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notmuchtoconceal · 1 year

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Will you write a post about gagging and restraining a guy, maybe locking his cock up, to get him to acknowledge who he really is?

\\./

My name is Jon Jakob Janusz Kamiński. I am not a psychological construct or some other archetype or fictive golem. I am a flesh and blood man with real kinks, real wounds and a dick which really aches.

By fancy, I am a private investigator, and by profession a pervert. Though absent minded, my interiors are always cluttered. I can go on like this, but you're here for events, preferably in as close to chronological order as the faculties can track without inducing a loss of rhapsody to the senses.

In a previous life, I had considered myself to be aspiring towards a man of letters, when in truth I fear myself to be more of a brute of pictures, and words being composed of sigils composed of lines are ultimately reducible to pictures, though they are pictures which produce noise, as though someone designed a television to display an opaque static field projected out to a width of twice the length of the screen, transparent but for the innate properties of projection through light -- and they did this intentionally, to reduce the efficacy of the updated medium by nestling it within an enlarged smokescreen of the obsolete design, narrowing the total comprehension of its new potential.

In truth a word ought not be considered a picture, but a silence corresponding to a packet of sounds, but I fear I can only say so much without my head springing a leak and trickling clear waters refreshing as spring rain, yet nevertheless as revealing to me of my own intellectual impotence as a streamer of drool from my spread and chrome-addled man lips, smacking you with the acrid ungulate bastings of my toasty and fragrant armpit mattings you long to feel scalding your tongue by invitations you accepted through functions you could not refuse -- docile and simpering thing you are to dare and lie amnesiac at my feet after the courtesy I wasted beholding you deepthroating my steel-toes. Really know how to make a guy feel wanted, bud. Just once I'd like to meet a fella who'd smile at me awhile before he departed the fugue state.

Pending the events of my last case, full comprehension of linear time has not yet returned to me, for I have begun to experience myself as a sprawl of moments more a net weaving itself into the stiffness of a basket with its each overlapping stitching through -- as every chain of divergent probability come inevitable possibility has exhausted itself through not only calculations averted, but reminiscences unforgotten, and the pang of my every remorse is to be celebrated for it is the conquest of a me which never was who, now that I am smarter for knowing who I ought have always been, may at last stop playing catch-up and be now, to let the me of some time which will not be the loser for me, though with so many losers throwin themselves in my feed, dumpin death-knells into the inevitable course of things we mutually achieve through our responses, I see this simply as another worst of times who has forgotten the best of times, nay -- denied the best of times could or would ever occur, as this is the resignation to the cuckoldry of despair; simply the denial of anything which is not a carrot dangling on a stick two feet before your eyes on a treadmill where you feel your ass swatted by pangs of unconquerable fury all the more conquerable for the stubbornness of love; I would rather be a jackass braying than a rabbit running, for you'll shut me up with my feedbag and I'll grow heartier on oats as you thump, thump, thump, the days and the nights away, toilin in holes you got no business but minin treasure for other men -- the icemelts down in the cold mines you saw yourself floating lily-like in titanic ballrooms.

While it is no business of yours if I have business unattended to in 1912, at times unlikely detours make expediated pace, so I would appreciate the continued patience so readily given, my friend.

I apologize.

That was overly familiar on my part. I have no right to assume my friendship is any way wanted or already in your possession. You have not rightly earned it, and frankly I wonder if you're up to the challenge. I can only asses so much by staring you in the eyes and stripping you down as I luxuriate in your every wan and waning glance, and though your eyes tell of so many wounds begging to be undressed, I can not speak to the ways you rationalize these experiences to yourself, which are far more precious to you than the blunt intrusions of my clumsy and foibled probings.

Understanding now that you are unknowable enough to me to make a suitable simulacrum of familiarity on your terms unadvisable, and so you may now take me on my terms or depart to vistas unknown, as you will surely be most cherished by those who cherish most being with you, I may no longer but at at last achingly and ear-splittingly deliver the details of my still-pending last case -- the beginnings of which will occur in

-- 3

-- 2

--( o )

The photos of the boy arrived smashed in the fat padded envelope. The splatter of a shed tear smacked a gob of parting lotus on his face where a bend had marred the stock. The taper of a lassoed cattle-neck bulged on the other slip of the noose into a swell of pert and dimpled delt, splaying as thighs round backward into buckling elbows, knotted not only to one another, but to a hook on his craning scalp, bending him backwards where the rope would tug to twist around the beckoning cutlet of his lean and muscled flank, knotted around another so the grip of a basket beneath a basket held aloft the beading precipice of his fat, white, cotton-clad bulge, through which his cock had grown so fat and sweaty, it rose clear-as-locker room mucus against his kelpy pubes, stark as an eel against the glass of its tank, smearing its splotched and veiny undercarriage for the unmoored and salivating eyes of the innocent.

I am showing them to you, not because it would impress certain wants which have not stirred in some time, but which find the cradle of a new day in you, the chalice from which I long to drink deep to quench plains arid and abyssal with the dew of a new dawn, golden and pulpy as the flesh of a pear I yearn to ferment sequestered in the prison of secret malices you long to know, for they are the vessels of the vital force you seek in me and which whet your appetite so wantonly -- for every hunger you stir in me is one awakened by you, young meat who longs to be cleaved, seasoned and mounted; so what you will earn in the course of due time is simply your inevitable want and you will find no fault in the dreams you make real, weaving them as you dance the dance with me, weaving the web as you bob your way through, finding you will pen yourself at the threshold of your exit, all threads wound back trapping you at the point of your start, true liberation in total confinement to the confines you longed to slip into; who even now quivers and drips at the thought of the yoke around your neck, weighing on the stocks of broad and sophomoric shoulders, frightened boy begging for direction, guidance and kindness -- show me the surrender which is the true beauty of your tears as you humble yourself and accept you are mine to do with as you please, you who came here to please me, and it would please you most, for I am the comfort you seek, and you are threatened most by the course of your inevitable bliss, not the incidental detail of my capacity to crush your spine in half if I break ya against my knee too fast --

But rather I am showing them to you not for the striking resemblance you bare the young gentleman in question, but because doing so would cut down significantly on the exposition budget, the whole of which I fear I've already busted day one on another shooting, but hey - two thirds of the third act gotta be chase scene, we'll run the cameras. We'll run the actors. Something's always running, even if nobody's watching. It's all getting saved somewhere, even if nobody can find ten straight seconds of it. Posterity is a treasure hunt for the future, and our every ocean shall be a clinking of the bottles holding the maps.

Right, kid.

Enough talk, some movement's gotta happen now.

Down the street, the darkness outpaced the light. The endless sub-divisions of the city, if indeed this is still the city, the concrete wilderness growing ever more abstract as your eyes blur over in half-reminiscence which is the shape you see where the shapes of forms cannot penetrate through into the real, the veil of obscurity cloaking the land so thickly in a smog of velvet, as though the stars you couldn't see, so distant through the magenta bruises of the night sky which is not this night, but darker for it is to conceal what things need still be concealed, as though the failings of your headlights to penetrate more than a narrow cone into the sea plain of this desert was a conspiracy you mounted against yourself, rather than an inherent limitation of the heat and light emitted by what you could conjure by the burnings of your machinery alone.

The rows of houses, the lines of which stood stark white in the dark, the spectral cages of those shapes which separated the opacity within from the entities without, as all lights which swirled invariably stared back.

Delivering narration which by the factual happenstance of its structure delivered not narration, but sequential events which maintained a linear and plausibly real depiction of inhabited spaces, the incidental details of which were merely flourish to convey something of their essential quality, rather than a frame which is not a portrait but a window out into a forest you would not miss for the trees when they are always staring back.

The assembly of these lines, steady and oscillating streams which are not moving, for you are still and moving over land -- stirring you from the scalding mug of your clenched bladder, your puckering lips and smacking taint, steamy with condensation as the vibrato rises from the gravel groveling under tread as the turn of each new rotation stamps its markings into furrows of its own making, each stone longing to be trod upon by the rusteaten demon propelled by its own combustion.

Where stalks of light from lamps, slivers of silver blossoming phosphorescence in the windswept streets, mirrored the vertical bars in your eyes, folds against the grids of the houses, these rows of identical compartments which were only a consequence of their structure and their structure was only these lines, so what they were was in fact an absence demarcated by a division composed of myriad intersections, cuts in things coming to compose the shapes of things, and these creases, which marred the lines, affected them only as much as they were splits in the material itself, marring what had been etched and inked, acting simultaneously as a breakage and a deformation, so the connection of one absence to another by the exchange of new energy and shape were interred to the each from without.

[ =/= _/~ \|/ ~\_ =/=]

The red brick crematory oven of the house lay slant on the hillside, like a casket dislodged from a grave, threatening to consume itself.

==[p. ~( o )~ .d]==

The buzzer, you suspected, was connected to a trap door leading into free-fall with swordfish compelled by cruel circumstance of applied advanced animal psychology to constantly leap upward, the waters below ridden with candiru and fabulous silver-winged flying piranha to nibble on the piss-slits or any other appendage of any poor fool dexterous enough to evade the skewers -- ostentatious displays of funhouse buffoonery being your expectation and therefore your continuous norm.

Tact and a deft hand being critical in delicate situations where tempers will flare and violent force is an inevitable probability, you thought it best to curl your brute paw and bash the door with reckless abandon.

-- Police, flush your stash!

Batteries were hastily dislodged. The click was audible to you over the howling of the wind and the breath fogging at the windows.

-- I'm coming, I'm coming!

The circus was in town. The acrobat was to leap on the strongman.

-- It will be only a moment. The quiche is still in incubation!

Might've gotten those eggs a little too fresh, darling.

-- Pay no attention to the scampering of stocking'd feet upon the floor!

Only thing you heard was the buzzer thumping about.

-- The door swung open!

A vision stood before you.

She had her extended close-up, soft-focus on her immaculately pencil'd eye and foundation'd cheek cruelly cut for reasons of pacing.

-- Well, I was expecting something a bit less threadbare. Now if you're here to move the fridge, it's a two man job, but I think you'll do.

-- Madame, I have identified myself in obvious jest as an officer of the law. Kindly invite me into your home and serve me dinner, bitch.

-- My, such a forceful and domineering plainclothesman! Already my morning glories dew at the thought of my impending defilement. Please, right this way.

-- Thank you. Your cooperation will greatly expediate the process, though I must confess, at tremendous loss of satisfaction to me, personally.

The mauve living room sat in oily silhouette, the sole source of luminance the dim rays wafting on currents from a coral lampshade.

-- What did you say your name was, officer?

-- J. Jonah Comiskey Park. I am not a Sox fan, though the many are fans of my socks. I'd take off my boots, but the fragrant smell of sweat and soil trapped over a three days consecutive hike in leather would drive you into a frenzy of which the likes would disgrace us both. It's best if we leave things professional and you ask me to keep my shoes on.

-- You know that's so funny, I was just thinking of getting down on all fours and crawling across the room to bury my face between your legs while I growl and pant like a bitch.

The silk floral print gown clung with subtle dampness to her buttocks.

-- You are most courteous to restrain yourself, madame. My stiff, leaky, aching cock is not a matter which has any relevance to this investigation, and you needn't put to memory the myriad scents and flavors which the accumulation of temperature, moisture, and trace elements as exposed to the cycle of perspiration, evaporation and residue has over the previous days basted the heaving sirloin of my aching tumescent throbbing which itches to order and structure by means of the understanding which comes from penetration -- the fencing always into unforeseen probability, guided by a mad urge to expel upon that which will expel the most back in a twirling, binding, biting of generation and production which comes to choke us as we stare one another in the eyes, longing to see, longing to lip, longing only to gouge out our eyes.

Some sockpuppet took to seize her pinky.

-- A nematode around your socket, and I am two flatworms in five bisections. Ten pincers to your cheeks, you are a coconut in my claws.

The clouds remained transparent by my glass.

-- The Milkman ain't collectin, but I still think you wanna drop off.

Between the cleavage of her breast -- at which you were the optimal vantage to peer down -- glinted a cache of buffalo head nickels.

-- I keep my containers and fill them from any tap. A rind or a melon, one can get milk from many an udder.

One of you wanted gashes in the eyes. The other had tits on the brain.

-- There was

The finger to her lip propelled forward.

-- The boy, yes. I was about to ask again why you're here, but then I remembered my quiche and can only hope it's managing on its own without me. By all means, snoop. I'll only be a minute.

-- It can burn. The room isn't rendered in high enough resolution to gage any meaningful detail. How did you know about the boy?

A kick parted the slit in her dress as she turned.

-- Why, do you want to know if he's here? You didn't leave him back at the office, did you? How many days ago did you say that was?

The muscles of her legs shimmered in flexes of nylon.

-- I'd been hiking for three, but I have no way of knowing if I did that immediately after leaving or sometime before.

Beads of sweat, warm mists mingling with gold.

-- Well gang, it looks like we've got a mystery on our hands. I don't suppose you can lose the plot if you never managed to find one.

The damp curled the vine of a poppy up her mound.

-- The boy only supplied me with enough materials to construct a plausible scenario and characters, and while I will defend to the death all I have done thus far, I confess I am finding them merely pausable.

There were words on the bookshelves.

-- Go into the options and dial up the brightness. It really should be common sense that you can only navigate the world by changing the manner in which you perceive it. You're not being tricked by being asked to recognize the imaginary boundaries of the imaginary as imaginary. I will be attending to my quiche now, as it is defenseless and fragile. You're a more than capable adult man who surely has this figured out.

Not on the spines, but the slats themselves.

... Keep going.

Though she was right, her tone communicated she knew and appreciated this fact, and you appreciated her tone, as you often carried the same one and knew how it could be used to brutalize with tact.

-- Thank you. I appreciate that you would complicate the nature of the verisimilitude by drawing awareness to the obvious lapses in my memory and concentration. This is all sounding more plausible by the moment.

-- A woman's work is never done. That's why we live forever in the hearts and minds of the sons we conquer not by thigh but by sigh. Quiche, now!

Rather than doing anything she said, using the lighter you always carry, standard-issue and of great personal attachment, you lit every scented candle in the room in the manner corresponding to the tapestry on the left wall, triggering a system of pulleys which blew wind through a recorder as pivots were manually depressed by an external mechanism to play a jingle of intrigue and discovery, prompting a feathered barb to shoot out and pierce your jugular, rendering you swiftly unconscious.

You awoke curled on a red leather loveseat.

The smack of an ember in the shape of a lip scalds you with glosses of crystal spittle. The billowing locks of caramelized blondes run in tendrils over the clubs of your hirsute arms, the bulge of your trousers obscured by the crown which topped the cheek which lay itself of its own daring upon your chest, hands splayed to trace and rest in the crease of your thigh. All around you coiled the perfumed underbelly of the lizard's flesh.

-- You know, people don't give you enough credit for your brilliant and evocative scene transitions. I never can tell when one doesn't begin and when one never ends.

Raw were you where the serpent sucked its venom from your neck.

-- Your quick thinking may be the death of you one day, madame. I suppose you think your fun and games are adequately amusing enough to be stated aloud as such?

-- Play a player, game a gamesman. Sportsmen are the fairest sport.

-- You don't strike me as the type to be keen to sniff my jockstrap.

-- No, I would much prefer you after a shower. A man smells his best in a suit and cologne. Skin exfoliated, hair slicked back. A man may give himself to copious tattooing if he has the flamboyance to commit, or the courage to disregard aesthetics at all, for he knows it all to be decals on hardware. Every update is a labor, yet every fresh coat still I savor.

The handle of a brush could twirl like a baton.

-- I'm feeling what I think is a pinch. Did you seat me on the remote?

-- Hmmm. What? Oh, that? Oh, no. The remote's right here. I've booted your dick. Full enclosure. All eight inches of that stud prick polished off and sealed up in a silo where it can ache, leak and throb with no hope of release, just like that young man you've forgotten all about again.

Your pulse quickened.

-- Come again?

Your dick ached.

-- I would really rather have preferred to draw out the psychological games of chance a bit longer -- a lot longer, really. Days and nights of loaded glances and even more loaded innuendos. Silences deafening as revolver blasts through oak doors at midnight -- but you talk too much. You're denser than lead and somehow constantly emitting radio noise. I wonder if you're radioactive. You're a fossil, yet no museum will have you. I needed to hurry you along somehow, so I just slapped it around the root of your shaft when I had the chance because who knows when I'd have another? I'd tell you about all the things I did and enjoyed while you were out -- the toys I used, the ways I played with myself, the scents, the snarls, the sneers - but I can see you're so keen to get this over with, I won't belabor the pace any longer, mistress of all labors though I am.

Inside. Something stirred, twitched. Busted out. Began to pump. Something was crawling around a place it shouldn't.

-- Yeah, and the thing up my ass?

-- A plug, dear boy. Take a pacifier, be a pacifist.

-- Go swim in the pacific, Goddess of the Red Dawn!

-- I part the gates, I raise the waters. I dam the gates, I lower the waters! Your vantage, so keenly attended, locates you within the reservoir!

-- A dog though I am, you won't get any pink tip wit my red scent!

-- A knot which begs to be tugged has no need to be cut!

She pressed her nails to

[to be continued]

#submission #join us next time #when the premise will finally be arrived upon #and presumably concluded #literary blue balls #your posts are too long anyways

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justabooklovingmetalhead · 2 months

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Belle of the Ball & Hijab Butch Blues got nominated for lammy awards!!!!!

#belle of the ball #mari costa #hijab butch blues #lamya h #lammy awards #Lambda Literary Awards #36th Annual Lambda Literary Awards #lammy award #obviously different categories but still #i haven’t read any of the other ones #but I hope hijab butch blues wins it’s one of the best and most powerful books I’ve read #belle of the ball was also rlly good. I mean obviously in a different way but still #🤞 for both of them

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phoenixyfriend · 4 months

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#fanfiction #Phoenix polls

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jamilelucato · 3 months

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The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 03)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]

Summary: (Part 01 / Part 02) In the carriage en route to Lady Danbury's ball, tension crackles between Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] and Mr Benedict Bridgerton. Beneath their bickering lies an undeniable attraction that they both need to take care of before it's too late.

Age rating: 18+.

Author’s note: It's the end of age! No, I'm kidding, but it is the end of this story.

To read Anthony’s fic, click here! For other stories, click here.Enjoy

An air of tension hung heavy within the plush confines of the velvety blue carriage.

True to his word, Mr Benedict Bridgerton stood promptly outside the [y/l/n] residence at seven o'clock, resplendent in his finest attire, ready to escort Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] to Lady Danbury's ball. The initial exchange, with Mr [y/l/n]'s presence in the periphery, was pleasant enough—gentlemanly handshakes and cordial smiles exchanged between the men, with Benedict embodying the epitome of a refined gentleman, at least in the eyes of the [y/l/n] household.

But such commendation found little favour with Miss [y/n] [y/l/n].

Seated across from Benedict, [y/n] regarded him with a fiery intensity in her gaze. She couldn't shake the feeling of indignation at Benedict's earlier remarks, his unwitting perpetuation of the sexism she fought against. Who was he, she seethed inwardly, to lecture her on the perils of being a woman author in the 19th century?

[y/n] was well aware of the risks and well acquainted with the challenges she faced as a woman pursuing her literary aspirations. She wouldn't have embarked on this daunting journey if she weren't driven by an unwavering determination to realise her dreams. And yet, Benedict's condescension rankled her—his first foray into illustrating a book hardly qualified him to lecture her on the intricacies of the publishing world. He was a newcomer to her domain, ignorant of the trials she endured.

