twin brother’s grave. Sam follows your gaze, and he purses his lips, but then he nods.

You crush the cigarette under your shoe, and go to Raphael’s cold corpse. Your eyes scan over him, his eyes are open, the once vibrant green now hollow and empty. You close his eyes. Before you stand back up, you see a familiar glint of steel. The necklace he told you was gifted by his mother.

You take it off his neck, the cross dangling at the end gleaming even in the dark, then place it in your pocket.

Eventually Gabriel and Luke finish up, and you and Sam pick up Raphael’s body and then settle him gently into the grave. 

You take one last look at his face, burning it into your mind. He is beautiful even when his face is bloody and bruised. You want to weep again, your tears would wash away the filth from his face, but they would not bring him back. 

Yandere Spirit who invades your dreams every single night. He holds you close and what was once a warm embrace, is now a cold and stiff cage. Even if it is a dream you can smell the iron from the blood on his skin, and the earthy odor of the soil he was buried in. 

Yandere Spirit whose search you volunteer for. Even if it is only to avoid suspicion. You’re paired with Gabe and his younger brother Amos Jr., and the silence is filled with Junior’s ceaseless chatter. You pity the young boy, who shouldn’t have to search for his brother who he doesn’t even know is dead. 

When you go near the spot you buried Raph, your gaze immediately meets Gabe’s and a silent agreement goes between you two. Do not let Junior find the grave. 

But despite your best efforts, the boy does, and you can only watch while Gabe threatens him to keep his mouth shut. You're sick, and you haven’t eaten anything all day. You tell Gabe and Junior to go ahead, and then puke your guts out near Raph’s grave. 

You hold on to a tree, and sob. The taste of vomit, still on your tongue. The wind blows through your hair, it feels like Raph’s gentle caress. You swear you even hear his voice, whispering to you that it's all going to be okay, that he’ll make things better, that Gabe would pay for what he’s done. 

Time passes by. You attend Raphael’s funeral. You study, and go to your classes. You run, run faster than you’ve ever ran. You run faster than even Raph, who you’ve replaced as the track team captain. You wear his necklace every day, and you’d never take it off if you could help it. 

Sometimes you swear you hear him, whispering into your ear. Every night you feel like he’s holding you as well, but his touch is cold, yet it still brings you comfort after every nightmare where his bloody corpse stares at you from the shallow grave Gabe made for him. 

You start to isolate yourself, especially when the comforting touches become rough and possessive when you spend too much time with anybody else. You make small talk with your classmate? Ghostly fingers dig their nails into your skin. You roughhouse with your friends? Cold arms wrap themselves around your waist so tight you feel like it’s getting crushed. You get hit on by a girl? Suddenly she’s got a cold look in her eyes and leaves mid sentence. 

When you graduate, you don’t attend any parties, and you’re not invited to many other than the ones hosted by your track teammates. Gabe invites you to one, surprisingly, but when Raph wraps himself possessively around you, you know you’re not leaving the house tonight.

You don’t sleep that night either, not when Raph’s hands grope your bare flesh, sensitive against his cool touch. You swear you can see him, blood still staining his skin, his eyes are vacant but at the same time hazy with lust. He whimpers, and whines, panting into your ear.

  “Feels good.”

  “Nngh, sooo warm.” 

 “Need you, need you, need you.”

 “Love you, love you ‘s much.”

 “Never letting you go, n- ha.. not even death can separate us.” 

You feel dirty, like you’re being used. But you let him continue, you deserve this. Don’t you? You didn’t help him. You were too weak to help him. If only you were stronger, maybe it wouldn’t be his ghost on top of you right now but it’d be him in the flesh. Body just as warm as yours, a beautiful red flush on his sun kissed skin. You’d trace over every freckle, every small childhood scar, and hold him close to you till the sun rose.

But instead, your only company is the freezing form of Raph’s specter as he desperately clings to the comfort of your warmth, to feel alive again. And he’s never leaving you. 

“...You’re mine, mine, [Name],” His frigid whispers send a shiver down your spine, “You are mine even in death.”

☏ - ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇᴍᴀɪʟ: ᴍʀ. ꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ.