Still, despite her righteous anger, [y/n] begrudgingly acknowledged Benedict's artistic prowess. She may have bristled at his presumptions, but she couldn't deny his talent as a painter. His not-so-recent exhibition at the Bridgerton house, for the family's closest friends, had been a testament to his skill. Though she had been present under the [y/l/n]'s invitation, Benedict's work ultimately swayed her decision to enlist his talents for her project.

Benedict's voice, though barely above a whisper, resonated within the confines of the carriage, imbued with an unexpected intensity by the close quarters.

"You won't say anything?" he queried, his gaze fixed firmly on [y/n].

She unwaveringly met his gaze, her voice collected as she responded, "And what would you have me say, Mr. Bridgerton?"

A sharp exhale escaped Benedict, frustration seeping into his tone. "Am I now merely 'Mr Bridgerton'? No longer 'Ben'?"

[y/n]'s eyes rolled in exasperation. "Well, forgive me if the current circumstances don't exactly evoke the camaraderie of our long-time friendship," she retorted sharply. "Ben was the amiable fellow who praised my boldness in my talents as he delicately illustrated them. At present, however, it feels like he's nowhere to be found."

That woman threatened to drive him to madness.

Benedict's hand rose instinctively, gripping his own chin firmly as if to silence the words he yearned to express. The action seemed to quell the words on his tongue, preventing him from affirming that he remained the same Ben who marvelled at her talents and considered her utterly unique.

Somehow, Benedict couldn't bring himself to offer [y/n] the praise she might have expected at that moment.

"I have all the illustrations with me in the carriage," he declared, nodding towards the briefcase nestled beside him, unseen until now in the dim light of the carriage. "Before the ball concludes, we shall escape, and I shall escort us directly to your editor."

"Oh, why, Mr Bridgerton!" She exclaimed with exaggerated surprise, her eyes widening playfully. "It appears you've managed to summon your inner gentleman at last. Quite a departure from the sexist pig you were earlier in my library."

She was maddening. Utterly maddening.

For a myriad of reasons, unfortunately.

Benedict wanted to attribute his discomfort solely to her condescension, which tempted him to respond, assert his dominance and put her back in her place. A firm swat on her behind might remind her she must be a pleasant, nice girl.

Heavens! He nearly exclaimed aloud, reining in his thoughts just in time. Benedict found himself entertaining the notion of [y/n]'s posterior, a territory over which he had neither jurisdiction nor entitlement.

Clearing his throat, Benedict offered, "I apologise if that's how it came across. It was never my intention to diminish you because of your gender."

"It wasn't that," she responded, her gaze penetrating his. This time, he noticed, there was no anger in her eyes. [y/n] simply wanted to clarify her perspective. "You said I shouldn't go alone."

"Yes, and I stand by that," Benedict affirmed.

[y/n] paused, realising she needed to elaborate further for him to grasp her viewpoint.

"I understand your concern," she conceded. "But you didn't offer to accompany me. You only criticised me."

Benedict felt a chill run through him at [y/n]'s revelation. He had argued with her under the assumption that his willingness to accompany her was implicit. Not merely because she was a young, unmarried woman venturing into a dangerous part of London at an ungodly hour but because it was their joint endeavour she intended to pursue solo.

Now that he knew her secret identity and understood that this tenth book would not be her last, Benedict was determined to accompany her to the publisher's office on all future occasions. It would be against his principles as a gentleman—principles instilled in him by both his father and mother—to allow a lady to undertake such journeys alone, especially now that he was aware.

Suddenly, he realised, with a softening expression toward [y/n], that he'd be accompanying her to the ends of the earth from then on. He recognised the truth in his revelation. He couldn't envision himself being apart from her.

But the carriage stopped before Benedict could articulate his newfound determination to [y/n] or even offer an apology for any misunderstanding. They had arrived at Lady Danbury's residence.

As [y/n] began to prepare to disembark, ensuring her hairstyle was intact and smoothing her satin skirt, Benedict peered out the window, a heavy groan escaping him.

"No."

Startled, [y/n] looked up from her lap to find Benedict wearing a determined expression. He lightly tapped the carriage roof swiftly—a clear signal for the coachman to continue the journey. Almost instantly, [y/n] felt the carriage lurch forward as the horses resumed their pace.

"What are you doing?" she inquired, still adjusting her hair, the sudden movement causing her to worry about her appearance.

At that moment, she realised—quite abruptly—that lately, she had been increasingly concerned about her appearance. After her second failed season, during which she remained unmarried, Miss [y/n] had abandoned many of the formalities of fashion. She seldom wore corsets and paid little heed to the latest dress designs, opting instead for simplicity. Her hair, usually secured in a tight bun resembling that of a governess, was styled by her own hands, as her brother had also tasked her maid with attending to her sister-in-law.

But something had changed.

Benedict frequently selected her as his dance partner at parties where they unexpectedly crossed paths. They often rendezvoused in Hyde Park to discuss their book. Almost every afternoon, [y/n] found herself at the Bridgerton residence, although she couldn't quite fathom why she felt an unspoken obligation to maintain a polished appearance.

She wasn't oblivious to the rumours circulating about them. Many speculated that the two were courting, and why wouldn't they? What other reason could a single gentleman have for associating with an unmarried lady?

Still, [y/n] dismissed such notions as ludicrous. She felt like the most withered flower in the garden—what bee would alight on a flower with almost no pollen?

She consumed Benedict Bridgerton's thoughts. He couldn't help but gaze at her, taking in every detail. Only then did he realise he had instructed the carriage to continue, bypassing Lady Danbury's residence entirely.

Good Lord, he mused, in just fifteen minutes in her presence, [y/n] had managed to drive him insane, as he had assumed she would.

And, of course, he wanted to blame himself but blast it all; why did she have to wear the most exquisite dress in all of British fashion? Why did she have to wear a corset that not only accentuated her waist but also elevated her bosom?

Benedict, a gentleman with little interest in women's fashion, found himself fixated on it that particular evening.

"Mr. Bridgerton!" she exclaimed, breaking through his reverie.

Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Suddenly, he regretted not having his drawing chalks with him so he could capture her likeness right then and there in the soft glow filtering through the carriage windows.

"[y/n]," he whispered her name like a plea as he wet his lips, "what's going on between us?"

She averted her gaze, feeling the weight of his intensity. "What do you mean, Ben? We're simply working partners."

He grinned like a mischievous imp. "No, we're not."

"Ben," she began, intending to distance herself. No, that would be a lie. His fervour drew her in like a moth to a flame, even as she knew she shouldn't respond. It didn't matter that she'd heard whispers about the longing looks he cast her way across the room; it didn't matter that her brother had overheard Benedict defending her at the men's club just two days prior. "We're just the writer and the illustrator. That's all."

"The writer and her illustrator," he echoed, but she barely noticed the subtle pronoun shift.

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing hard. "The writer and her illustrator."

A smile of pure delight graced his lips.

"I am yours, I'm afraid," he confessed, taking her aback. She, a writer, was powerless against his words. Involuntarily, she leaned in closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. "Could you say it again?" he pleaded, inching nearer, breaching the space between them.

They were mere inches apart.

"What? 'My illustrator'?" she repeated, her confusion mingling with the intoxicating atmosphere.

"My writer," he responded, mirroring her phrase. "Mine."

He was marking her with words. She liked it.

"I'm also afraid I have to kiss you," he said, leaving her confused. Benedict couldn't need permission, could he? She thought she was being very obvious when she prompted forward, her cleavage at his disposal.

She might have been a virgin, but she wasn't naive.

With a swift, decisive movement, [y/n] closed the gap between them, her lips capturing his in a searing kiss. Ben's initial surprise melted away as he responded eagerly, his body instinctively leaning to hold her in an embrace. The tension between them for so long ignited into a blaze of passion, consuming them both.

Their kisses grew more urgent, more desperate, as the carriage rocked gently beneath them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s body, tracing the curves of her silhouette with a reverence that bordered on worship. [y/n]'s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the heady rush of desire coursing through her veins.

At that moment, the confines of the carriage faded away, leaving only the two of them wrapped up in each other's arms. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the heat of their passion, their bodies moving together in a sensual dance that spoke volumes without the need for words.

Amidst their embrace's perfection and delectable allure, [y/n] sensed an unspoken yearning deep within her soul. Despite the exquisite intimacy they shared, she couldn't shake the conviction that there was something more she craved from Benedict—something she couldn't quite articulate or request. Each time she drew near to him, although he didn't push her away, she felt him place his own hips away from hers.

Yet, after countless attempts to bridge the distance between them, Benedict could no longer deny the fervour burning within him.

"[y/n]," he murmured her name with a weighty sigh, attempting to extricate himself gently with one final kiss, but the lady refused to relent, meeting his lips once more. "I must escort you home."

His words sent a tremor of apprehension through [y/n], causing her to withdraw instinctively. She had barely noticed that she wasn't even in her seat anymore: she was trying to jump into his lap, but as he kept moving away, she seemed to crouch in the carriage. Oh, the shame that flooded her being, her gaze lowered in embarrassment.

Her reaction tugged at Benedict's heartstrings, stirring a tumult of emotions within him as he swiftly reconsidered his course of action.

"Do not feel ashamed," he implored, his tone pleading. The thought of [y/n] bearing any semblance of shame was unbearable to him. "I must release you now, for I could easily succumb to temptation in this carriage, and such a fate is ill-suited for a lady of your stature. You deserve far better."

Though every fibre of her being yearned for more at that moment, [y/n] knew deep down that he spoke the truth. She deserved better. He hadn't said he liked her, for instance. He hadn't proposed. She supposed that, to be deflowered, she at least deserved that.

"You're right," she conceded, her gaze drifting to the window as she pondered their proximity to her home. "I've never done this before, you know?"

Benedict stifled a sudden urge to utter a remark that hovered at the tip of his tongue, granting her the space to share her thoughts freely. He trusted her to confide in him, as she always had.

"I've never been kissed," she admitted with such earnestness that Benedict was taken aback.

Never been kissed? The notion perplexed him. After all, hadn't she just demonstrated such fervour and skill with her lips in the confines of the carriage? How could someone as captivating as [y/n] [y/l/n] have never experienced the simple act of a kiss? Surely, no shortage of suitors had come calling at her door.

"No, you can't be serious," he interjected, his incredulity evident as he leaned closer, their proximity becoming increasingly intimate. It seemed he had lost all semblance of restraint in her presence.

"But I am," she insisted, a hint of defensiveness colouring her tone as she addressed her innocence. "I am a spinster, Ben. Gentlemen typically pursue the young and bright diamonds of the seasons."

"You are young, and you are bright," he countered, his brow furrowing in response to her apparent self-deprecation. "You may not have been dubbed the diamond of the season, but that designation would have hardly done you justice."

[y/n] found herself unable to muster the strength to protest. Further, a realization soon dawned on Benedict as he observed her resigned demeanour. Yet, despite her acquiescence, he sensed a lingering doubt in her eyes.

"[y/n]," he began, his voice softening with sincerity, "these debutantes are hailed as diamonds because they are transparent and colourless. You, my dear, are nothing like them. By God, you are the most brilliant writer I have ever met; your scenes are so well described that I had no difficulty drawing them. If only I had dedicated our time together to capturing your likeness, I would have employed every hue in my palette to convey the sheer beauty that I behold in you—the most exquisite woman I have ever beheld," he confessed, his heart swelling with emotion as he laid bare his sentiments. "And look, I'm older than you."

"Only by a few years," she countered, a flicker of warmth igniting within her, a profound longing to smile once more gracing her features.

"Wait," Benedict interjected; his movements stilled as realization dawned upon him, connecting the dots between her confession, observations, and the vivid scenes in W. Jabber's novels. "[y/n], if you've never experienced a kiss, how is it that you wrote such erotically charged passages?"

Her eyes widened in alarm, akin to a child caught red-handed in mischief.

"'The Flowers of Our Garden,' despite its intricate political narrative, contains some rather passionate scenes," he remarked astutely, drawing upon his recollection of the four novels by W. Jabber that he had perused.

"Nothing overly explicit, Ben," she countered defensively. "Nothing I couldn't have imagined."

"Did you imagine being kissed?" he pressed, his gaze piercing.

[y/n] swallowed hard, her mind racing. Of course, she had—what woman hadn't entertained such fantasies? In the past month alone, while toiling alongside Mr Bridgerton day in and day out, [y/n] had conjured more scenarios of tender embraces than she had penned words.

"And what of the intimate caresses described in 'Flowers'? Did you envision someone touching you in those places as the protagonist did with his wife?"

"Ben," she uttered his name with a cautionary tone. "Yes, I am no stranger to worldly matters, having witnessed much within the confines of party gardens. Do not judge me for it. After all, no one judges Mr. Jabber for his prose."

"[y/n]," he started again, rephrasing. "I didn't ask how you know those things in your novels. One doesn't need to have died to know death," he offered through analogy. "But I'm curious if you desired those experiences for yourself. The kisses, the touches...?"

She cast her gaze downward, contemplating her response. "Yes," she admitted quietly.

"Oh, dear," he murmured tenderly, his words a gentle caress. [y/n] lifted her eyes to meet his, finding herself lost in the depths of his caring gaze.

He wanted her as the protagonist of his stories.

Benedict realized that to fulfil her desires, he first needed to address their current situation. And that solution seemed clear: he longed to give a name to their connection.

"Will you marry me?" he implored, drawing closer in the soft glow of the carriage.

"What?" she exclaimed, taken aback. Surely, Benedict must be jesting, she thought.

"I desire your hand in marriage," he persisted. "Please, say you'll marry me. Say you'll be mine, [y/n], and I will support you. I want nothing more than to cherish you. To experience the passion depicted in your novels and beyond. To capture the moments in my paintings. To immortalize you, now and for all eternity, bathed in candlelight."

"Benedict Bridgerton!" she gasped, feeling a flutter in her chest akin to a young maiden's.

"Ben," he gently corrected her. "I'm your illustrator, remember? Your Ben."

He yearned for her affirmation, yet she remained silent, lost in her thoughts. Determined, he leaned in to kiss her, pulling her onto his lap, his desire for her no longer a concern.

"Say yes," he whispered against her skin, trailing kisses along her neck. "Say it, [y/n]."

"Yes," she breathed, succumbing to the intoxicating allure of his touch. "Yes, I am yours."

"You are mine," he declared, his lips trailing lower to the curve of her bosom. With a playful smile, he pressed a kiss before meeting her gaze again. "You are mine."

"I am yours," she affirmed, feeling a shiver of anticipation. And as he bit her there, tenderly, she surrendered to the promise of more—a promise that seemed boundless in the arms of Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict left a trail of kisses all over her that night in the cramped carriage. He began with tender kisses upon the lady's bosom—no, upon his bride's bosom!—before trailing lower, his hands deftly undoing the fastenings of her dress until it lay in disarray. Though not entirely bared, she was more exposed to him than ever.

"I... I..." she attempted to speak, to offer some form of explanation or apology. Was it due to her appearance? But she felt anything but unattractive under his hungry gaze, beneath his fervent touch upon her curves. Perhaps that's why the words eluded her.

He scarcely afforded her a chance to articulate further.

Ben persisted in his passionate assault, his bites and caresses a testament to his desire to taste her, to consume her completely.

"I need you to sit back... no, that won't do," he pondered the spatial constraints of the carriage. "I want you to go back to your seat."

She arched an eyebrow, bemused.

"I will kneel before you."

A soft laugh escaped her lips. "No need to worship me."

He knew she teased him, relishing her playful spirit. "I shall indulge in that too. It's been my practice since our journey began."

A smile of pure delight graced her features.

"But for now, my dear, I simply long to savour you, and that I can only achieve if you recline in your seat."

[y/n]'s initial confusion morphed into a swirl of emotions as Benedict delicately guided her back into her seat within the carriage, positioned her to face him, and divested her of the remaining layers of her attire. Fully exposed now, she stood vulnerable before him, her naked form laid bare. Yet, as she observed Ben's reaction, his evident pleasure at the sight of her, she couldn't suppress the smile that graced her lips.

At that moment, her confusion ebbed away, replaced by a sensation akin to pleasure.

With his bride before him, Benedict ventured where none had dared. [y/n] had never fathomed such intimacy possible. Though she had witnessed many clandestine trysts in the moonlit gardens of ballrooms and countless exchanges of affection, she had not anticipated the sheer ecstasy of feeling his touch in places even she hesitated to explore. It was an exquisite revelation, one she wished to prolong indefinitely.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he inquired, his gaze fixed upon his task. [y/n] responded with a breathy affirmation, amusing him, yet he longed to hear her voice her pleasure. "Speak to me."

"I want you, Ben," she said suddenly, surprising them both by her boldness. "I want… oh!" Her words trailed off as a surge of sensation overwhelmed her. The intensity mounted with each passing moment, threatening to consume her, but Benedict halted before she could reach the brink of release.

"I want you too, dear," he declared, rising from kneeling. "And now, I shall claim you as mine, forever marking you as mine."

She regarded him with eyes ablaze with passion.

"You're ready, more than that," he continued, his words trailing off as he became lost in the depths of his declaration.

A smile graced her lips. "I'm eager."

He grinned; a devilish twinkle in his eyes caused her cheeks to flush crimson.

"It might hurt, I must tell you," he cautioned as he began to undo his trousers. At that moment, as he moved, [y/n] realized she stood alone in her nakedness.

"You must remove your shirt," she insisted, emboldened by her desire. Knowing Ben's yearning for her, she felt empowered to act upon her longing.

"I suppose I must, mustn't I?" he teased.

"I shall assist," she declared, reaching forward to disrobe him, stripping away each garment until he stood as bare as she. With gentle strokes, she trailed her fingers over the expanse of his chest; her curiosity piqued until her touch encountered something far more masculine than the smooth contours of his torso.

"Oh," she gasped, biting her lip in surprise.

"You may explore at your leisure later, my dear," he murmured, covering her hand with his own. "For now, I fear I may lose control if you continue."

Enchanted by his words, she acquiesced, allowing him to guide her hand away from his sensitive skin.

It had felt soft to the touch, yet beneath her gaze, she found it firm, rigid, and elongated. It was not what she had envisioned, but somehow, it was better.

She liked his use of words, so she let him take her fingers away from the delicate skin.

The air thickened with anticipation as their desire reached its crescendo. Benedict's gaze met [y/n]'s, a silent exchange of longing and need that spoke volumes without a single word.

With a shared understanding, they closed the distance between them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s naked form, igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her skin. She gasped as his lips found hers, their kiss a fiery union of passion and urgency.

As their embrace deepened, Benedict guided himself inside her, their bodies becoming one in a primal dance of ecstasy. [y/n] moaned in pleasure, her nails digging into Benedict's back as he moved with a steady rhythm, each thrust driving them closer to the edge of oblivion.

In the throes of passion, time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the rhythmic creaking of the carriage.

It was only them, lost in the blissful oblivion of their shared desire.

And as they reached the peak of their pleasure, they clung to each other with a fierce intensity, their bodies trembling with the force of their release.

As they lay entwined in each other's arms, their breath coming in ragged gasps, Benedict pressed a tender kiss to [y/n]'s forehead, his heart overflowing with love and adoration.

"You're mine, now," she said before he could say it first. For an unknown reason, she felt possessive over him. "I think I... I do love you, Benedict Bridgerton, you must know."

Before she could register the astonishment in his eyes, Benedict silenced his own smile with a fervent kiss, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that spoke volumes.

"I'm yours, without a doubt, and I love you more," he confessed with a smile, though his expression soon shifted to one of realization. "I'll have to procure a special license for our wedding. It will entail some effort... but it will be worth it."

"Can't endure being my fiancé any longer? They say being my husband will be even worse," she teased, her fingers trailing through the dark waves of his hair, tucking them back from his forehead.

"I would gladly remain your fiancé for a lifetime to become your husband for as many lifetimes as we have," he replied charmingly. "However, having a bride who is... with child might raise some eyebrows."

"Oh, Lord," she gasped, her eyes widening in alarm as she pulled back from him. "You don't think...?"

"It's a possibility," he confirmed, his tone laced with both excitement and apprehension.

He felt her tense, her body hardening over his. But he ran his hands over her curves and, smiling, said, "Don't worry about the child, my dear. I heard that a great writer is about to release a beautifully illustrated children's book..."

At his words, their laughter mingled with kisses, at their secret and the promise of a marriage that was not only passionate but also very, very artistic.

#benedict bridgerton x yn #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fic #bridgerton #bridgerton fic #benedict x reader #mr bridgerton #polin #anthony bridgerton

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blasphemecel · 4 months

Text

Shidou Ryuusei — Taming Demons

PAIRING: Shidou Ryuusei/Reader WORD COUNT: 7.6k TYPE: Humor, Roommates, Romantic frenemies WARNING(S): Threats of violence, canon-typical football derangement, there's a cockroach (and it's not shidou 😰)

It’s on a decent day that Sae meets you and Shidou. The weather is mild without any clouds to obscure the sky, the wind is nothing more than a pleasant breeze, birds are chirping, and most importantly there are no ugly and irrelevant middle-aged men from the JFA to bother him with their whining or otherwise offend his senses.

Too bad he’s on the way to some secret deprivation tank in Ego Jinpachi’s football-themed basement to appreciate any of this.

He’d been ballsier than usual, all things considered, which is an impressive accomplishment since his default setting is audacious. Yeah, saying he wants one striker and then demanding two is a little much even for him, but he’s not going to leave a stray behind. That’d be a waste.

It’s not like Ego didn’t try to warn him, showing him actual footage to review like this was evidence he needed to present in court while making a case.

In the first clip, Rin was calling you lukewarm (there was really no context beyond this), to which you looked at him like you didn’t even know who he was and said, “Peons should only speak to me while looking at my feet, so do that or exercise your right to remain silent,” and it made Rin so incredulous that he actually didn’t respond.

Then Shidou appeared to have found this funny because he came running into view at mach speed laughing his ass off, just to shove the soles of his cleaves in Rin’s face and say, “Lick my feet, Rin-Rin!”

Predictably this turned into some kind of scuffle (to Sae’s bemusement, Rin was losing), and then you joined in because apparently Shidou was ‘copying you,’ and when you accused him of that he became super offended, and at some point the video cut off.

Fine, Sae thought. Whatever.

The second one was ominously titled ‘The_[L/n]_Disaster.wmv,’ and it was cut out from the match this whole saga revolved around. It was normal for a while until you — for no discernible reason — fell down to your knees, pulled an… unsettling expression, screamed like a banshee and said, “I’m so bored! I’m gonna die!” before stealing the ball and shooting it into your own team’s net.

Understandably the field fell into an uproar, and some of your teammates straight up threatened to kill you.

“Who the hell do you think you are???”

You sat down like a petulant child, crossed your arms even. Everyone was too busy holding back their bloodlust so as to not pummel you into the ground and get a hundred red cards to make sense of your behavior.

… Honestly? A little weird, but nothing the Itoshi Sae can’t work with.

And then there was the last video, which was also the lengthiest. Whoever edited it had too much time on their hands. It was like a full-fledged movie with a romantic subplot (between Shidou and the ball or maybe his abstract interpretations of the act of playing football), conflict (the half hour long montage of him fighting everyone, overlayed with shitty dubstep music), and even a climax (in the literary sense).

Also strange, but not enough to put off Sae. After seeing all of this, though, he wondered if Rin managed to make at least one friend, but quickly squashed the thought. Not like he cares.

The final attachment was completely innocuous, an overview of your abilities and progress in Blue Lock, and both of you had unflattering pictures in your files. Ego’s underlying question of Do you know what you’re getting yourself into? still translated.

You’re not lumps of talent or whatever. It’s more like you’re diamonds buried in a deep pit of shit that no one even wants, but at the mental image of himself digging through feces, Sae disregards the metaphor.

If Ego’s idea for an ideal striker is a raging megalomaniac, well. He sure knows how to pick them.

___

Electrocuted like an inmate in a movie running into the fence while trying to break out of jail, muzzled like some kind of idiot dog that doesn’t know not to bite people, strapped down in a fucking straitjacket, what did Shidou ever do to deserve this? Humiliated, and not in the sexy way.

To think of all of these punishments, the most cruel one is still your company.

Just watching you is exhausting him, maybe even more so because he can’t stand up and restrain your annoying ass to make you stop screaming and rolling around and kicking and hitting and whatever (all things he believes are within his right and not yours, since you’re doing them in a way that is so not fun). He swears he’s never been tired before, but right now he has no energy, and he’s not even doing anything. You have to be some special new species of leech.

That’d be kinda hot now that he thinks about it, if you’d like… attach to him and suck out his blood. But for now he needs to stay focused.

Prior to your freak-out — he’s not even sure what you’re mad about — you had to write ‘I won’t score in my own goal next time’ all over the walls because apparently ‘if you act like a child, you’ll get treated like one,’ but you gave up not even half-way through and broke the marker after declaring you’re going to kill Ego.

“I think you need to be in a straitjacket, not me,” he says with a sly grin as if this whole situation is amusing. He does share your killing Ego sentiments, though, but you’re easy to tease. Despite his fatigue from the predicament, he is still dedicated to being an irritating piece of shit.

“I wish I was!” you say.

What?

You drag your hands down your face, stretching the skin. “I’m going to gouge my eyes out!” Then there’s some more facial expressions of mental anguish before you perk up after his words properly register in your head. “Oh, you’re so worthless and perverse, but this is actually a great idea. We should switch,” you say pleasantly.

“Worthless? C’mon, didn’t you watch while I was playing?”

You undo the muzzle so he’s the slightest bit grateful to you until you say, “Meh.”

You’re being disingenuous here and one of Shidou’s principles is real recognizes real, so even this is enough to piss him off, but then again there was also the other questionable and embarrassing thing you did. “If football’s a source of life, then you’re like a miscarriage. Or an abortion.”

“What! Why?”

Wow, you are such an infuriating and confusing hypocrite. He needs to take you out on a date some time. “‘Cause the only one who should get to shoot in your goal is… me.”

Your eye twitches, face scrunching to the left like a black hole is sucking in all of your features. He looks so happy with himself that you want him to die. “Shidou Ryuusei-”

“Not the full government name!” he cries out with fake dismay.

“-if you say something like this to me again, I’m gonna dismember you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There is a shit-eating grin of a man who knows exactly what you’re talking about on his face. A slight blush, even, but it points towards elation, not embarrassment. “And there’s nothing in here you can do that with.”

“The room has walls.”

“Don’t saaaay things like that,” he sings. “Not when I’m all tied up like a lunatic.”

What does he mean by this?

You’re not even making progress with unhooking the straitjacket since there isn’t much wiggle room between Shidou’s back and the weird stand thing, but Ego shocks you through the bodysuit to dissuade you from any further attempts. This time, when you slip on the floor, it’s not your fault. After a few pitiful twitches, you say, “That’s it. I’m gonna die.”

???

“I was beautiful.” You pose while still on the floor. “Please make up some cool last words for me. For my tombstone.”

“You went from killing Four Eyes to killing me to then killing yourself. Amazing range,” says Shidou with a whistle, once again acting like the situation is funny.

He watches you try to break your neck by forcing it in unnatural positions using your hands for a bit until the effort proves to be anatomically impossible. Long hours lie ahead of him.

___

Sae has been eavesdropping in front of the door for at least twenty minutes to assess the situation before walking in. There’d been blood-curdling screams, heavy sounds of thrashing (apparently you were trying to run up to the ceiling and kept falling down and throwing tantrums, which Shidou, again, found hilarious, but all it gave Sae was a migraine from having to listen to the commotion), and five arguments that never concluded because you two couldn’t stay on topic. Many expletives and creative death threats flew through the air.

It occurs to him for the first time that trying to control the two most selfish strikers on the roster is ambitious. You both operate on an incomprehensible level of egotism, with you acting like your teammates are unimpressive circus acts and Shidou’s tendency to play as if he’s a sole soldier on a mission to bludgeon everyone else on the field. Small fry who don’t take gambles like this here and there, though, aren’t worth anything.

“I love watchin’ people squirm and all, but not like this. Can you do something more exciting?”

“What’s gonna be exciting is the sight of your nail beds while I rip them off one by one.”

The sound of an exaggerated yawn. “Your fake threats aren’t stirring me at all. Look at me, I’m so bored. So bored and pathetic and restrained and please, I need a more refreshing view.”

There’s one last, grander thud. “I’m done,” you declare.

… Nothing, for a bit.

“You look so cute and harmless like this. Makes me wanna squeeze your neck till your eyes pop out.”

You don’t dignify that comment with a response.

___

This latest development is detrimental to your relationship with Itoshi Sae. Not that you have any kind of relationship with him besides striking up the U-20 deal, but you’ve been dating him in your head ever since you saw him play on TV a few years ago. You’re contemplating mentally breaking up with him for good. That’s how serious of an offense you’re dealing with.

It’s like you don’t even know me, Sae, you cry, though you don’t commit to speaking it out loud. He’s not even here to hear your bitchfest, anyway, so you settle for throwing your minimalistic bag of belongings on one of the beds with as much hate as possible.

Shidou waves at you from the other side of the room like you didn’t arrive at this complex in the same car, and like you didn’t spend eight hours in the punishment room together. Your scowl is really, really ugly, wrinkling your skin. Seriously, sharing an apartment is one thing, but the same room? The same toilet? There is no one you tolerate enough in the world for this bullshit.

After sorting through your belongings and doing a good job at ignoring whatever Shidou is saying, you step out and head towards the kitchen and rummage through the fridge and the pantry. It’s a little strange that you’re no longer in Blue Lock for the time being. You can go eat at a restaurant if you want to, but you find that Sae’s team has been gracious enough to leave some supplies to last a couple of days.

Shidou trails after you like an unwanted shadow. You examine everything one last time before grabbing a protein bar and taking a seat at the table, leaving you with the view of Shidou grabbing whatever he can before he dumps it all on the counter and opens the blender. You frown in confusion. “What’re you doing?”

“Cooking,” he says in a tone which suggests he finds you stupid for not understanding that at first glance.

“You can’t put raw meat in the fucking blender.”

“Yeah, I can.” He rips two packages with different spices and dumps them in. “Look, there’s even seasoning.” And then he shoves in a cucumber and an unpeeled banana.

You lunge towards him, cradling the blender, your snack forgotten. “You’re gonna get food poisoning, moron.”

“Then how come I’ve never had it before???” Shidou tries to take a hold of it again, wrenching it out of your hands before a game of tug-of-war ensues.

There is no way he’s serious. This must be some elaborate way for him to troll you. Your struggle for the blender, however, is more intense than anyone would’ve anticipated because your palms turn sweaty, with the blender slipping out once you attempt a harder yank. Shidou almost manages to save it from its imminent fate with a swipe, but his reaction is not fast enough and it shatters on the floor.

“Look at what you did.” You gesture.

“You got in the way of my cooking! It’s your fault.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Were you raised in a cave? A mountain? I will destroy you if I see you ‘cooking’ in my presence again.”

He rolls his eyes and mimes a blabbering mouth with his hand as if to say yap, yap, yap. You resist the urge to reach out and break at least one of his fingers.

With a huff, you stomp your way to the bathroom in search of a broom and dustpan to get rid of the glass shards, the rest of Shidou’s arguments about why a steak shake is ‘gourmet’ and ‘exotic’ falling on deaf ears. You’re also trying to think of a good place to throw away the pieces because you’re so not telling Itoshi Sae you broke his rent-a-blender.

You return to the sight of Shidou finishing up your abandoned protein bar while trying to pick up glass shards between his toes.

“Stop that. What if you hurt yourself?! Seriously, what’s your deal?” You narrow your eyes at him while he blows a raspberry at you and the realization of his thievery hits you. “Hey, spit that out.”

Shidou smiles and throws the shard — yeah, with his toes — at your shins, but you ignore the action, your pre-existing rage rendering you unresponsive. “So demanding.” He waves your protein bar, or at least what’s left of it, in the air. “Come and take it if you want it so bad.”

“I’m not playing tag like a child when the floor’s covered in glass,” you say, despite already taking a step forward, ready to assume a stance and chase him.

You do, of course, end up playing tag like a child when the floor’s covered in glass. Your protein bar falls in the toilet. When Shidou reaches to flush it, you push him out of the way, and he pushes back, and so begins a brawl, any other concerns fading in the background.

Two hours later, you shriek out a piercing scream when you take a piss and flush without thinking.

___

You wake up to weird yelling. This is atypical since you’re usually the one who causes commotion. You laze around in bed, taking it as noise from your dream, until your consciousness clears and during your first moment being awake, you swear to make whoever’s responsible for this regret it. Through bleary eyes, you observe the room, and find the bed opposite of yours empty.

You slog your way out to brush your teeth, but the racket grows louder, and you identify the source as the balcony. Without thinking, you head there to scold Shidou, abandoning your previous task.

“Cytolysis!” What the hell is he even on about? “Ooh, and arteries!” Seriously.

“Douchebag, you woke me up. Stop screaming so early or I’ll- Why are you naked?!”

“You were really talking for that long before you noticed…?”

“Cover up,” you say, disregarding his indirect call out of how much you love your own voice, to the point you stop noticing your surroundings once you get going in a spiel. “What if you get arrested for public indecency? It could ruin your life.”

“I can’t sunbathe if I’m wearing clothes,” Shidou says.

“You literally can.”

“Yeah, if I want an uneven tan.” He rolls his eyes as if you’re being unreasonable for expecting him not to randomly be in the nude. You really don’t know how maintaining a tan is more urgent than avoiding the charge you brought up, but you don’t bother questioning him any further. “Listen, you’re not ruining this for me. I haven’t been able to do my morning routine for weeks!”

“What, so you couldn’t do it in front of the others, but you can do it in front of me? I’m way too dignified for… the sight of you. Right now and in general.”

“Snobby-chan, you can’t be for real. There wasn't any sun there.”

“You really are shameless, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, looking at his nails in disinterest. “Shame is just a shackle that gets in the way of my freedom.”

Your eye twitches, and your scowling is causing some tightness in your face, primarily in your forehead. Don’t try to make it philosophical now!

“Ugh,” you say, figuring you’re way too speechless to offer anything more constructive. “Step foot in front of me like this when you’re done and I’m going to boil you in a cauldron, you hear?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Prude-chan. Just don’t interrupt me again.”

“Call me by a nickname again and I’ll peel you with the peeler from the kitchen.”

Instead of replying, he sends you a kiss and a wink.

After some incredulous and judgmental staring, you slam the door shut, not putting much thought into the force of it. It rattles and the frame separates from the jamb, leaving it crooked and awkward. You fall to your knees on the floor and start crying — like, really bawling and torturing your throat with your wails of turmoil — and trying to shred your scalp with your nails. Shidou spares a moment from the bullshit he calls his ‘morning routine’ to laugh.

___

You emerge from your nap looking like you’ve been through the seventh circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno. It was to compensate for your early wake up. Now you stand in front of the mirror, finally brushing your teeth.

Shidou waltzes in not much later, at least wearing a shirt and shorts. He shoves you aside with the unceremonious command, “Move,” before leaning over the sink and pulling out eyeliner, trying to get in a good position.

You forget to yell at him, since you become fascinated by him when you see him put it close to his face with a look of concentration. Is he going to stab his eye out? This is so exciting.

… Shidou starts applying it over his lower lashline. You frown at the anticlimactic follow up. It’s pretty bizarre to be living with him like this, though.

Making your way around, you spit out the foam then rinse before moving on with the rest of your business. He slathers his hands in too much hair gel before beginning to work on shaping it into the ridiculous style he usually wears it in. This seems like an excruciatingly long and wasteful process.

You ask, “So you do this every day?”

“I thought ‘cause of earlier that you don’t know what a morning routine is, but are you really just gonna confirm it like that? You’re too easy.”

You almost make the mature decision to leave and do something else (maybe read a wikiHow article about how to fix doors), but Shidou proves to be too tempting of a target when he stands there, scrutinizing you with an almost feline expression as you pass by him. Twisting one of the loose strands on his head around your finger, you pull him down to eye-level, and he lets you, looking amused. “I’m gonna grab you by your stupid antennae and throw you out of the window.”

Instead of answering, Shidou backs away and flicks the one you weren’t holding. You tilt your head in confusion, not understanding what he’s doing. “My receptors are sensing bullshit.”

You scratch your chin in fake contemplation. “You know, you act kinda weird and you have this wild look going on… but deep down you’re just a lame biology nerd.”

“Me, weird?! I’m not taking that from you,” he says in mock offense.

“What?” you ask, in astonishment at his nerve to bring you up. “There’s nothing weird about me.”

Your genuine confusion is making Shidou assume you live in a parallel universe.

___

It would’ve been your third day of surviving on protein bars — Shidou keeps referring to this as ‘your fault’ because you ‘broke the blender’ (objectively it was a collaborative effort, from your perspective he is to blame) as if the blender is a cooking utensil — so you’re heading to some cheap place to eat.

“I can’t believe they’re benching us,” you say through grit teeth. The complaint serves as a distraction from your grumbling stomach.

“But the fight was pretty fun,” Shidou adds optimistically, looking extra cheerful.

Just the thought of it is making you want to shrivel up and die, but then again, there are many things which make you feel this way. “That was so embarrassing. I hope Sae didn’t see… If he did, I’ll commit seppuku during practice tomorrow.” The last statement is a promise you make with solemn seriousness.

He most definitely saw since you had a loud meltdown before you joined Shidou in attacking everyone, but instead of bringing this to your attention, he says, “Is that guy a big deal or something? You like him a lot.”

His accusation isn’t presumptuous in the slightest. The one time he got an accidental glance of your lock screen, the picture was a close-up of Itoshi Sae’s unimpressed face with a conspicuous placement of the gettyimages trademark covering a fourth of his forehead.

“What?” You raise an eyebrow. Shidou expects you to freak out again and scream in denial, but all you ask is, “Don’t you know who he is?”

He shrugs.

“He’s a genius! And really handsome, too. I love watching him play,” you swoon, caressing your cheeks. “He’s like a prince. A football prince… The best kind of prince.”

“I’ll see what he’s about during the game,” says Shidou with a grin as if he’s the professional player renowned for his skills all over the world, and Sae is some random guy. But you don’t think he’s trying to be arrogant. There’s this inane kind of excitement about him, like he hopes what you said is true because he wants to experience it.

“Hey, Shidou. What was your life like before Blue Lock?”

You can’t help being curious. Are his parents negligent or something? No sane adults would let their kid develop the habit of screaming random shit while naked every morning. You hate to admit it, but you’re concerned about him.

“No use thinkin’ about boring stuff like that.”

Makes sense he’d be a live in the moment type of person. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess dwelling on the past is pretty peasant-like.”

You smile at each other in agreement, though you’re on the same page for reasons so different, someone might wonder how you’re even managing a civil conversation.

___

“What’re you doing?” Shidou asks, resting his foot on the corner of the coffee table with his phone in hand, scrolling.

On the other end of the couch, you’re slouching and balancing a few cards from the deck you stumbled on while looking for tools to fix the door with. You’ve learned an important lesson: chisels and pry bars don’t just lie around rented apartments, waiting for someone to use them.