[alisaint]

we need to toxic yaoi it up in the snowjanus tag.

i want to see us talk about how snow's possessiveness would extend to sejanus. i want to see us talk about the rabbit sejanus x serpent snow imagery & dynamic. i want to see us talk about snow getting drunk on sejanus's loyalty, his devotion, his endless gratitude of which snow is entirely undeserving.

i want us to talk about how dislike is not the opposite of love. i want to see us talk about snow battling with his feelings for sejanus, whatever they may be, and turning them into something more palatable, something he can actually parse: disdain, jealousy, and competition. does he want to be sejanus or does he want to be with him? a quintessential queer question. he doesn't know; he never knows, not even once he's stolen the sweet boy's entire life.

desire turns to aggression; the intricate rituals, anything that allows him to appropriately and discreetly touch sejanus, allows him to rationalize this desire to begin with. meanwhile, in the quiet of the night, when it's just him in his room, he thinks of sejanus's warm embrace and doesn't dare question why he can only allow himself to relish the memory when no one is looking.

i want us to talk about sejanus accepting snow's friendship because he thinks that's all he'll ever have. he pushes him toward lucy gray, all too content to just be his friend, his brother, his broken token from the past. tells himself this is more than enough, and it is. the boy he loves has saved his life. how many people can say that? he's lucky. he tells himself that over and over until he believes it, until it smothers that lonesome ache in his chest.

bisexual snow x gay sejanus. snow has more experience but sejanus has to guide him through a "relationship" anyway. they keep it hush-hush; too much of a secret for sejanus's tastes. snow x lucy + other woman sejanus. maybe sejanus finally falls for someone else, but snow isn't keen on sharing, so he inserts himself into sejanus's life again, knowing just how important he's always been to his sweet, sensitive little fool.

let's talk about snow always being so touchy with sejanus, always getting so close that sejanus can feel his breath on his lips, and the one time that sejanus finally snaps and closes the distance. he's always been the braver one, anyway. always acts without thinking, leaving snow to pick up the mess. this is no different.

please, i beg. GIVE ME THAT TOXIC YAOI 🗣

[fictionalstorybyme]

Jaxson is a young hot dude and he knows a bit about how some people, boys mostly are in awe of his self-proclaimed awesomeness. He was very confident from years earlier and now at age eighteen he had a new group to torture with his cunning seductive smile and friendly manner. But he always had an agenda. He scoped out the students at the beginning of classes. He would trot in everyday in outfits that were made his admirers droll. His slender body was tailor made for the classic look of jeans and sneakers. He was able to pick out the various fetishes of each of the many who adored him as he flirted easily with boys, girls and teachers. He could map out a plan to get them to fall in love with him and used that to dominate and control them as he pleased. He possessed an arrogance and knew how to show his displeasure with a single look. An example was Ryan…

He had this way of making you feel you were the only person in the room, the party, the world that counted to him. His ability to focus on you with 100% of his soul, that attention was crazy addictive. He created inside jokes that he could pass along a crowded with just his expressive eyes. It seemed every time you looked for him, he was already looking at you. Our eyes met and he winked and did a facial gesture or stick out his tongue and made me laugh. It seemed every time that I wanted to leave, he was by my side and asked me. “You wanna get something to eat (when I was hungry) or just go for a ride in his convertible. He had this sixth sense of what was going on inside my head. “Trouble with the big brother?” “Trouble with your mom?” “You can talk to me if you want, you know I’m always here. Quiet is good, too.” The thing is that he was always right. How he could tell if the situation was my big brother or my younger brother, he just read me like a book. It was really nice when i thought it was because he really cared. I had the house swept for spy shit, but nothing. He would have been the one, and i ain’t gay. But for him, I don’t know how it’d work, IF it’d work, but one thing was for sure. JAX KNEW ME KNOWS ME STILL to this VERY day. Jaxson knows me better than anybody and everybody combined.

He keeps saying it’s in my head and that, yeah he had other friends. We were in high school, after all and our job was making and being friends. TRUE! He swears to this day, I was the real deal in his mind. THE BFF. “But Ryan,” Jax said, “You know you’re not gay. I know you’re not gay. So, understand I had to have other friends. I never wanted to say this, because: If I had said, “I L❤️ VE YOU” and your mind would be be in turmoil. I knew we made a good friendship match. Maybe at the beginning I might have thought it’d be cool to have one of the premier guys that i’ve ever known and had the distinct honor and pleasure to know and be friends with convert to the other team. Girls attempt to change guys like me to be straight. Would I actually be your friend if I attempted that with you? I KNOW I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN HAPPY! Maybe for a the honeymoon period? That’s why it’s called the honeymoon period. It doesn’t last. If I had have said this earlier, Ryan, I’d never ever forgive myself. Ever! I really have always put your needs and wants ahead of mine. Always! I never wanted you to do anything just to please me and not please yourself. That’s what the people who get called that disgusting name. If loving me turned you into a fag, I’d sooner kill myself than permit that. I’m not that kind of guy who is selfish and wants to see if you’ll change teams to be with him.” “I get it, Jaxson. I really do. You are right. You never tried to convert me or suggest i experiment to be sure. But why didn’t you tell me that so i could shield myself from the eventual pain and suffering?”