“I’m turning over a new leaf, so I’ve decided to rediscover patience and peace,” you say with a close-eyed smile.

The load of bullshit you uttered fuels some curiosity in Shidou, so he peeks at you over his phone case. This fake ass smile doesn’t suit you at all. You look like you don’t have a soul.

He slides closer to you inch by inch, moving his leg with himself, until he is close enough for you to see what he’s doing in your peripheral vision. Not about to let him ruin your hard work, you swat away his foot with the back of your hand, but the quick movement upsets the three pyramids and the card on top of them, sending them all toppling down.

Shidou cheers when you flip the table.

___

You’re lazing around on your bed when Shidou struts up to you with a triumphant aura. “Y’know that little problem we had? I solved it,” he announces.

You perk up, eyes shining. “You’re gonna stop screaming every morning?” You don’t even care about him being naked anymore. His ritual interrupts your sleep so often that it’s affecting your mood tracker, always starting the day off with an angry swearing red emoji.

“No, I meant the sink.”

True. You avoid making eye contact with it since it’s overflowing. In a technical sense, you know how to wash them, so it’s not incompetence that’s driving you to allow this to go on. But it’d be an act of subservience since Shidou also throws his dirty dishes in there, and you’re not going to do his chores. You will make him understand who’s the bigwig here, even if you have to eat without a plate by the end of this lesson you’re teaching him.

He continues, “You’re pretending you don’t like waking up to my angelic voice now?” Then clears his throat, not leaving you any time to reassure him you’re not faking your distaste for his idiocy.

You interrupt him and cut off the fifth tone deaf ‘la.’ “So, you finally washed them?”

“What?” Shidou asks, raising his eyebrows like your assumption is nonsensical. “I threw them off the balcony. Now there aren’t any more of ‘em to get dirty.”

He looks so proud of himself — while also clearly realizing you’re on the brink of a breakdown, if his manic grin is anything to go by — and you want to puke. Theatrically, you roll off and fall, hoping to hit your head and get a life-threatening concussion, but for better or for worse, nothing of the sort happens.

You can imagine him aiming at people with forks from above.

When you remain still for a while, Shidou nudges you like one might do to fresh roadkill with a long stick from a safe distance. “You there? Are you hibernating or something? Blink twice if you died.”

___

Your recovery lasts several hours, during which you do nothing but lie on the floor.

Once out of your stupor, you head to the kitchen to mourn your loss (not of the dishes, but for your inability to get Shidou to do them), perhaps to gaze out of the window with a wistful sadness in your eyes. It takes you a few morose steps to realize they’re there, intact. Clean. You blink.

You can be so stupid sometimes.

___

A cockroach crawls out from behind the mirror. You back away, startled by the sudden movement, not realizing what it is you’re seeing at first glance. The real horror starts when you recognize the creature in front of you and shriek in alarm. When it doesn’t produce the desired result, you cave in and yell, “Shidou!”

“D’you want toilet paper?” he asks, his tone way too casual in comparison to yours. You could be dying in here, kidnapped and tortured by the Cockroach King, and you’re convinced Shidou would not give a shit.

“No! Just come in.”

He does. With a roll under his armpit. And then he does nothing to help.

You point at the wall, your index finger accusatory. It hasn’t moved to hide yet, so at least you don’t have to be paranoid about its whereabouts.

“You just strike me as the type of person who’d tell someone to wipe your ass,” he says irrelevantly.

“Kill it!!!” You’re glossing over his apparent willingness to do just that. But your anger dissolves into panic when your imagination comes up with all sorts of alternatives that have you clutching your scalp. It could give birth. Maybe you’d have to be the godparents, babysitting every Saturday.

“Pretentious-chan is not so big and bad anymore.” Shidou pouts, as if disappointed, then grabs it with his bare hand and examines it, making a big deal out of doing so, squinting his eye while widening the other. The insect is squirming in his hold.

“Bro, get rid of it! What if it escapes?!”

He takes a step forward, beaming at you, which you read as a warning sign preceding sinister intentions. Though you want to back away, you’re already standing by the sink, the front digging deeper into your skin. You think to reach out and push him away, but it puts you at risk of coming in contact with it if he lets it loose on accident… or on purpose.

Very slowly, he brings it closer and closer to your face. Your chin is retracting into your neck while you lean back to the best of your ability, and it’s straining your muscles, making you clench your teeth out of both fear and disgust.

“The others call me a cockroach,” Shidou says. “Are we twinning?”

“Stop.”

“C’mon, do we look alike?” He has the audacity to smile, looking all innocent.

One of the antennas almost brushes against your nose. Your brows pinch together, and you’re reaching levels of facial tension you haven’t experienced before, which is impressive considering how many mood swings you flip through on a daily basis.

“Dude, get it away from me,” you beg, borderline crying.

It seems to click in Shidou’s head that this is more serious than your usual tantrums, and he hates to think he’s made you upset on a substantial level, scrambling to crush the roach and flush it away.

You relax from your ‘afraid turtle’ position, straightening your posture to glare at him. Shidou looks at you like a kicked puppy. Even though he knows you don’t have mercy for excuses — valid or invalid — he takes a crack at the worst one. “It was a joke.”

If looks could kill.

“I’m sorry.”

His mumbling is quite pathetic and therefore almost unable to reach your ears (this phrase isn’t really a part of his vocabulary, so it comes out like a foreign tongue twister), but after you make sense of what he said, your lips settle into a phony smile.

“I think it’s unfair the others call you an insect,” you say. “I mean, they’re animals, but you make the conscious decision to be a piece of shit.”

“I’m sooooorry,” he says, this time with more confidence, and tries to catch you in a hug. As if.

“Wash your hands, freak.”

“Oh, right. I almost forgot about touching it already. Oops!”

You massage the bridge of your nose. He’s hopeless.

___

This noon, Shidou is preparing you a salad. You guess it’s a bit lacking, but you only have the tomatoes and the cucumbers and a block of cheese left. You’ve mostly been ignoring him since yesterday and he took matters into his own hands when he realized you were willing to starve over this. The protein bars ran out too, which is a shame since you love throwing them in as a side dish to your cooking.

Shidou liked the spaghetti. There wasn’t any sauce, so he suggested you grate protein bars over it, and you almost vomited after you tasted it. But at least one of you was happy.

You glance at him, mulling over whether you should continue being mad or not. Your wrath doesn’t seem effective on him, so you might need to switch strategies. Though you abandon the train of thought once you see how he’s gripping the knife like a toddler, cutting the vegetables and humming some annoying tune, so you rise from your seat and approach him. “You’re gonna hack your fingers off.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll show you.” You make a ‘gimme that’ gesture and hope it translates well enough.

Instead of passing it over, a gleeful expression takes over his face, and the sight of it disturbs you, since this is how you know he’s about to do something stupid. Your hunch proves correct when Shidou wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you in the air, looking up at you like you hung the moon or some shit, full of wonder. Usually, you’d appreciate people showing you due respect, but you have other concerns right now.

“The knife’s still in your hands, you fucking idiot,” you screech, squeezing his shoulder in alarm. What if he stabs you in the back, on some Julius Caesar shit?

“You’re so mean, but you still worry about me the most out of everyone,” he says, all but shoving his head against your neck, his nose poking your collarbone.

“RELEASE ME.”

You fall on your ass when he does. Shidou’s smile does not slip at the sound of you grunting in pain.

“You’re dangerous,” you say.

“For your heart, I’m assuming.”

“Yeah. I have high blood pressure, so.”

“Oh,” he says.

You pat yourself to brush off imaginary dust and make a big stink out of it, with downturned lips and aggressive motions. Then you ask, “Were you for real?”

“I’m pretty straight-forward,” he tells you as if it suffices.

Again, you hate to admit it, but you feel bad for him, if he perceives you as the one who cares about him the most. After all, you’re not all that kind to him.

___

“Are you awake?” Shidou asks the night before the match.

“No,” you say, continuing to scroll through your phone.

“Ok, listen. Do we share equal power in the relationship?”

“What?”

“Do we: A. work as a team or D. you get angry when I try to make decisions without you???”

“First of all,” you frown, “what the hell are you talking about? Second of all, why are you going from option A straight to option D?! It’s upsetting my balance.”

“I’m trying to see if you’re toxic, so I’m taking this relationship quiz,” he says before pressing something.

There might be some sensitive sort of nerve in your temple which is jumping out right now. “I’m not your lover.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shidou agrees while continuing to do whatever he is doing, not even bothering to conceal it. “I just wanna see.” Then, after more tapping, he lets out a performative gasp. “The quiz is saying you’re a red flag!”

“Shut up.” You throw your pillow at him, though they don’t spend much time together since he flings it back almost immediately. “You are, too.”

“Is it meant to be…?”

“Good night.”

“I thought you were already sleeping,” he lies with a facetious smile on his face. “Red flag, red flag!”

___

Shidou almost breaks out into a sprint, but you pull him back with a handful of his jersey, almost tripping him. “Let’s make a more nonchalant entrance,” you say, even if you don’t need to go out together.

“Huh, why? I wanna go out and play already,” he says, seemingly annoyed, though he does slow down to match your pace, shoving his hands in the sides of his pants from the lack of pockets.

You ignore the action and reply, “Well, I belong on the field and it’s natural I’ll be showing up, so there’s no reason to be too excited about it.”

“What a load of bullshit,” Shidou says, amused. “Are you any good when you’re shooting in the opponent’s net?”

“Guess you need to give me a good show. Otherwise, I start misbehaving when I’m bored.”

“You don’t need to worry about that at all!” Shidou swings an arm around your shoulder with a grin which seems a bit too elated. “Just keep your eyes on me and I’ll get you all excited.”

You’re about to retort with something about how you really doubt it, but grow preoccupied with blowing a kiss at the audience who doesn’t even know who you are. In this moment, Shidou realizes you’re some momentous kind of knobhead. It’s rare he’s the voice of reason, but you’ve given him a few opportunities to act as such the last few weeks.

___

Though Shidou already scored once, you’ve been stuck on defense the whole time, or getting marked by that pesky guy Isagi. You grit your teeth. He’s trying to piss you the fuck off and you know it. He wants you to lose your marbles so you become a liability.

If you have to be honest, you always think of everyone else on the field as an obstacle, even your teammates. You cannot name a point in time when this hasn’t been the case. In high school, you had the best scoring ability on your team, but messed up a lot and couldn’t synergize with the rest of them, and you’d get benched more often than not. And it always drove you crazy how your replacement couldn’t play to save his life, but somehow he was preferable.

Hell, you don’t even like playing most times. Your skin is always itching, giving you this familiar feeling that you’re about to burst into a pile of angry, gory entrails. Everyone else always calls these episodes tantrums or… or other synonymous words, you’re not good with words, but to you, it really feels like Armageddon when you get upset.

You mostly had fun practicing by yourself, kicking the ball on and on, running down the river for hours. It was liberating in a way, with no incompetent midfielder to tell you where you can and can’t shoot from, or missing the spot you’re trying to go for because your plans don’t match, or everyone telling you that you don’t fit in, or any people at all. It’s one big pain in the ass, playing football, but you’re so obsessed with it.

Shidou’s second goal snaps you out of this mulling you were doing. You blink in begrudging amazement. It’s like he took flight, or ascended, or something else dramatic of that nature.

The desire to score and steal the attention from him overwhelms you.

You don’t have to be the one who’s dancing out of sync anymore, if everyone’s going in your tempo. If Itoshi Sae doesn’t mind passing to these bad, bad spots you love so much, you can move freely just like Shidou.

When the ball goes back in play, you stay back and observe for a moment, before diagonally sprinting across the field.

“Hi,” you greet Sendou, before swiping it away from him and kicking it overhead all the way back to your side’s penalty area.

He stares at you in a mix of incredulity and irritation. “We’re on the same team!”

“Aces who can’t score don’t get to question me, okay?”

“You-”

But you’re already running again, continuing the zigzag pattern.

Aiku — who miraculously secures the ball and passes to Sae after your movements put everyone else on the field in disarray — hollers in half amusement, “Where the hell do you think you’re shooting?”

All this stupid fucking noise. ‘Winning’ and ‘losing,’ ‘heroes’ and ‘villains,’ ‘sensible’ and ‘irrational,’ everyone else always lets these plebeian concepts constrain them. Is it such a crime you don’t want to let anyone chain you down?

Sae passes the ball with you back and forth while you cut across the pitch, closing in, confusing and slipping past the defenders with your flitting and nonsensical dribbling. Karasu tries to intercept you, so you kick the ball to Shidou on the opposite wing with Reo breathing down his neck.

He has no choice, but to kick it a few paces ahead of you, where you arrive after shaking off Karasu by jumping around him during the shoulder-to-shoulder tackle.

“Ya move like a dumbass.”

“It’s really not fair when I have to give it back to you,” Shidou joins in on the yelling. By the expression he’s making, you can’t tell if he’s angry or excited. “Tease!”

You’re approaching the goal line, with Blue Lock’s side focusing on blocking you and limiting Sae’s courses. Oh, you can tell he’s gonna give you a really nasty one, so you can’t help but pass it back to him, hoping he can assist you in brute forcing your way through the rabble. Everyone is more or less floundering all the way to the left, drawn to your madness.

It’s kind of sadistic when he has you scrambling for the ball right in the middle of all this mess — unidentified limbs and bodies reaching for it at the same time. You jump and mime a kicking motion before trapping it, lobbing it over your head, then twisting your body in mid-air, viciously striking it into the net with your nondominant foot, right through the clear path where no one is guarding.

“A crazy feint in mid-air?! Against all logic, U-20’s [L/n] [Y/n] secures the goal!”

You land on your back with your legs shooting up in the air. You see Isagi hovering near Shidou, who was wide open. He must’ve been predicting you to give it up. He was reacting to you?

The audience is screaming my name… But right now, I’m just kind of happy to be playing with everyone.

Huh. It’s kind of like you’re practicing by the river again.

___

Sae knows you don’t need much provocation to blow a fuse.

What he doesn’t expect is for you to also be very easy to please.

He also feels like a really big, smelly, juicy slab of meat with two hyenas breathing down his neck, what with Shidou jumping on his back and babbling about something and you taking his hands in yours before kneeling and proclaiming, “Please marry me.”

What the hell?

He wretches his fingers out of your hold, leaving you in the same position since you’re apparently too delusional to stop, huge smile on your face and all despite the rejection. Then he throws Shidou to the ground.

The phone number would cost three points. Sae isn’t sure how much matrimony is worth.

Shidou averts his interest to you, leaving Sae as the witness to whatever embarrassment is about to occur. He grabs you and forces you to stand up.

“Your explosion was the freakiest I’ve seen yet. Ka-boom!”

Is this supposed to be a compliment?

“Are you kidding me, your goal before that got me all fired up.”

Wow, and you, by all accounts a big-headed prick, are returning the kind(?) words.

“Pretty fun, isn’t it?” asks Shidou. “I’m having a blast.”

“I’m so happy and free of restraints, it’s like I’m on acid. No, something stronger. Ecstasy! DMT! PCP! Meth! Feeling this good should be against the rules! They should suspend me for doping!”

“You get me,” Shidou says in astonishment, parting his mouth in surprise. “You totally get me! It’s not something that makes sense! It’s a sensation! A state of existence! Let’s stay in symbiosis forever!”

What the fuck is going on.

You intertwine your fingers with his and proceed to dance by spinning around each other in a circle like some freaks. Sae steps out of earshot inch by inch, fleeing the scene.

___

You’re gathering your things from the apartment since you and Shidou need to leave tonight. You spent two hours trying to DIY fix the balcony door again, but the endeavor was unproductive. For him, the most time-consuming task was retrieving all his products from the bathroom.

“You know, you’re so much fun when you’re in a good mood,” Shidou says, probably still thinking about the match, even though your team didn’t end up winning.

“Hey, Shidou. Do you remember that weird thing you said?”

“What thing?”

God, of course he doesn’t register the shit he spews as abnormal. You roll your eyes. “‘Let’s stay in symbiosis forever.’ Did you mean it?”

“I already told your demented ass I’m pretty straight-forward. I don’t say things just to say them! Get it through your head. Lip service is lame.” You frown and let out a noncommittal hum in response, which makes Shidou nudge you then poke you in the face until you respond. “What’s the matter? You’re not hitting me or screaming, so must be something bad.”

“I’m… I’m alone a lot, and I mean alone, not lonely, don’t get it twisted, so this is a big promise. We’ll have to make a blood pact over it if you’re serious.”

“Hm? Okay.”

“What, really? Just like that?”

“Make it the promise of a lifetime,” he sings, before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer so you’re standing cheek-to-cheek. “You drive my love cells wild.”

The stare you scrutinize him with is one of abject horror.

“Come on, say something.” He starts poking you — this time in the ribs — when you don’t respond for a long time, but his grin settles into a thin line as if he’s possibly afraid he might’ve put you off.

You elbow him in the stomach, which distracts him from the jabbing he was doing, and then your demeanor switches entirely because you smile, point up your index finger and declare, “You know what? I like how enthusiastic you are about me. Let’s get married.”

Shidou bursts out laughing and this is apparently amusing enough for him to forget the way you shoved him back. “You’re kinda intense.”

“Me? Intense? And you aren’t?”

“Nah, I’m pretty chill.”

How you’re both this self-unaware, no one will ever know.

___

y/n to sae: Me and my boyfriend saw u from across the bar and we really like your vibe

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk x you #shidou ryuusei x reader #shidou x reader #blue lock x you

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rosewaterandivy · 4 months

Text

Through Me Prequel - ii. the fool

Summary: Eddie and the Lady of the Lake, feat. advice from one Steve 'The King' Harrington.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader, eventual Steddie x fem!reader in the series

WC: 6.3k

Warnings/Themes: cursing, criticism of religion (catholicism/xtiantiy mostly), religious themes, canon-typical violence, death, idolatry via smut, blasphemy, heretical notions, angst, occasional fluff (as a treat), Biblical & western literary canon and media references/allusions

A/N: This is the second of three prequels centering on the three main characters. If you're up on your tarot know-how, you can glean some info from the banner, etc. 👀

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not. This (*) is a singal to check the footnote at the end!

Enjoy! 💜

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“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster. For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Tuesday, July 2, 1985

Eddie meets you for the first time on a normal Tuesday evening.

Well, meets is a generous term for what transpires. He all but stumbles upon you as he’s leaving Reefer Rick’s, struck dumb at the sight of a woman walking fully clothed into the lake.

“Shit!”

He drops the lunchbox from his hand; the metal clanging against the rocks as it rolls to a stop on the shore. “Hey!” He yells, trying to get you to stop or at least turn around before doing something drastic.

Nothing.

Continuing to wade into the water, he has no choice to trail after you in an attempt to prevent a visit from the Hawkin’s P.D. and a coroner’s report.

Eddie Munson did not have time for this, not today. But he couldn’t very well just leave you here to your own devices. Which, judging by the water nearing your waist, were far from altruistic.

“Fucking hell,” he grouses, toeing off his sneakers and fumbling with his belt buckle.

You, mystery woman with an apparent death-wish, may be fine with soaking wet clothes but Eddie was not. Wet denim was simply not his jam— it was bad enough he’d have to wash his hair after this, but walking around in wet jeans, just asking for raw, chafed skin?

No, thank you.

His jeans and shirt joined the pile at the edge of the lake as he psyched himself up to dive in after you.

“You got this Munson,” he says to himself, clad in his boxers and shaking out his arms to rid himself of nervous energy. He keeps an eye on you, head and shoulders still above the water though you’ve waded farther from him now.