“For the same reason you didn’t tell me you were certain you were straight, Ryan. I didn’t know for sure just like you didn’t know for sure.” Ryan nodded and agreed, allowing all the rage and anger to dissipate and desolve into the either. “ONE THING WE DID KNOW FOR SURE!” Jaxson said. “WE WERE THE PERFECT COMBINATION OF WHAT LIFETIME FRIENDSHIPS HAVE IN COMMON. OPPOSITES ATTRACT AND RESPECT. If I didn’t respect you Ryan, I’d try to have you in my bed every night with experimenting as the reason why. Thats why we go to college. To try new things. You admitted you had a crush on me.” “A HUGE CRUSH!” Ryan corrected. “You were infatuated with me. Is that a fair statement?” “Yes,” Ryan said. “Well, I too am a human being capable of having crushes and being infatuated with another.” Jaxson said. “I had a huger crush, so infatuated was I with you that i couldn’t eat for ten days, because my infatuation turned into love. You don’t try to change the one you love into something they are not! You are not gay! I know that because Ry, I wanted you so bad, but you never picked up a clue. Am i correct?” “One hundred percent!” Ryan answered. “So we’re just friends?”

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[anniebass]

baby don't be mad

1.3k word actverse ficlet under the jump rating: M tags: dialogue-heavy, beginning of the relationship, the boys are arguinggg, old man eddie's being a clueless slut, and also a dweeb, and steve's being... a person that rly needs therapy lol

Rapid catchups, they name it, though it doesn’t really need a name, it’s basically just talking. Early on Eddie realizes he doesn’t know all that much about his sexy old-but-new long distance serious boyfriend, that he possesses a fuckton of outdated information, that, duh, people change, especially in the long-ass time they spent apart. That the habits and opinions of a twenty-year-old shithead don’t necessarily last until someone’s forties.

That evening, they do the rapid catchups, starting off easy, prompted by the takeout dinner they have at Steve’s: best Asian food, go, at which without a second thought Steve says Chinese, while Eddie goes with Japanese, love me some sushi, yum. Later, when they’re full of kung pao and mapo tofu, lazily digesting on the couch, half-watching an old movie where Sharon Stone saunters across the screen and smolders at bad men, Steve says: you have to sleep with a woman, any woman in the world, dead or alive, go.

Eddie groans and slides down the couch, throws his hands up: dude, I don’t know! Uh, like maybe— Cleopatra? Or maybe one of those amazonian greek warriors with one boobie?

So, no one you actually know the face of? he says, with a little smirk.

Man, I don’t— I mean, there are some beautiful women walking this earth, like stunning stunning women I can’t get enough of, but that don’t mean I want to fuck them! My willy shrinks at the thought, he explains meekly, and shrugs, clicking his tongue: I dunno, maybe Eartha Kitt? She seems very fun.

Good choice, mutters Steve, and to Eddie’s your turn he tilts his head, scratches his nose: I don’t know if that question really applies to me. But if I had to have a sex list, it would be… Linda Evangelista? Or Sharon, she’s hot. Or— yeah, Monica Belucci, Jesus. Her, definitely. If not her then Cleopatra, that’s actually a great answer, she must have been good for all that shit to go down around her, he says with a smile, and Eddie sighs dreamily, oh, I’d love to watch. From the closet, imagine myself in her place. In a little egyptian wig, he adds, to which Steve snorts, rolling his eyes.

Alright, my turn. Best casual sex you’ve ever had, go, says Eddie, and Steve hums at that, leans back on the couch, rubbing his chin, mumbling under his breath, until he sighs and says: I actually didn’t have that much of it beyond my teens, and what I had back then was very… teenaged, y’know. And in that short gap between my first and second wife I slept with just three people, two dudes and one woman, and neither of those was mind-blowing. The guys were kinda disappointing, I thought after so many years of straight sex I’d be blown away, but it was just… okay. Actually—, he adds, shaking his head: it sucked. I was drunk, they were drunk, I don’t remember much of it. Or don’t want to. I remember stinky balls. So, I dunno—, he says, and sighs, and glances at him: am I a big loser if I say the best one was when we reconnected? Could say it was still casual back then, right? When we fucked in the church, or by the pool, or—, yeah, there was a lot of it, on that trip.

It really was magical, agrees Eddie, smiling at him.

So, uh, your turn, says Steve. Best you've ever had, go.

Oh, man, mutters Eddie. I know my answer to that. Japan, in the mid-nineties. We were on tour and stayed for a few nights in Tokyo, and I got to explore the city, research shit with the help of a very discreet translator, and finally, on our last night there, I ended up in a gay bar. Very hush-hush, a basement place hidden away in some grimy back alley, he says, lowering his voice into sultry tones of gossip. Met a guy there, this… slightly chubby middle-aged businessman type, suit and tie and briefcase, wedding ring on his finger, very regular looking guy, and we drank sake through the night, sang some karaoke, and ended up in some seedy by-the-hour love hotel. He didn’t know who I was, didn’t speak a lick of English, I was obviously drunk, but I still remember that night like it was yesterday. God, just— the way that guy fucked me, the way he seemed to know every inch of my body without having seen it before, the way he just knew what I wanted without any language, it was insane. We did it a few times that one night, practically without stopping, and never saw each other again. I actually jerk off to that memory to this day.