Bounces on the balls of his feet and cracks his knuckles. “S’just like riding a bike, muscle memory. No sweat.”

Because, yeah he could swim. But, my god, at what cost? Wasn’t worth the hassle in his humble (and correct) opinion.

Oh well.

The water is not at cold as he’d anticipated, but that’s probably due to the summer heat. He treads water, careful not to spook you. Eddie knows he’s not an athlete, he’s no King Steve, but figures that logically it’s easier to talk someone down who isn’t startled.

Eddie never gets the chance to find out.

Because one moment you’re a few feet away, head and shoulders above the surface of the water. Arms buoyant at your side, floating upon the dark blue of the lake. And in an instant you’re gone, leaving nothing but small wakes in your absence.

As if he dreamt you up.

He turns, checking that you aren’t somehow behind him. And sure enough, he is well and truly alone and briefly wonders if he’s made the whole thing up. Thinks that maybe sampling the product before a walk in the woods wasn’t the best idea.

A splash draws his attention to the center of the lake. Something causing the waters to surge, swirling in a way that can only be described as ominous. Eddie cocks his head in interest— curious, purely from an observational standpoint, of course.

An arm breeches the indigo water, sword held aloft. Fingers wrapped delicately to grasp, nestled beneath the pommel, the blade emitting a bright glow.

There’s no fucking way—

A second arm appears, scabbard in hand.

Then your head crests the waves, wet and glorious. Beads of water dripping down the full of your cheeks, mouth graced with a beatific smile. A shake of your head before you begin to swim toward the shore.

“It’s Eddie, right?”

A hum in the coming dark. Gooseflesh blooming on his skin at the sound of your voice. Far too distracted to notice the subtle buzz in the cage of his ribs.

He struggles to speak, a rarity for him. Nods instead, awe-struck. You sail just out of reach, swimming in a lazy backstroke, sword and scabbard still in hand.

“You make a habit of following strange women into bodies of water?”

“Just the pretty ones.”

He could kick himself. Open mouth, insert foot. Just about to give up and end it all when a bark of laughter slips from your throat.

“Doesn’t bode well for you.” You tip your head back in the water, hair fanning out like a halo.

Eddie wades a bit closer now, relieved that he’d misread the situation and intrigued as to how someone could swim to the middle of Lover’s Lake, dive down and swim for god knows how long, only to surface with an actual sword in hand.

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well.” You open your eyes taking him in, pale against the warm hues of fading summer light. Water sloshes as you return the sword to its scabbard, glow extinguished for now. “What if I lured you here under false pretenses?”

“Mmm.” He hums, crossing his arms against his chest, revealing a cluster of bats at his elbow and something else you can’t quite make out further up. “You mean you weren’t trying to drown yourself in Lover’s Lake?”

Pulling your bottom lip between, you huff a laugh. “Shit, is that what it looked like? Yikes.”

Feet grazing the beginning of the shoreline, you reorient yourself and stand. Water cascading from your form.

Eddie gulps, audibly, as it all appears to him in slow motion. Beads of water trail down your thighs, the deep blue denim of your daisy dukes doing fuck-all to contain the globes of your ass. And it only gets worse for him from there.

Water continues to drip from your top, washed one too many times and threadbare. He can see the soft skin of your stomach and the flared curve of your hips. The white of your bra a beacon in the fading light, perfectly cupping the swell of your breasts. And, oh god— is that lace?

His dick jumps at the thought.

You, of course, are oblivious to Eddie’s state. Slotting the scabbard through a belt loop of your shorts, you turn, hair whipping wetly against your back, hands at your hips, and ask.

“You coming, or what?”

It takes him a minute to snap out of it. Muttering something under his breath (“Pretty sure I just did, thanks.”) before saying, “Uh, yeah. Just gimme a second.”

Eddie cannot believe he is at Steve Harrington’s house right now, and it's not to deal party favors.

But when you’d asked if he minded a stop back at the place you’re crashing at, he wasn’t about to refuse. Not when he got to ogle your legs as they worked the manual floor shift— calf muscle flexing and ankle rocking forward, thighs slightly damp from your dip in Lover’s Lake.

He swallows and shakes himself from his reverie.

You trot upstairs as toss over your shoulder, “Be just a sec!” Leaving Eddie to his own devices in the Harrington house.

He tentatively steps into the living room— two fire places, seems a bit much, but whatever— and spies a note on the sideboard underneath the cordless phone.

“So,” he asks over burgers later at the diner. “How do you know Harrington?”

And, to your credit, you don’t balk. In fact, you don’t even blink before tearing into your dinner. After you’d changed back at Steve’s place, you offered to take Eddie out to dinner:

“As a thank you,” You said, shoving your feet into a pair of boots. “Y’know, for checking on me at the lake.”

“No need,” He replied, mentally cataloging any potential blackmail he could use on Harrington. But, damn him, there were no incriminating childhood photos to be found.

There were no photos, period.

“C’mon, can’t my knight in shining armor go unrewarded, can I?”

He barely repressed a shudder at that, relishing in how raspy and low your voice had gotten.

“I could be persuaded…”

Which is how the pair of you wound up at the diner, chowing down on burgers and fries with a bit a flirty banter thrown in.

“Well Rhett,” You drawl in a near perfect imitation of Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara, “I suppose you could call him a gentleman caller.”

Eddie only rolls his eyes, but you see a smile tug on the other side of his face.

You scrunch up your nose in laughter, “We’re buddies, he’s just letting me crash with him when I’m in town.”

“Regular ne'er do well, are you?”

A snort.

“Gee, thanks.” You slurp from your soda, “Nah, just get called away for work a lot.”

He nods amicably, questions answered for the moment. You take another bite and watch him do the same. Casually, you shake the ketchup bottle and squirt out a few dollops on to the wax paper of your basket. Then, you add a few globs of mayonnaise and mix them together with a fry before popping it into your mouth.

Immediately, Eddie balks with a cough and sputter. You start laughing so hard you drop the few fries in your hand all over the table. “I can’t do it.” He groans, waving to your dip of choice, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.”

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, with a grin and signal for the check.

Rolling up to Forest Hills, you eye Eddie as he pinches his nose. He has feel the worst headache of his life coming on and the oddest trickle in his nose.

He leans his head back against the headrest and you see the trickle of blood making its way toward his lips.

“Hey, lean forward not back.”

“What?”

A sigh. You keep one hand on the wheel and wind the other behind him to press on his upper back, “You lean forward for a bloody nose dude, not back.” A slight push as you drive through the trailer park. “Breathe through your mouth and spit out any blood.”

“I’m not gonna spit blood in your car!”

“She’s seen much worse, trust me.” After checking that Eddie is with the program— he valiantly rolls down the window and elects to spit out of the car instead— you take your hand back and keep an eye out for his place.

He points it out soon enough and the pair of you hustle into the trailer before the sky cracks open with a roll of thunder and a deluge of rain. Grabbing the sword from your backseat, you meet him on the porch as he fumbles with his keys.

Ushering him inside, you toss the relic onto the sofa and beeline for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Finding an old bottle of ibuprofen, you pop the top and quickly fill a glass with water.

“Ed?” You call out, not sure if he fell into a heap on the sofa or wandered elsewhere.

“Bedroom.”

Following the sound of his voice, nasally from pinching his nose, you round the corner and find him sitting on his bed. The bleeding from his nose seemed to dissipate, and you handed him the water and four pills.

“If your head isn’t better, take another dose of four pills in eight or so hours.”

He nods and swallows the pills with a slug of water before collapsing back on the bed with a groan. His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. And you hate to leave him like this, you really do, but Salvation, Iowa is a calling.

“I’m sorry Eddie, but I’ve gotta go to work. Are you gonna be okay? Is there someone—”

“Wayne, my uncle. He’s at the plant, but he’ll be back tonight.” He breathes out, “Go, go, I’ll be fine.”

With a sigh, you stand back upright and begin to untie his shoes. “It’s bad enough you’re gonna pass out in your jeans, over my dead body are you sleeping with shoes on.”

“Okay boss, whatever you say,” He croaks out.

“Can I leave something here for safe-keeping?” You ask, grabbing a nearby blanket to toss over him.

Eddie cracks an eye open, “Your sword?”

With a smile, you tap the side of your nose with a finger and point at him. “Got it in one, my man.”

He grins at that, “Sure girly, I’ll keep your sword and sheath.”

“Thanks,” You say with a chuckle. “See you later alligator.”

Eddie gives you a half-assed wave, “In a while crocodile.”

Monday, August 19, 1985

Eddie’s got a battered notebook on one knee and an ashtray balanced precariously on the other, clad in, wait for it— Garfield boxers that have seen better days. You’d nearly seen his dick twice and hadn’t even been there for half an hour.

“So what’s your deal?” Eddie asks from his position on the couch.

You sit back and pretend to busy yourself with cleaning your knives because the heat crawling up your neck is about to choke you blue.

Returning to Hawkins after a few weeks working on the coast— wailing women, wendigos, and shifters, oh my— you’d pulled up at Eddie and Wayne’s trailer certainly looking a bit worse for wear. So, after a shower and saying so-long to Wayne as he left for work, out of a lack for anything better to do you began to clean your knives. Which were disgusting, covered in dried, caked on blood and god knows what else.

“What do you mean?” You ask back from the sink, running warm water over your hunting knife, mindful not to catch the gut hook with your fingers— wouldn’t want to be put in a position to explain why your own blood was a rather unusual color and viscosity.

Eddie takes a sip from a lukewarm beer and pulls a face. “You know what I mean,” He says, rising from the couch. You squirt some dish soap into your hand begin to work it onto the blade.

“You leave for work, are gone, for like over a month,” He sets the empty can on the counter. You can feel the heat radiating from his body as he leans next to you, and exhales. “You call from Oregon, California, and Colorado but never say what it is you’re up to,” Eddie cocks his head in your direction, inquisitive, “Or when you’ll be back. And then you roll up tonight with no notice looking like hell warmed over.”

“You forgot something.”

“Yeah? Do tell.”

So, you groan, because he’s hounding you and after a month and some change it’s bound to happen.

“First of all, my gig isn't as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, scratching your nail against a particularly stubborn glot of viscera, finding the task a distraction under his persistent gaze. “And secondly, you forgot that I left a sword with you.”

“Right,” He laughs, “How could I forget that?”

“It’s, um,” You cut the water and let the blade soak, watching as it floats lazily to the bottom of the sink. “Well, y’know the Arthurian legends and stuff. The Round Table and all of that?”

“Uh, sure.”

“So,” You sigh, a knot of tension working its way to the base of your skull, and breathe out in a rush, "The sword shoved into the back of your closet is kindofExcalibur?”

Eddie, silent as the grave, stretches to open the topmost cabinet above the sink. You watch with idle curiosity, noting how the hem of his shirt rides up to expose his stomach. Before you can get distracted by the whisper of hair trailing beneath the band his boxers, he returns with a handle of whiskey.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need something stronger for this explanation.”

But you tell him, truthfully and genuinely. That you’re a kind of hunter of sorts, for lack of a more apt term, dealing predominantly with the supernatural and otherworldly, an exorcist when needed, and master of the hidden arts—

(“Like, magic?”

“Sure.”

“It’s real?!

“Uh, in a sense.”)

—You’re a lone wolf. The last of your kind. And, as a result, your work takes you all over the world with little to no notice. A nomadic existence is normal for you, or, at least, it was until passing through Hawkins back in ‘83. Something or someone kept drawing you back whenever you had the time.

By the time you're finished with this rambling explanation, Eddie's had a few drinks.

Well, maybe more than a few.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Eddie whispers. He sets his glass down on the formica table, feet kicked up on the chair between you. “How’re you not as drunk as me right now? You’re not even tipsy!”

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of his lament and spend the next five minutes with your insides on fire. Eddie has his head in his hands and there are tears coming out of his eyes from laughing at your predicament.

Turns out, you didn’t have the heart to tell Eddie that the only thing that could get you remotely sloshed is rosewater.

Saturday, September 21, 1985

Three blinks on the clock when he’s pulled from his bed and dragged into the living room. Eddie had been given roughly thirty seconds to pull his pants on and sit on the sofa before Harrington nearly kicked down the door. There are a million words a minute being thrown around and he’s vaguely aware of a knife being strapped onto your ankle.

“St-stop!" He sputters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Constantine! Cut it out!”

“Angel…” Steve warns, taking the blade from you. You’re already geared up, raring to go.

You relent with a pout, walking across the room to lean against the far wall, dressed in a cropped Hawkins Athletics shirt and sweats as you watch Eddie fumble stupidly, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His elbow knocks into the table, ankle twists when he tries to stand up. It’s a nightmare and Eddie’s about to burst into tears.

“—so how’s that sound?” You point to the table with yet another knife (where did you get that?), papers scattered about as if he’s caught anything you’ve been saying. Eddie’s still chasing off sheep in his brain. “We can swing in tonight, grab the intel, take out hostil—” his eyes shut.

“Babe,” Eddie sighs, using a common pet name to address you. He hopes it’ll get you to let him off the hook, “It’s… so late. Early? Steve is already up. I wanna go back to bed.”

“But there’s a—” He can’t keep up. The vocabulary is beyond his comprehension when he’s on the verge of curling up into the fetal position under the table. You’re spewing words like the spear of destiny and reconnaissance, but he swears you’ve just said take out hostiles, too.

At this point, he’s about to snap—the despair churning into rage. It’s not his fault; he’s a mess in the mornings. “It is three in the goddamn a.m. I need at least six more hours before I can function. Can someone please explain to me, in tiny words, why I’m being accosted in my own home?”

There’s a beat of silence before Steve pipes up, prying the latest knife you’ve procured from your fingers.

“She wants to go with you.” He deadpans. “Wants to make out with you in the impala. Wants to touch your butt. Wants to fuck your brains out.”

A grin stretches across his face while you and Eddie look on, shocked. For the first time in ten minutes, Eddie’s eyes are wide open while yours have shut tightly, clenched like you’re trying to will the moment away.

“Small enough words? I can go smaller.”

“W-what…”

“She. Likes. You.” He punctuates with claps.

“Steve!”

“But you— and her— How—?”

“Don’t think about it too much.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “We try not to.”

Eddie whips around to stare at you, flinching at his questioning mouth. Steve cackles and cracks his knuckles, whistling about how his work here is done and makes his exit, stage right, kissing you loudly on the mouth as he goes. Left alone now, you bashfully hide behind your hands as Eddie blinks at you owlishly. “S-sorry about… that.”

Wide awake and practically on fire with the slew of information, Eddie feels strangely refreshed. A grin matching Steve’s earlier one makes its way over his lips as he swings his arms and steps until he’s next to you. “Sugar…” He croons, “If you wanted to touch my butt, all you had to do was ask.”

He wiggles his fingers.

“Honestly, babe? I’ve been waiting for you to touch my butt for months.”

The only way you can convince Eddie go is by having Steve tag along. So, you’d rolled up to the dilapidated barn, and he wasn’t sure exactly how many weapons you’d strapped to yourself, just knew that it was a lot and he was incredibly turned on by it.

Given strict instructions by you to stay out of sight with a wink directed at Steve, you’d kissed both of them goodbye and walked inside. Not five minutes later, Steve was climbing out of the front seat with a bat and popping open the trunk.

“Dude,” Eddie hissed, “She said to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mumbles, rifling through the chaos of the trunk. “Stay out of sight, which is do-able. We’ll just sneak up to the loft…”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and thinks he can’t be serious.

“Ah, gotcha!”

The trunk closes with a soft thud and the next thing Eddie knows, Steve’s opened his door and hauled him out of the car. Setting him back on his feet, Steve smooths the creases from where he’d grabbed Eddie’s shirt.

“Okay Munson,” He says, eyes glancing toward the barn. “We’re going to head in there, slow and stealthy,” Hands him a bat with nails ran through it. “Use this if things get dicey.”

He grips the bat. “What about you?”

Steve produces what can only be described as a heavily modified shotgun from behind his back. There is an honest to god crucifix on it, and a flashlight. Eddie struggles to pick his jaw off of the ground.

Casually, he loads the slugs into the rotating cylinder. Deeming it a job well done, Steve doesn’t even wait for Eddie as he walks toward the ladder leading to the hayloft.

“What even is that thing?” He asks once he’s caught up to Steve, who’s currently making his way up the ladder.

“The Holy Shotgun? S’what it looks like Munson.”

Eddie can only shake his head and climb up after Steve.

He could scream.

Steve is seemingly unfazed.

This thing— a skinwalker, apparently, sneers and growls into your ear— a threat that makes your teeth gnash. He squeezes your throat between his forearm and his shoulder.

“Take one more step and I gut her like a fish.”

Ah shit.

They’d been found out, a couple of walkers lurking in the rafters attacked just as they’d ascended the ladder. So much for slow and stealthy, the second his feet hit the floor Eddie was swinging that bat like his life depended on it. And Steve actually had to fire that monstrosity of a shotgun, which was… well, hot, to be fair.

But you’d been distracted from the noise and had wound up disarmed by the skinwalker just below them.

Steve takes the step. Eddie’s eyes are about to pop out of his head when the hand not clasped on you lands the silver glint of a blade poised at your throat.

“Fuck! Don’t!”

“Go ahead.” Steve urges impassively, ignoring Eddie’s pleas. “Do it.”

Eddie doesn’t know because he’s still new to this. Because he hasn’t been with you for long. Hasn’t seen you close up in a fight yet.

He’s only seen the sweetness, only a tiny spark of a flame behind closed doors when you sidle up alongside him on movie nights with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently over the more objectionable parts of decapitation.

“There’s no way! Munson, are you seein’ this shit?” As you toss another handful of popcorn into your mouth, half of it ends up on your chest. “Severing the carotid artery? There’s way more fuckin’ blood than that!

Steve knows the bite and the bark. He knows the claws and the flashing teeth. So he steps again, his cheek dripping a splash of blood from one of the dead walkers. In the blink of an eye, you pluck the blade from your opponent's grasp and slide it home on the unsuspecting walker, and the dagger retracts, giving him a full showing of how it rips from the soft palate of your enemy.

Poor idiot, Steve thinks. Never stood a chance.

Eddie’s gasp breaks the silence, and the thud of the corpse follows.

“S-sweetheart?” He murmurs when you peer up at him. “Y-you okay?”

They descend the ladder quickly, leaving the bodies where they fell.

A grin. Wicked and all teeth— one he’s never seen. Steve slips his arm around your waist, pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, smudging the red from his face to yours.

Eddie’s own blood rushes straight down. Nervous. Aroused.

“She look okay?” Steve smirks. “‘Bout time you find out.”

You approach cautiously, not wanting to spook him. Drink in his surprised face when you rub your thigh over his groin where he grows. “Hey, Ed. Didn’t mean to keep you in the dark… just didn’t want to scare you away.”

Then, you push his head back into the wall, lick the blood out of your mouth and press into him with your whole body.

Eddie moans— quivering, whimpering.

He melts like butter against your lips.

Steve purrs. Poor guy, he smiles fondly, ravenously. Eddie never stood a chance.

November, 1985

After that, the tension melted away between the three of you, and things went back to normal.

Well, as normal as you could get when hunting things that go bump in the night.

As he’d come to expect, your work took you all over the place with little to no notice. A phone call would come through, either at his place or Steve’s, and you’d be off again, shouldering a worn bag and dashing off into the night.

It was an adjustment, both your penchant for abrupt exits and Eddie finding himself spending more time with the former King of Hawkins High.

When you weren’t crashing at Forest Hills, it was Loch Nora. Not that Eddie minded, per se, the Harrington’s had an abundance of space and seemingly no cares about whatever their only son got up to on his own.

But he couldn’t bring himself to coexist with Steve in your absence, it wasn’t like the two of them were exactly friends, shared Hellfire gremlins aside. So, like clockwork, as the sound of the impala’s engine faded into the distance, Eddie would grab his things and head home.

Which is how you found him on a bright autumn morning, sleeping away the day back at Forest Hills. You’d let yourself in with the spare key and tiptoed back to his bedroom.

Eddie, for all his high cheekbones and Raphaelite curls, is a complete disaster artist when it comes to sleep. Starfishes out so his lanky frame takes up each corner of the bed, tosses, turns, and is liable to kick on occasion.

Good thing bony elbows and knees aren’t a detriment to you.

The warm autumn sun lazes through the blinds as it pleases, shafts of light illuminating his exposed chest, dancing along his rib cage as it rises and falls with his breaths. Leaning on the doorjamb, you let yourself take it all in— the messy room, haphazardly “organized” books and records, bed clothes rucked down to his hips, a lone leg kicked out from beneath them, his foot grazing the floor as he sleeps.

Stepping further into the room, you quietly close the door and toe off your boots. The articles of clothing drop with each step you take— jacket landing in a thud by the closet, pants falling in a heap by the desk. Down to your shirt, underwear, and socks, you sidle under the covers alongside him, luxuriating in the heat that radiates from him.

Curling against his back, you rub your face against his shoulder blade, nose grazing against the fine hairs there. In sleep, he recognizes your presence, a deep contented sigh tumbling from his partially open mouth, body relaxing against yours.

A cold hand skirts down his torso, nudging him awake before it settles at his hip. Groggily, Eddie’s head turns toward you with a hum. Cracks one eye open in interest, his hand running down the back of your thigh and giving it a squeeze.

“Cold?”

At the rumble of his voice, that low rasp he gets just after waking, sent a ripple through you, a thrumming whirl along your skin and a surge of heat that pooled in your gut.

A nod against his back, your chilled hand curling at his hip.

He turns in your grasp with an, “Alright, c’mere, sugar.” Calloused fingers hiking your leg up and over his hip, drawing your chest to his at the movement. Your hand settles at his ribs, fingers ghosting along the notches of bone.

“Better?”

Head settling into his chest, you nod, desperate to eek out each ray of heat you could. Breathing in the familiar aroma of coffee, weed, and cigarettes cut through with a crisp note of soap and skin. As you lose yourself to comfort and your eyes begin to drift shut, Eddie cradles the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing idly against the base of your skull.

It’s not often he gets to see you like this, relaxed and languid like a cat seeking out the sun. It’s even less often he gets to have you free of responsibility and obligation. And it’s a rare occurrence indeed to have you to himself.

“But you— and her— How—?”

“Don’t think about it too much… We try not to.”

And well, Eddie had done just that.

Up to this point, it had been kisses on cheeks, looped pinkies, clasped hands, a frenzied make out here and there, flimsy cotton giving way to the prodding of ring-clad fingers, breaths falling in percussive puffs from a spit-slick mouth, the furrow of your brow as you fell apart beautifully for him.

Eddie is well-aware he’s not the only horse in your stable, but that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, he is fully aware that you are blissfully pliant in his bed and his blood is steadily rushing south.

Nudges you towards consciousness by peppering kisses along your face—eyelids, cheeks, and nose while skillfully skirting past your lips to graze against the shell of your ear, “Missed you, angel.”

A small smile pulls at your lips as you open your eyes. “Missed you too, babe.”

His fingers traced your collarbones through the threadbare fabric of your shirt, caressing the dips and hollows. Arching toward him, your lips nearly brush, barely a breath apart. A faint sigh falls from your mouth as Eddie drags his lips against yours, kissing you so delicately your toes curled.

Eddie turns and lays you out beneath him. His fingers lace with yours as he dips down to kiss the breath from your lungs, languorous and endless. A delighted spark zips up your spine, a heady warmth enveloping your limbs. For there are few things in life that feel better than lying under a devoted lover.

As a general rule, he didn’t devote himself to much. Easier to cut and run with fewer strings attached, a thing learned time and again in his life. But that doesn’t diminish his desire to do so, at least, not when it came to you. And if he failed to notice the wisp of crimson thread knotting against his finger and looping him to yours (and subsequently Steve’s), who can blame him?

Stranger things happen every day.

Finally, Eddie drew his mouth away from yours, pupils so blown his eyes were nearly black. He slowly traces the swell of your breasts with a fingertip. His hips shift against your own in a slow grind. Buries his nose in your hair, breathing you in deeply as his fingers continue to wander down.

There’s a few beats of silence— heavy breaths and shuddering gasps as he blows a cool breath against the column of your throat. A ghosting of lips against your own, “G’na let me take care of you?”

You swallow thickly, “Uh huh.”

Fingers slip against damp heat, a soft curse escaping lips, a bruising kiss, an apt tongue. A canting of hips as clothes are shed, fervent and impatient hands caressing in the warmth of the autumn sun. Sweet nothings whispered against exposed skin: c’mon baby, feel good angel?

His voice vibrates through your chest, husky and low, in between sponged kisses along your throat and jaw. Lewd wet noises punctuated with bitten curses, groans, and whines of, “Eddie— Please, I—“

A wicked smile settles along his lips as he works you through it, fingers urging you toward the precipice. Molten lava swoops and pools low in your abdomen with each press and thrust of his hand. The sheer heat of it is near blinding.

“Need you,” You plead, grinding up against him, “I’m burning up.”

He bites back a groan in favor of crushing his lips against your own. His tongue slides against your own sweet and heavy with promise into the cavern of your mouth.

“S’okay, I’ve got you.” His free hand snakes along the column of your spine, freeing you from your shirt as a moan is pulled from you. “So fuckin’ gorgeous,” He whispers pulling back to look at you. You whimper in response, too far gone to process the compliment.

The pair of you are entwined like vines, his hand palms against the base of your spine. Your hand winds its way into his hair, gripping for purchase. His eyes fall shut with a moan as you slot your lips against his.

You rock up into him as you briefly part to toss the shirt elsewhere. The bra comes off swiftly in the effort to get your hot little hands back on him. Bumbling through a mantle of heat, as if you’re cursed by it. Burning away at the core.

Jesus wept– Eddie’s already slick with precome and throbbing with need. You pump him once and feel his groan rattle through your chest. Pulling your mouth from his, you stick two fingers in and sluice them up with spit, “Need to feel you,” You whine with a lingering kiss and a slow drag of your fist around his cock.

At this point, you honestly might explode.

Salvation comes in the form of a ragged thrust and choked gasp.

Eddie moans at your touch, hands dragging down his chest, and bites his lip, flicks his tongue over his teeth, and swallows thickly. You’re so hot. And tight. And wet. Tries to lessen his grip at your hips because it feels like he could honestly break you— holy hell— but soon enough he bottoms out in spectacular fashion.

Coming back to himself, he pulls back so that his cockhead catches inside your cunt. But before he can even catch his breath, you cant your hips up, lock your legs at the small of his back to pull him back in and he nearly loses his damn mind.

He’s never felt something so perfect before. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through punching the air from his lungs. And all he can do is ride it out— soft rolls of your hips against his quick fast bucks. Soft mewls and stuttering breaths filling the dappled sunlit room.

He repeats your name, like a penitent at prayer.

Your hands are everywhere. On his chest, his stomach, fingers hooking into his open mouth. And it is divine. His cock is entirely drenched in you and he swears he could come just like this, with you open and gasping beneath him.

Eddie memorizes the cherry wet of your mouth, the furrow of your brow, eyes rolling back and lost to pleasure. You’re a fucking vision, one that he’d be happy to supplicate himself to for the rest of his days. Rising up, his mouth finds your shoulder and bites at the glistening skin there. Eddie’s grip is tight at the nape of your neck, your entire body folded against him and pulled taut like a bowstring.

He kisses you desperately, tongue surfing into your mouth like an inferno. Shuddering against him, you’re startled as he walks his fingers closer and closer to the wet heat between your legs. “Come for me angel,” He purrs just as his thumb presses against your clit.

The tether inside of you snaps as you kiss him stupid— a blaze of white light. The inferno continues to rage as you let out a strangled pant, “Eddie.”

“There it is,” He bites against your jaw, “…Yes.”

"Fuck.” You blink the spots from your vision. God. Your entire body quakes.

Frantic circles against your clit and a few more sloppy thrusts, a demand of “Gimme all of it.”

He slams into you once more before the inevitable descent, your eyes screwing shut as you try to remember how to breathe. And it’s all Eddie can do to lick your jaw, push his tongue into your mouth, and work you through it.

An ephemeral, throbbing sensation falls from you. Slides right out to soak his thighs as he chokes on his own breath from the way you arch up and into him, your perfect tits pressing against his chest while your walls seize him like a vice.

When Eddie comes it's with an invocation of your name chased by an errant fuck or yesyesyes. It shatters him entirely, fueled solely by the desire to dive deep and spill into you. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, mouth open and gasping against damp skin.

And just like that, everything feels brand new. The world has sloughed from your shoulders and it's pure bliss in the comedown.

The whisper fate pulls taut— a nearly indiscernible thread of crimson looped for three.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #fic: through me #stranger things fanfic #constantine!au #Spotify

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michellemisfit · 2 months

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WEEKLY TAG WEDNESDAY - FIRSTS!

Tagged by @suzy-queued @deedala @darlingian @heymrspatel @lingy910y @energievie @mybrainismelted @blue-disco-lights

Name: Michelle

Age: Currently getting a kick out of telling people that I’m nearly 40 and having them go ‘NO WAY!!!’ - It’s funny and flattering :)

First Pet: Siberian gerbils called Tom & Jerry

First Word: No idea. Turns out my parents kept a baby book for my older brother where they painstakingly recorded all of that stuff. I found mine a few years ago and it’s got a grand total of 3 entries, one of which is talking about how chubby I am, and how I am yet to find a food I’ll say no to, and let’s hope that’s not a sign of things to come… after which it was abandoned. Thanks mum.

First Celebrity Crush: Leonardo DiCaprio

First IRL Crush: Dominik. We hung out basically every day after school. I would go round to his house and he would play me the latest Michael Jackson tape and show me new dance steps that he’d taught himself. I thought he was so cool.

First Kiss: Age 14 with my first boyfriend. He was 20 years old. We were in a relationship for over a year. Shit was fucked up. At the risk of repeating myself… Thanks mum.

First Car: Bebop 🚙 He’s my baby and I bought him this year and I love him! He’s a turquoise 2013 Toyota Yaris Hybrid.

First apartment/house/dorm/whatever away from your parents: Heh. I moved straight from my childhood bedroom to a different country. If you’re gonna do something, do it right! lol

First Time on a Plane: I was… 18 months old? Parents went on holidays to Florida. I have about 3 memories from that trip.

First Cellphone: Nokia 3210 😎

First Concert: David Hasselhoff. I was maybe… 6? And I got very tired and slept through the second half, but my parents woke me up for Looking for Freedom, which was my favourite song of his.

First Foreign country you visited? Italy or France most likely. Pure proximity, and most of our family vacations were done by car from Switzerland so…

First sport you ever played? Hmm. I did competitive swimming when I was very young. And then gymnastics. And after that… about five minutes of football (the only sport I to this day do not understand. How do I run AND kick a ball simultaneously?!?), then 3 years of tennis, 2 years of basketball, 8 years of roller hockey, and a whole smattering of other sports on and off.

First career aspiration? I mean… I basically wanted to be a Disney Princess, purely for the Animal Best Friend aspect! And then any form of Animal Whisperer would have done the trick. I watched all the TV shows and movies where characters had magical bonds with animals, and I wanted that. And then I realised that the characters in the shows and movies aren’t real, but the people training and handling those animals *are*. However that wasn’t something realistic to aspire to, being Swiss, so instead I became a bookseller (somehow that made sense at the time… 🤷🏽‍♂️). And then 15 years later, in a different country and a different life, I did end up training animals for TV and film. So that’s kinda nifty.

And finally… tell me about the first time you wrote/drew/created/whatever something that made you think “wow”

Hmmm. I dunno. I thought I was really fucking talented when I was about 12. I wrote a novel and sent it to publishing houses and literary agencies. One of them invited me for an interview, because they thought my writing was great and they wanted to meet the kid that had sent them a manuscript aged 12/13. They ended up giving me a job, working as a admin/secretary/slush pile reader. They also gave me lots of feedback and constructive criticism on my writing. I scrapped the novel I had sent them in favour of writing a different, better novel. I still think that novel was pretty fucking good. I tried to get my mum to proof read it and give me feedback so I could do any necessary corrections before I spent my pocket money on photocopies, C4 envelopes, and a whole bunch of stamps so I could attempt to get it published again. She was dragging her feet and I tried to explain the urgency, because I was clear that it needed to happen before I turned 14. That was the goal in my head. I had huge ambitions and dreams. I was also convinced that if it happened after I turned 14 it wouldn’t be special anymore. Like anyone could do it after 14… 🙄 In response to this my mum told me that she’d had ambition and dreams, too, when she was my age. But not to worry, that’ll go away, and once you’ve put away the fanciful notions of being talented then you can just get on with your life…

Not sure if this actually answers the question, but that was kinda the first and last time I remember feeling uncomplicatedly good about and proud of something I created. After this anything creative I did was always immediately followed by the doubt of ‘is this actually good, or is this just a fanciful notion I have about being talented, when in actual fact it sucks?’ 🤷🏽‍♂️

Wow. Ended that on a downer, didn’t I?

…

Erm… I wrote Tell me we’ll never get used to it,

They’re the only two people left that know what it’s like to have loved and to have lost a Lightwood.

And it’s a good story.

There.

I said it…

Tagging @crossmydna @palepinkgoat @too-schoolforcool @vintagelacerosette @heymacy @loftec @mikhailoisbaby @rereadanon @the-rat-wins @tsuga-of-mars @ian-galagher @andthatisnotfake @francesrose3 @faejilly @jrooc @creepkinginc if you fancy playing? I’m just very exited I’m actually posting this on a Wednesday still! Whoop!!

#Mys stuff #tag game #tag game Wednesday #firsts

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bace-jeleren · 5 months

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Full tinfoil hat, unserious theory time, but:

Back, like, before War of the Spark, a lot of you probably remember but my big number one passionate otp was Nissa/Emmara. Like, full crack ship, I know, but that's why my blog image and header are still Like That. Anyway, there was this part in WAR, where Nissa almost goes to this meeting where Emmara is and my little shipper heart was all aflutter. Like "omg, my ship in the same room together ooooooo"- only for Nissa to completely back out. Made sense, but at the same time, total blue balls. Absolutely devastating.

But anyway, cut to the first episode of Murders at Karlov Manner we got, and Kaya is like "I wanna planeswalk, see how my good friend Tyvar is doing" and she pointedly doesn't mention Kaito at all. Meanwhile I'm foaming at the mouth like "NOT EVEN A NAME DROP ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I AM STARVING HERE!!!!"

Anyway, WotC is targeting me and my weirdo special interests specifically and are refusing to give me even a crumb of satisfaction- literary orgasm denial- and in this mentality ill block of text I will

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himboblackdragon · 11 hours

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Catalog of LBFaD drama name origins

Mythology -> book -> drama

Dongfang Qingcang / 东方青苍: The origins of this name are hotly contested, and to be honest the only hypothesis I remember is the Azure Dragon of the East. East being "Dongfang," and the dragon itself being alternatively called "Qing long" and "Cang long." (x)

Haotian Tower / 昊天塔: The tower where DFQC was imprisoned in, in both media. There's no Haotian Tower in mythology, but "Haotian God" is one of the names of the emperor of heaven. (x)

Ninth You / Jiuyou / 九幽: One name for the mythological netherworld, the capital city of the Moon Tribe in the drama. The capital city of the devil tribe in the book. (x)

Sansheng / 三生: The name comes from the "Three Lives Stone" (sansheng shi 三生石), which represents a lot of things in Chinese tradition, but probably the most salient being a rock in the underworld near the Oblivion River. In the novel universe, the rock is graffitied with the names of the ones the dead passing by wished to see most. The stone seems to have transformed into human form in the first book of the series, succinctly titled Sansheng, which details the love story between Sansheng and Moxi, the novelverse God of War. (x)

Siming / 司命: A folk god, and usually male, who oversees human fates. In the CLJ novel she is responsible for writing the Fate Books. (x)

Xirang / 息壤: Mythological self-expanding-and-growing soil. Although it plays a key role in the book, it only appears in a throwaway line in the drama, when Changheng suggests building XLH a new body out of it. (x)

Mythology/literature/history -> drama

Chengying Sword / 承影剑: One of the ten famous swords of China, in historical and literary tradition. From the Spring and Autumn Period. (x)

Chonghua / 重华: Chonghua is the given name of a legendary emperor of China. (x)

Haotian Matrix / 昊天阵: "Haotian God" is one of the names of the emperor of heaven. (x)

Hellfire / 业火: A Buddhist concept, the fires of karma. (I'm pretty vague on what it actually is and where it exists.) In the book, DFQC's powerful fire is usually just called "raging flames" (lieyan 烈焰), and it's red instead of blue. (x)

Liyuan / 澧沅: Li and Yuan are two of the four big rivers that flow through Hunan. Coincidentally, also the names of two of the four rivers that flow into Shuiyuntian, that flooded when DFQC broke the pearl. (x)

Love Tree / Seven-Emotions Tree / 七情树: The name "seven-emotions tree" comes from the phrase "seven emotions and six desires," (qi qing liu yu 七情六欲). The exact emotions and desires this refers to differs based on school of thought. (x)

Lord Dong / 东君: A deity often paired with Yunzhong-jun as one of the two primordial gods. Seems to be a sun deity. His name literally means "Lord East." (x)

Lord Yunzhong / 云中君: A god from mythology, often paired with Lord Dong as one of the two primordial gods. Sometimes interpreted as a woman. (x)

Oblivion River / Wang Chuan / 忘川: A river in the land of the dead. To cross it, you must first drink a soup that makes you forget your past lives. (x)

Return to Ruin Realm / Guixu Zhi Jing / 归墟之境: "Guixu" was a place far to the east, that every body of water eventually emptied into. The characters break down into "return (to)" and "ruins." The "Zhi Jing" makes it "Region of Guixu" or "Guixu Area." (x)

Tai Sui / 太岁: A folk deity, but not necessarily evil. (x)

Xuanwu God / 古神灵玄武: Xuanwu is a constellation representing a tortoise-snake spirit. (x)

Xunfeng / 巽风: His name most likely comes from the "xun" trigram of the Eight Trigrams, of which the element is wind, or "feng." (x)

Yingzhao / 英招: Legendary creature that has the body of a horse, the face of a man, stripes like a tiger, and wings of a bird. Not like our waddling ball of fur at all. (x)

Yunmeng Lake / 云梦泽: One of the largest lakes in China in ancient times, now mostly nonexistent. (x)

Book -> drama

Bone Orchid / Gu Lan / 骨兰: It has more of a dried-vine aesthetic in the book.

Chidi Nüzi / 赤地女子: The god of war of the heavenly realm, in both media. DFQC's nemesis and the object of A'Hao's obsession.

Dayu Battalion / 大庾兵: Only mentioned once in the drama, along with the Tieyu Battalion 铁羽兵, as forces that Shangque has mobilized in response to Xunfeng's insurrection. Dayu's the name of DFQC's adorable (to me) pet sky/sea serpent.

Destruction of Heaven / Ruins of Ten Thousand Heavens / Wan Tian Zhi Xu / 万天之墟: A formless place where Siming can be found, in both the drama and the book. The book series further specifies that the Destruction of Heaven sits above the Three Realms and the Endless Desolate City (无极慌城 wu ji huang cheng) below.