To this, Steve lets out a small hm, purses his lips and leans back, crossing his arms, and Eddie clicks his tongue, leaning closer, touching his shoulder: aw, don’t be jealous. That was casual, but out of all people, of course you are my number one, no contest. I just— remember that one time in Japan, because it worked so well without language, and that’s always kinda hot. Language of love, all that cheesy stuff. Up to that point and following it, it'd mostly happen with some hot Brazilians.

Okay, he says.

Eddie sighs, watching his face: Steve, you know that’s what my life was like back then, this neverending barrage of hookups. And most of those weren’t even that good, like, you talk of stinky balls? I met dozens, slobbered over them anyway like they were fucking Ferrero Rocher!, he says to a small groan in return, then sighs, speaks softer: being with you is a completely different quality from that, even from my previous relationships. It’s way different. With Marcell, we both slept around, there wasn’t much that we had in common beyond, like, incredible attraction at the beginning, and the fact that we work in the same industry, could endlessly talk about that. And with Zu, we— we really loved each other, but we weren’t a good fit. It was this weird thing where she needed someone more masc, but also I needed someone more masc, he says with an amused scoff. We were two bottoms in love, and it’s hard to make it work in the long term, without fucking other people. We’re way better off as friends. And the other dudes I dated, it was just— me being a drunken asshole, most of the time. I was a very shitty boyfriend for a looong-ass time.

There’s a stretch of silence, and Steve slides down the couch, still frowning: man… I just wonder why you asked that question in the first place. Because it seems to me like you wanted to brag a little about this incredible hookup you had in fucking… Japan. Do you miss fucking other people, Eddie?

He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair: Steve, I literally just told you I don’t. I might romanticize it, the— the way I might romanticize being on drugs, but I don’t want to go back to that. I asked because I want to know everything about you! I dunno, I— I guess I like Japan. It’s such a weird place, I really want to go back there, he says and inches closer, placing a calm hand on his thigh: come with me. Like, for two weeks or something. We’d take the girls with us, go in the summer or for the spring break. Would be cool to just wander around, shop, sing karaoke, eat tons of good food. Go to Kyoto, see the geishas, tea ceremony. Go to hot springs. Japan’s truly like no place you’ve ever been to.

I didn't know you liked it that much. A trip does sound nice, says Steve, with a small smile. Emily would go crazy, she loves those cartoons. Chels would like it too, I think.

Eddie smiles and squeezes his leg: sounds like a plan. Also, just to— get it out of the way: from the moment you first kissed me, I stopped thinking of us as casual. I was, like, fully fully back in love with you in point two seconds. Even before that, to be honest. If I ever for a single moment considered that a hookup, it’d totally blow that businessman out of the water. If you want, I could show you, uh, how I blew him out of the— fucking—, he falters, then snorts: sorry, failed metaphor. But you catch my drift.

Yes, please, says Steve.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

A little thing that kinda annoys me in the popular OFMD fandom headcanon sphere is that it often seems that Ed is presented as the jealous, possessive type, and I just don't think that makes a lot of sense with how we actually see him act.

When Ed thought Stede abandoned him, he barely even fucking questioned it. He waited all night, heartbroken, of course, but his assumption was that he just deserved that. Our boy has negative self-esteem and thinks he's unloveable, his reaction to thinking that Stede is flirting with someone else or cheating on him is going to be to melt into a weepy puddle of self-doubt.

On top of that, even when Ed is upset with Stede in s2e4, these boys trust each other so much. Ed doesn't believe Stede willingly kissed Anne because Stede is Super Gay, yes, but he also doesn't believe that because Stede told him so. He doesn't even entertain it, doesn't get jealous for even a second. Ed and Stede do not make habits out of lying to each other and they are heartachingly earnest with one another, I genuinely think a little reassurance would be all Ed needed to believe Stede isn't cheating on him or planning on breaking up with him.

I just don't buy the idea that Ed's much of the jealous type, especially when it merges with ideas that he'd get violent with anyone hitting on Stede. It just doesn't hold up. Ed's reaction to being sad and upset isn't violence, he's going to be pouting and crying about it.

Stede, on the other hand? I could absolutely see Stede acting jealous if he thought someone was hitting on Ed. I mean, look at him spying on Jack and Ed all night in s1e8! He's telling on himself already, and when they're actually a couple? Imagine his "that's the captain's chair!!!" voice but "he's MY boyfriend!!!" instead.