Dieyi / 蝶衣: Ronghao's loyal right-hand woman is also present in the book.

Fairy Execution Platform / Zhu Xian Tai / 诛仙台: Where Yunzhong whips Xiao Lanhua in the drama. In the book this was a platform over a mass of the book equivalent to evil qi/suiqi, which XLH was cast off from, almost getting eaten alive by the evil qi.

Fate Books / Mingbu / 命簿: The combination of these two characters seem to be an invention of the novel, and are records of the destinies of living people collected and administered by the land of the dead.

Fate Tree / Mingge Shu / 命格树: "Mingge," in both the novelverse and in the Love You Seven Times drama, are the stories high immortals (in CLJ's case, Siming) write to direct the fate of mortals. I'm not clear on the distinction between mingbu and mingge in the CLJ book.

Lucheng / 鹿城: In the book, a militarily important city of the Jin Dynasty, although the drama has styled it more into the Tang Dynasty, some thousand-plus years later.

Ronghao / 容昊: Although he's only ever called A'Hao in the book, he's definitely Chidi's obsessed student and our beloved villain.

Shangque / 觞阙: The name of the prime minister of the devil realm in the book, horrified by DFQC's erratic behavior while his body is being partially controlled by XLH. Show!Shangque's personality likely came from Dayu, Book!DFQC's overpowered flying serpent who follows him around like a loyal dog.

Shuofeng Sword / 朔风剑: "Cold northwest wind" sword, it's Chidi Nüzi's weapon in the book and the drama. It stays in sword form in the book, but becomes a geographical feature and a seal in the show.

Thousand Dreamland / Thousandfold Illusion / 千重幻境: A realm of endless very similar illusions that Ronghao/A'Hao tries to trap DFQC in to prevent him from finding XLH, in both media.

Xiao Lan Hua / Orchid / 小兰花: Our heroine!

Xie Wanqing / 谢惋卿: One of Chidi Nüzi's mortal incarnations in both media. However, in the book she is a general who's betrayed by the man she loves, an ordinary mortal, while XLH and DFQC watch.

Misc

Changheng / 长珩: Changheng's not in the book, but the book does have a troublemaker by the name of Changming 长命 who is DFQC's biggest "love rival" (he's like ten years old), and I wonder if the "Chang" part of Changheng's name comes from Changming.

Flying Fairy Pavilion / Life-Ending Pavilion / 飞仙阁: A reference to Xie Wanqing's real identity as the Fairy God of War. Also a euphemism for death.

Xiao Run / 萧润: I'm not sure the Run part of his name is a reference to anything, but the Xiao is probably there to make the Xiao-lang wordplay work. (x)

Yannü 盐女 and Cangyan Sea 苍盐海: The "yan" is the same as in "Yannü." Which came first, I wonder? (The "cang" is the same as in Dongfang Qingcang.)

Sans Data

I do not know any special origins of, or was too lazy to look up:

Black Sash 黑杀斩, Bone-Devouring Spikes / Frost-Salt Nails 霜盐钉, Cangyan Sea 苍盐海, Changle Street, Cloud Shadow Mirror 云影镜, Danyin 丹音, Dark Pine Forest 暗松树林, Dream of Nine Serenities / Jiuyou Dream 九幽一梦, Evil Qi / Suiqi 祟气, Firefly stone 奇幻流萤石, Fountain Palace 涌泉宫, Four-Water Pearl 四水宝珠, Fuju Cave 弗居洞, Glazefire 琉璃火, Granny Tie 铁婆婆, Green Flame Wine, Haishi 海市, Hall of Divine Waters / Shenshui Ting 神水厅, Heart-Hidden Pin 藏心簪, Jieli 结黎, Jinling, Jingyiya Teahouse 静逸雅轩, Karma Jail / Karma-Spanning Abyss 渡业渊, Liufang Pavilion 留芳阁, Night-Stream Building 夜溪楼, Northern Sea / Beiming 北溟, Primordial spirit 元神, Qu Shui, Ranxi Flower 燃犀花, Shaking Light Peak 摇光峰, Shuiyuntian 水云天, Shuyu Forest, Silent Moon Palace / Jiyue Palace 寂月宫, Silver Lake 银湖, Southern Fairyland / Extreme South Fairy Continent 南极仙洲, Spirit Lock Gate 灵锁门, Spirit-Shattering Abyss, Spirit Stones 灵石, Tianji Mirror 天极镜, Tongyun, Universe Pills 无极乾坤丹, Wind Prison 风牢, Wind Warriors, Wuqi 巫芑, Wuxian Clan 巫咸族, Xilan 息兰, Xingluo, Xishan 息山, Xiyun 息云, Xuanshang Whip, Xuanxu Realm / Mysterious Realm 玄虚之境, Yiyou year, You Jade Ring 幽玉戒, Yujing 玉京

Much thanks to sassybluee's Reference for Fic Writers.

This is mostly a reference for myself, and is subject to change. Additions, corrections, and discussion welcome.

#love between fairy and devil #circ talks #clj language meta #resource #reference #cang lan jue

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homomenhommes · 4 months

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … February 4

Jared French, as painted by his lover Paul Cadmus

1905 – Born: American painter Jared French (d.1988) who devised a pictorial language to explore human unconsciousness and its relation to sexuality. Most of his works consist of strange, statue-like, somnambulant figures with eerily blank facial expressions positioned in austere landscapes and plazas. Rendered in a technique so precise that they seem more real than real, French's paintings capture and maintain the viewer's interest and imagination.

At Amherst College in 1926, French met artist Paul Cadmus, who was briefly his lover and who became a life-long friend. After leaving Amherst, French took a job on Wall Street and then toured Europe with Cadmus between 1931 and 1933. During the 1930s and 1940s, French was a member of the Cadmus circle that included such gay literary and artistic figures as George Platt Lynes, Lincoln Kirstein, George Tooker, Glenway Westcott, and Monroe Wheeler. In 1937, French married artist Margaret Hoening, his and Cadmus's mutual friend. Cadmus did not seem upset with the marriage and the three were soon collaborating as members of the PAJAMA photographic group (the name of which was comprised of the first two letters of each of their given names).

The photographs taken by French, Hoening, and Cadmus are particularly important for documenting the gay and artistic community coalescing at Fire Island in the period from 1937 to 1945.

French's paintings reveal the central role sexuality plays in the artist's conception of humanity. In the tempera painting entitled Washing the White Blood from Daniel Boone (1939), American Indians symbolically wash away Boone's European ancestry to make him part of the collective unconscious. Boone's metamorphosis includes a sexual awakening. Surrounded by incredibly muscular, nearly nude male Indians, he stands in the middle of the canvas, arms outstretched, wearing obtrusively feminine underwear: tight, light pink hip-huggers laced up the center with a dark blue ribbon. This scenario suggests that the painting is an exploration of Jung's concept of man's repressed feminine aspect.

Nest

During the 1960s, French radically altered his imagery. He began drawing fantastic biomorphic creatures that, on closer inspection, are fragments of human torsos, heads, pelvises, and genitalia emerge. French made paintings out of only a few of these arresting drawings. In one such work, entitled Nest (1968-1969), a mass of fleshy, cartilaginous forms appears to mutate atop a seaside cliff. Somewhat horrifically, this hermaphroditic creature, made up of orifices, buttocks, faces, and spines, seems to have impregnated itself and is hatching its egg on a nest of flesh and bone.

In the latter part of his career, French fell out of favor with art critics and art collectors. At the end of his life, he was living in Rome, virtually in seclusion.

de Rede with Marie-Helene Rothschild, Liz Taylor and Liza Minnelli

1922 – Oskar Dieter Alex von Rosenberg-Redé, 3rd Baron von Rosenberg-Redé (d.2004), also known as Alexis, Baron de Redé, was a prominent French banker, aristocrat, aesthete, collector, and socialite. In 2003, he was appointed a commandeur of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres for his restoration of the Hôtel Lambert where he was known for hosting opulent costume balls. Involved in horse racing, in 1972 he won the Prix de Diane and came in second at the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe.

Oskar Dieter Alex von Rosenberg-Redé was born in Zurich, Switzerland, the third and youngest child of Oskar Adolf Rosenberg, Baron von Rosenberg-Redé, a banker from Austria-Hungary.He had two siblings. Born in 1919, his brother Hubert von Rosenberg-Redé was the heir to the barony, while his sister Marion von Rosenberg-Redé (born 1916) was handicapped.

The children were brought up Protestant and raised in a 16-room hotel suite at the Dolder Grand Hotel in Zurich, attended by a great many maids, nannies, porters, and valets. Their father visited occasionally. As their finances decreased with the onset of World War II, they moved into a two-bedroom suite. Diagnosed with leukemia, their mother died in 1931, when Redé was nine years old. Redé and his brother were then sent to be educated together at Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland.

On account of bankruptcy, his father committed suicide in 1939 at the family's estate (Villa Rosin) in the Austrian town of Kaumberg. Living on an insurance policy income of $200 a month, Redé moved to New York City, where he briefly attempted to acquire American citizenship. He traveled to California to work for an antique dealer, where he earned money to support his sister and befriended Elsie de Wolfe (known as Lady Mendl), as well as Salvador Dalí. He returned in New York in 1941.[8] His brother committed suicide in 1942 in Hollywood, California, whereupon Redé became the third and last Baron von Rosenberg-Redé, which was typically abbreviated as Baron de Redé in France.

In a New York restaurant, the 19-year-old Redé caught the eye of businessman Arturo López Willshaw and they became lovers in 1941. A married Chilean millionaire, Lopez-Willshaw lived with his wife Patricia Lopez Huici in a lavishly decorated house in Neuilly, France and was "famous for his extravagant costume entertainments." Shortly after they became a couple, Lopez-Wilshaw allegedly offered Redé $1 million to return with him to France.

By his own account, Redé was largely uninterested in affection or sex, and had only ever loved a Polish classmate at Le Rosey, an interest he never acted on. Redé was romantically involved with Arturo Lopez-Willshaw until Lopez-Wilshaw's death in 1962. Upon meeting Lopez-Wilshaw, Redé recollected losing his virginity to the man at the "sleazy" hotel Winslow on East 55th Street.

As Redé recalled of the beginning of the relationship, "I was not in love. But I needed protection, and I was aware that he could provide this." In addition, he observed, "The money gave me the security I craved, and it would also enable me to look after my handicapped sister."

After their move to Paris, Lopez-Wilshaw unofficially lived with Redé at the Hôtel Lambert while maintaining a formal residence with his wife in Neuilly.

With his wealth deriving from his lover, Redé's social notoriety rested on being a kept man. In 1953, author Christian Mégret published Danaé, a popular roman à clef based on Redé's and Lopez-Willshaw's life together. The racy details were provided by one of their close friends and Mégret's companion, Princess Ghislaine de Polignac. Lopez-Willshaw promptly banned Polignac from his home, although Redé later relented and became friends again.

Redé maintained his apartment at the Hotel Lambert throughout his later years, remaining an active host. He died suddenly at the home of a friend, Carmen Saint, at the age of 82, of heart issues. Redé's estate, notably the contents of his apartment at the Hôtel Lambert, was auctioned after his death by Sotheby's and realized £5.2 million. His memoirs, Alexis: The Memoirs of the Baron de Redé, were published posthumously in 2005.

1938 – Martin Greif was born in the Bronx, New York and was an editor, publisher, writer and lecturer. (d.1996)

In 1982 he published a book called The Gay Book of Days – 'An evocatively illustrated who's who of who is, was, may have been, probably was, and almost certainly seems to have been gay during the past 5,000 years'. The book was published in the UK in 1985. This history and many other blogs and sites have used it as a starting point.

Martin Greif also published and edited a large number of other books, mostly through the two publishing houses he and his partner founded, Main Street Press in the US and Orchard Hill Press in Ireland.

He spent his latter years with his longtime work and life partner, Lawrence Grow, in County Cork, Ireland. Larry Grow died from an AIDS-related stroke in 1991 and Martin Greif died from AIDS in 1996.

Evan Wolfson (R) and Cheng He wedding

1957 – Born: Evan Wolfson is an American attorney and gay rights advocate. He is the founder and executive director of Freedom to Marry, a group favoring same-sex marriage in the United States. Wolfson, who many consider to be the father and leader of the same-sex marriage movement, authored the book Why Marriage Matters; America, Equality, and Gay People's Right to Marry, which Time Out New York magazine called, "Perhaps the most important gay-marriage primer ever written..."

Returning to the United States after his service in the Peace Corps in Togo, Wolfson entered Harvard Law School. His interest in glbtq rights led him to discover John Boswell's book Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality (1980), which had a profound impact on him.

Wolfson took an important step in his personal life: he came out to his family. Describing the moment to reporter Mark S. Warnick, he stated,

"I think they were all surprised. I think that their main reaction was sadness, that I was not going to have the kind of life they expected and were familiar with. But they were always loving and supportive. They're very proud of what I do and they've always been there for me.

From 1989 until 2001 Wolfson worked full-time at Lambda Legal Defense and Education Fund, a gay rights advocacy non-profit. He directed their Marriage Project and coordinated the National Freedom to Marry Coalition, the forerunner to Freedom to Marry. Wolfson co-wrote a brief in Baehr v. Miike, in which the Supreme Court of Hawaii said prohibiting same-sex marriage in the state constituted discrimination, and worked on Baker v. Vermont, the Vermont Supreme Court case that led to the creation of civil unions in Vermont by the state legislature as a compromise between Wolfson's group and those objecting to same-sex marriage. Wolfson called the unions a "wonderful step forward," but not enough.

Wolfson appeared before the United States Supreme Court in 2000, to argue on behalf of Scoutmaster James Dale in the landmark case Boy Scouts of America v. Dale, in which the Court ruled that the Boy Scouts organization had the right to expel Dale for revealing that he was gay. The Court ruled 5-4 against Dale, but Wolfson, said, "We are succeeding in getting people to rethink how they feel about gay people."

On April 30, 2001, Wolfson left Lambda to form Freedom to Marry. Wolfson described his vision for the new organization: "I'm not in this just to change the law. It's about changing society. I want gay kids to grow up believing that they can get married, that they can join the Scouts, that they can choose the life they want to live."

He is adamant that victory means the right to marry, not to have different and less beneficial systems such as civil unions or domestic partnerships for gay and lesbian citizens. "You don't ask for half a loaf," he declared. "We don't need two lines at the clerk's office when there's already an institution that works in this country, and it's called marriage. One of the main protections that come with marriage is inherent in the word: certainly in times of crisis any other word than marriage would not bring the same clarity or impart the same dignity."

Wolfson takes inspiration from the words of Gandhi on the process of change: "First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they fight you. Then you win."

Wolfson and his partner (now husband), Cheng He, a Canadian-born microbiologist, reside in New York.

Fittingly, Wolfson and Freedom to Marry were deeply involved in the successful struggle to achieve marriage equality in the Empire State. Freedom to Marry became a founding member of the New Yorkers United for Marriage coalition, which was put together by Governor Andrew Cuomo to forge a coherent strategy to build support for marriage equality in the state. Freedom to Marry invested over $1,000,000 in the campaign, including more than $500,000 for television, newspaper ads, and direct mail, and over $100,000 in polling, all aimed at making sure legislators heard from the couples affected, their loved ones, and the 58% of New Yorkers who supported the freedom to marry.The New York legislature finally passed the marriage equality bill in a historic vote on June 24, 2011.

Wolfson and Dr. Cheng He were married in New York City on October 15, 2011. They have been a couple since 2002. In an interview with Nate Schweber of the New York Times for a feature story on their marriage, Wolfson said, "For me, getting married is not about making a political statement; it's about wanting to build a life together, wanting to have protections for one another, wanting to make a commitment in front of your family and friends, just like everyone else."

1969 – Joel Burns is an American politician. A city councilman for District 9 in Fort Worth, Texas, he received extensive press attention in October 2010 after speaking at a council meeting about the issue of suicide among lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender youth, as part of Dan Savage's It Gets Better campaign.

In his speech, which was subsequently released on the Internet as a video, Burns spoke about his own experience as a 13-year-old boy facing bullying at school in Crowley, Texas, because of his sexual orientation. At one point in the video, he broke down and struggled to push forward with his prepared speech, eventually opting to skip a few lines. In subsequent media coverage, he confirmed that the section he skipped included an acknowledgement that he too had considered committing suicide because of the harassment he was facing.

youtube

Joel Burns' full speech (13 mins)

The speech resonated throughout the Internet in a matter of minutes after Gawker.com first reported the clip on its Gawker.TV website. Shortly thereafter, Burns held his first television interview on the subject with CNN's Ali Velshi, after the show aired the thirteen-minute YouTube clip in its entirety, an unprecedented occurrence for a major daytime news program. One day later, Burns and his speech was featured on scores of national and international news media, as well as NPR's All Things Considered. In under one week, the clip had garnered over one and a half million views, ultimately leading to Burns' in-studio interview with Matt Lauer on NBC's Today Show as well as an appearance on the popular Ellen DeGeneres talk show. As of late March 2011, the clip had sustained over 2.5 million hits, making it one of the most-watched videos in the 'It Gets Better' campaign.

Joel with his long-term partner, J.D. Angle

Burns was first elected to Fort Worth City Council in 2007 in a special election, during which a sitting city council-member, Chuck Silcox (who is now deceased), campaigned for Burns' opponent Chris Turner because Turner was straight. Both straight and gay voters of Fort Worth's District 9 overwhelmingly voted for Burns despite the political homophobic remarks. He was elected to a full term in the 2009 municipal election. He was the first openly gay person ever elected to political office in Tarrant County.

In 2009, on the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission conducted a raid on a Fort Worth gay club, prompting a large public outpouring of anger towards the Commission and the Fort Worth Police Department. During a very heated City Council meeting shortly after the raid, Joel Burns reassured many of the gay Dallas-area protesters in attendance that the City of Fort Worth will not allow such intolerance to continue and vowed to create a GLBT Liaison within the Fort Worth Police Department.

Burns announced on February 11, 2014 that he was resigning his seat on Fort Worth City Council to pursue a Master in Public Administration from the Harvard Kennedy School in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

1974 – Lee Pearson CBE is a 10-times paralympic games gold medallist having represented British para-equestrianism in Sydney, Athens, Beijing and London. He also has six world-championship and three European titles.

Pearson was born with arthrogryposis multiplex congenita and first came to public attention in 1980 when then-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher carried him up stairs in 10 Downing Street having awarded him a 'Children of Courage' medal. He currently lives in Bagnall, Staffordshire.

He turned professional after he was inspired by the Atlanta Olympics. He won three gold medals in the championship dressage, freestyle dressage, and team dressage events at the 2000, 2004 and 2008 Summer Paralympics. He won gold in the team dressage event at the 2012 Summer Paralympics, silver in the championship dressage and bronze in the freestyle.

He noted after his failure to win gold in the freestyle competition in London that he had been voted down by the British judge but said that he would compete at the 2016 Summer Paralympics in Rio, on a different horse.

Lee Pearson CBE currently is the title holder of no less than 34 Gold medals at European, World and Paralympic level. Probably making him the most successful Equestrian Athlete ever.

Pearson runs his own dressage yard in Staffordshire and teaches many around the countryIn August 2012 the Independent reported that Lee had a new, 18 year-old boyfriend Ben after "He broke up with [Lincolnshire fireman Mark] Latham in February [2012] and is now in the process of a messy divorce" from their civil partnership which began in August 2010. Mark Latham responded to explain, "Mr. Pearson is not 'ending' the Civil Partnership as I am the one petitioning against him on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour."

In 2014, ahead of a planned trip to decry anti-gay propaganda at the Sochi Winter Olympics, Pearson almost dared Russian President Vladimir Putin to throw him in jail, becoming one of the UK's highest-profile gay athletes.

1975 – The first Gay-oriented television commercial in the U.S. aired on two network affiliate stations in Washington D.C.. Lambda Rising Bookstore sponsored the ads on episodes of Phil Donahue and Marcus Welby, M.D. Stations balked at airing the ads, but relented after getting approval from the Association of Broadcasters Standards Office.

2017 – The Movie, Kept Boy, written by Robert Rodi, is released.

Robert Rodi (b.1956) is an American writer and author of satiric novels and comic books.

Robert Rodi was born 'in a cosy middle-class suburb of Chicago, right around the time cosy middle-class suburbs were feeling the firsts blasts of scorn from the burgeoning counterculture. Twenty-two years later, he earned a bachelor's degree in Philosophy just as the curtain went up on the hyper-materialist Reagan era. Not long afterwards, he came out of the closet just as gay men were dealt the first crushing blow of the AIDS crisis … It was thus perhaps inevitable he turned to writing comedy.'

His first novel, Fag Hag, was published in 1991 and was swiftly translated into Italian, French, German, and Japanese. It was followed in quick succession by Closet Case (1992), What They Did to Princess Paragon (1994), Drag Queen (1995), Kept Boy (1997) and Bitch Goddess (2002) and When You Were Me (2007).

Rodi's shorter fiction can be found in a number of anthologies, including Men On Men 5, His, and Sandman: Book of Dreams. His novella Glad, Gladder, Gladys was serialised online at USAToday.com. His literary criticism has appeared in the pages of The Chicago Tribune, The Los Angeles Times, NewCity, and The Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review.

Rodi is the creator of several comic-book series, including 4 Horsemen, Codename: Knockout, and The Crossovers. He was a founding member of the Chicago-based gay performance art troupe, The Pansy Kings, who were active throughout the 1990s, and he wrote sketches for the Live Bait Theater's revues Junk Food and Dear Jackie: The Queen of Camelot Remembered.

Rodi still lives in Chicago, in a century-old Queen Anne house with his partner Jeffrey Smith and a constantly shifting number of dogs.

Warner Brothers took an option on his novel Kept Boy, and Rodi adapted it it for the screen with David Ozanich. It was released in 2017 to mixed reviews.

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emblemxeno · 5 months

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I've been playing Fates again (thanks gay fates mod ily kiss kiss) and after (re)reading through counter-critiques of its story and generally thinking about it again I'm kinda left with the following thoughts and wanted to share as you're our resident Fates Was Good, Actually blogger.

a) so much of Fates critique falls into cinemasins-level "this isn't explicitly stated therefore BAD" territory (or otherwise stuff that shouldn't be, and often isn't, a problem in other games in the series)

b) we wouldn't need to bring up the Japanese script in contrast with the localization in the first place if the fandom hadn't completely poisoned the well in regards to talking about Fates' story. I had no idea about any of the localization changes my first play-through and I still thought Fates' plot was fine. Good, even!

The fatescourse is what made me leave the fandom around the time 3H came out, and every time I take a peek back in the subreddit or other fandom spaces it still seems to be just as much of a toxic cesspool as ever. Which sucks because I want to talk about Blorbo from my Emblems again, but I really don't want to have to deal with The Discourse & general toxicity

Hope you don't mind me posting this!

I feel you 100% and the sentiments are very appreciated, thanks!

For your first point, yeah, that's what it feels like. Saying it's CinemaSins-esque feels like a low blow, but it honestly does remind me of those videos. And they aren't meant to be actual critique! They're sarcastic entertainment and little else! But so much of Fates criticism is "why doesn't X just do Y? never explained by in-game text, so therefore story bad" or "why isn't Z plot point expanded upon? game never tells me so story bad." It's cheap and shallow, above all else. It's reminiscent of the Blue Curtains literary discourse, in that people only go with what's written explicitly rather than connect the dots from plot point to plot point. You're supposed to connect Azura's pacifying song to Mikoto's pacifying magic to Valla's history of magical development due to being directly blessed by Anankos; same with the crystal ball, water motifs, and future sight, those are all Valla-centered traits. But because the game never says "oh this is because of Valla", people think the place is just a nameless evil nation with no history or unique aspects.

For your second point, god, yes. Soooo many take any localization criticism as either a) alignment with unsavory anti-censorship anti-sjw chuds who are mostly complaining about not getting to boink lolis or b) not worth the time because "it wasn't gonna make a bad story any better anyway" which is such a gutter thing to say because localizations have literally changed things and removed crucial information in the series before Fates. The big examples being stuff with the Black Knight in the Tellius games, the long script removal in Radiant Dawn, and lines relating to Nergal's backstory in FE7 being mistranslated. Awakening had its share of localization discourse and criticism due to characters like Henry being changed, as well.

And I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a little resentful that 3H of all games is when people started giving a shit, cuz now that a "good game with a good story is being affected, it's now worth our time."

Plus this shit is still happening, considering that FEH consistently gets stuff wrong or mistranslated to this day.

#fire emblem discourse #fire emblem fates

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mayoslaise · 11 months

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May I request a platonic x reader for Kyle and Ike (or just Kyle) with a cousin reader who has Chunibyo but is still very loving and kind?

I had to look up what that was so I apologize if it’s not what you wanted. But it’s givinggg kaidou (I think) so I based reader off that also you didn’t specify the gender so I made reader a girl

CW: swearing and racist jokes (Jewish)

Kyle is nine in this, reader is in high school and Ike is 5

I was originally gonna add more of Ike but I had already wrote most of it (at literary 1 AM) and the copy and past was being a little bitch

Your aunt Sheila drops you off at her house to stay for the week since your parents are busy. You get out the car to be greeted by your little cousins Kyle and Ike running up to you hugging your legs “Why hello there my minions.” You say confidently making your voice a bit deeper to sound more intimidating while smirking. The laugh at you not taking you seriously “What are you laughing at! If you don’t stop now I’ll have to use my secret power on you two.”

You put your arm up to scare them into submission showing off where your power is hiden. You laugh ‘evilly’ “Oh (name) dear, I hate to interrupt you playing with the boys but can you help me with dinner? Gerald isn’t here right now.” Sheila walks outside with a few groceries in her hands “Ye-yes mam.” You give Ike and Kyle one last look before you walk into the house.

“Minions! Dinner is ready.” You bust into Kyles room to alert them of the food being done. They get up from the spot they were playing in and walk downstairs to the table. “Hey (name) can you walk with me to the bus stop tomorrow?” Kyle asks you with his mouth of knishes some of it falling out. “Sure min— Kyle I’d love to walk you to school.” You smile as innocently as possible to get Aunt Sheila off your trail ‘Whew I almost let my secret identity out.’ You think to yourself mentally sweating.

The next day you hold Kyles hand as you walk down the road to drop him off at the bus stop. You see three other boys standing there, one of them has a blue hat with red poof ball and black hair, another one is fat and has a teal hat with a yellow poof ball, the last one is wearing an orange parka. ‘Hm what an interesting group of kids..they better not mess with my minion or they’ll live to regret it.’ You stare at the boys suspiciously “Uh (name) why did you stop walking..?” Kyle looks up at you confused. You just stand there in silence having internal dialogue. Kyle lets go of your hand and walks over to his friends.

It takes a while for you to actually notice. Your eyes widen once you do and you run over to where Kyle went “Minion! You shouldn’t run off like that, what if I’m not there to protect you!” You look at Kyle angrily. The fat kid starts to laugh hysterically “BAHAHAH MINION!? GOD JEWS ARE SO WEIRD DUDE!” You stare at the kid for a second absolutely shocked that he said that. You’ve never encountered a person that was this openly racist. “Shut up fat ass!” Kyle yells at the fat boy angrily. His voice brings you back to reality.

The boy continues to laugh loudly “Hey little fat ass boy.” Your voice stops sounding so ‘anime’ like when you talk now. The kid stops laughing and looks at you “If I hear one more thing like that from you, your mom won’t be able to recognize you and you won’t be able to eat solid foods ever again. I bet that makes you real sad huh, you won’t be able to eat all those cheese puffs and fried chicken. How sad.” The boys (including Kyle) look at you silently. You obviously shocked and maybe scared them a little bit.

The school bus pulls up to where we all are “That’s for you guys. Have a nice day at school minion.” The boys silently get on the bus and you hear the fat boy mutter s quiet ‘weak’ before the doors close.

…

Waiting for something to happen?

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scoonsalicious · 19 days

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Mother Pookie has fed her kitties well🩷🩷. There’s so many emotions idk which one i should talk about first?😭😂

BUT DANG chap 2.2 is just HOT

I am actually speechless😂 I have nothing to say except I am satisfied.

ITS SO GOOD OMG POOKIE? WHAT R U DOING TO ME? WHATT?!!😫😫

Lemme say, It didn’t take me long to hate Lilian. Like I swear, the moment she fucking said that Major looks like a SKANK gurl, fuck u.

My first impression on Major was like how Bucky saw her, a hot pretty dame that made me giggle like a teenager, making heart eyes and singing the whole world to my dick (if i have a dick)

And then throughout the chp, oh my goodness, I would’ve slap Leah the moment she starts bitching up. Major has a dang ass patience. I couldn’t.

THE THINGS I WOULD DO TO VOTE FOR BUCKYBABY TO BREAK HER HEART IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE (so far she’s 35% in my ‘dead’ list, better fix ur attitude if u don wanna end up like cunthage — ITS JUST BEEN 2 CHP?!)

Lindsay rubs the ick on me more than Jade (ofc Jade is worse but she dead now) but cuntly is so so so so so so so so so irritating. The absolute pick me, so called ‘one of the guys’. Ew. Even half of the team is irked by her attitude. That just says a lot.

Glad that our queen Major put her in her place. She needs more. Like, absolute humiliation (disclaimer: i dont support bullying but LILIAN FUCKING NEEDS IT)

And can we appreciate Wanda simping over Thor?😂 (you are not alone, i also dream of licking his abs — mhmmm)

Bucky and Major are purrrfect for each other. Its giving love at first sight 👀. Bucky simps hard. Like so hard. I can wait for more Bucky X Major scene (fluff,sexay — mayyybeeeee angst? i just love hurt myself)

Also, iMajor and Tony r absolutely gonna be ‘rich business badass besties’ and then them + Sam (Wanda and Nat at the back) roasting Leah. Oh what a beautiful dream~

Anyways, beautiful beautiful writing indeed. Waiting to see Bucky sexay POV next😂 Unleash the power of your blue balls. Also I can’t wait to read what your master brain had planned🌚. Love you Pookie🩷🩷🩷

PS// these past few days I was scrolling tumblr, searching for new Bucky fics/updates and honestly… I MISSED YOUU!!! I CANNOT STRESSED THAT ENOUGH!!! 😭 seeing your username the first thing when i opened tumblr made my night! i was planning on listening to songs, dwelling on my loneliness and delulu but LOOK AT ME NOW, ITS 4AM GOSH. THANK U POOKIE LOVE U HAVE A GREAT DAY

POOKIE! <3

Actual footage of me coming up to love on your comments:

I'm so glad people are enjoying 2.2! I gotta be real, I usually don't get hot and bothered when it comes time write smut, but that section? Whoa, boy... that section had me like:

(Yes, this is my second favorite gif of all time, and I will use Blanche to express my hot and bothered-ness whenever I can, lol)

I gotta tell you right now, the phrase "making heart eyes and singing the whole world to my dick (if i have a dick)" is now the highlight of my week, so I thank you for this. It's pure literary magic <3

Major is used to taking shit from peons; she was a woman in the military, after all, lol, which is why she's able to not let Lily phase her too much. Her patience will be tested, though. Where Cunthrage was just flat out unhinged, Lizard is more... selfishly insidious? Just, you know, she's not going to be kidnapping people and snapping their arms or murderously rampaging through Hydra bases or anything. (The stakes here are much, much lower, lol. Which, I guess, is going to prep us for Unbroken, where the stakes will be... Thanos-sized, lol.) I think what makes Lily feel worse, to me, is that she's far more realistic than Jade was. Like, I know girls like Lily irl; thankfully, never met a Jade (phew!). Much like Killgrave, to me, is the scariest Marvel villain, because I've encountered so many men like him in the real world.

The things I dream of doing to Thor would probably get me put on a list if he was a real person and not a fictional character, lol. Unless I'm doing AUs, I tend to stick with canon-pairings, but there is something about the idea of Wanda/Thor that I currently find very appealing, so hopefully, we will see something happen between the two of them. I think they would be adorable. And for some reason known only to my maker, I love making Wanda a little bit horny, lol. In fact, an earlier draft of Unwanted had Pocket referring to her as the Sokovian Horndog after she made some comments about Bucky's body, lol.

Is it weird that I don't plan on having Tony be too involved in this fic, because I feel like giving him a friendship with Major is like him cheating on his friendship with Pocket? That makes no sense whatsoever, lol, but I'm so protective of my girl. I'm like "Yeah, Major, I'll let you fuck Pocket's boyfriend, Bucky, but YOU CANNOT BE FRIENDS WITH HER PSUEDO-BROTHER TONY BECAUSE HE IS HERS!"

Bucky's got some sexy POV in the next sextion (see what I did there? lol) but there's going to be so much more smut in this one than Unwanted. It just feels right, lol.

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underthetree845 · 7 months

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could i get a story (or maybe some headcannons) about armin meeting the reader at a masquerade ball and instantly falling in love 👀

Saturn! Hello lovely <33

First of all I just want to say thank you for requesting this?? It was so much fun to write! (´♡‿♡`) I hope this didn’t take too long, I think you put in this request about a week ago. I ended up making it longer than initially planned, I hope this is at least close to what you had in mind!

Sense and Sensibility

Armin/Reader (Oneshot)

Cws: masquerade ball, AFAB reader, fem reader (you wear a ballgown), reader can make literary references/seems to enjoy books, snk spoilers, post ending, chief ambassador of the allied nations armin, love at first sight, ballroom dancing, soulmates if you squint, open-ended ending

About 3.8k words

Summary: Armin Arlert, Chief of The Allied Nations, attends a masquerade ball with the rest of the crew and meets someone who finds a place in his heart faster than he ever thought possible. A/n: For context, the masquerade was set up in Marley to be attended by ambassadors and generals from many different countries so they could mingle without any set of prejudices; think the crowd that showed up for Willy Tybur’s speech. Also, for those who don’t know, the title is based on a novel written by Jane Austen and published in 1811 (meaning that, based on their technology, it likely would have actually existed in the time period that aot takes place in!).

Blue eyes lost themselves more with each printed word as the crisp smell of paper drifted into his nose. It had always been an amicable scent. Delicate fingers swiped at the pages, a spine rested comfortably in his palm. Wisps of blonde hair hung over his forehead which he tucked back every so often in an effort to make them hold the style he had brushed them back into earlier.

“What kind of man reads in a corner at a party like this?” a familar voice quipped, his polished shoes coming to a halt on the pattern of the marble floor. Armin was quick to snap his book shut and slip it back into the pocket on the inside of his jacket. He straightened himself from the wall.

“I just don’t see the point,” Armin said with disconsolance and Jean quirked an eyebrow, “I’d much rather meet these people face to face. Don’t get me wrong, this party is very nice, but we’re not even able to talk about any of the things we really should be behind all these masks.”

“No one talks much about war crimes and peace treaties at these sorts of events, Armin. Social functions like this are just a part of their society,” the taller man replied, studying his drink for a moment before tipping it at his lips, “We have to engrain ourselves.”

“And as soon as we take off these masks? How will they see us when they know who we are? When they know what we are?” Armin asked, cocking his head to the side to lock eyes with Jean as he let out a sigh. “You need a drink, my friend,” Jean decided, downing the rest of whatever he had been poured and scanning the room for anyone nearby holding a tray.

Jean wandered off in search of more drinks, but Armin didn’t wait for him, instead deciding that he was desperately in need of a quieter place to engage with his book.

Most everyone Armin knew seemed to be doing just fine. Historia really butterflied in this type of setting into her role as Queen. Just like during her days in the Survey Corps, people seemed drawn to her warmth like moths to a flame. Armin hadn’t caught a glimpse of her the entire night in a moment when she hadn’t been chatting with at least several ambassadors.

Jean seemed to be enjoying himself quite a bit, not that Armin expected any less. Even when they were both fifteen, Jean’s motivation for enlisting as a cadet had been to climb the ranks and eventually live a finer life with the Military Police in the interior. Funny what a simple change of perspective can do to a person.

A shimmery flash of red caught the corner of Armin’s eye and he glanced to the side. The crimson dress suited Mikasa well, he thought. It almost matched the color of the scarf she used to wear- only now her collarbone was bare except for the weight of a pretty pearl necklace resting comfortably and complimenting her white gloves. She used them to adjust her mask every now and again, Armin could tell she felt slightly uneasy with the limited vision that came with the sturdy garment.

He couldn’t honestly say he was a huge fan either. The mask he wore was pure white; lace, beads, and feathers adorning the fabric. It mostly stood out amongst the rest of his outfit. The tie he wore was black and his suit a deep navy. Jean had even insisted that he buy a cologne to wear to the ball, saying that “If they won’t be able to see your face, you have to make good impressions in other ways.” The blonde tried out a few different scents on the small slips of paper next to each bottle, eventually settling on one that somehow reminded him of the ocean.

The sounds of the party died down and Armin let out a sigh, breathing in the tranquility of the night air and resting his elbows on the cool stone railing of the balcony. He slid the hardcover out of his pocket and flipped it open for a moment before lowering it and looking out. Armin looked out into the deepness. Down onto the thicket of trees, the flickering of the town’s lights beyond that, and just a little bit further, the rolling waves of the sea. When he tried, he seemed to be able to will the sound of the tide louder in his ears. It reflected the moon like a kind of dream. It was a dream; his dream. It almost felt wrong to Armin to be looking from the other side. For so long he dreamt of being a part of what laid on the other side of that big salt lake. What would he have thought if-

“Sense and Sensibility?”

The book fumbled in Armin’s hands, he almost dropped it off the ledge as he whipped his body to the side to see who had approached him. He was about to answer their question when the words died on his tongue.

He tried so hard not to gape, but found his efforts fruitless.

The white folds of fabric hung to the floor and swayed gently in the breeze. Pearls and embroideries of gold dripped off the dress around her collarbone, swirling up into lace sleeves. They were tied with white ribbons and went down to her elbows, the same ribbon that had been used to make a bow in her soft-looking hair. Glittering trinkets of metal and jewels hung around her neck and wrists. She wore a teardrop shaped pair of pearl earrings embedded in gold. Her mask was a royal shade of blue, adorned with gold thread and beads, and Damn, Armin thought, those eyes.

It took a considerable amount of time for Armin to realize that he was supposed to generate a reply, and by then your expression had morphed into one of polite confusion.

“Yes! Sorry, please forgive me, yes, you are correct,” Armin said in one breath, his hand involuntarily coming up to scratch the back of his undercut, “That is the title of the book I am reading.”

Your expression seemed to soften a bit, the corners of your eyes crinkling at his endearing display. Armin felt a boyish sense of shyness take over his body.

“It’s a good book,” you conversed, and a grin was quick to spread across his face. So rarely did he meet someone who held a knack or fascination for literature quite like his own.

“You’ve read it, then?” he inquired, awkwardly aiming to shove the hardcover back in his jacket pocket while not taking his eyes off of the way you seemed to glow in the moonlight.

“When I was thirteen,” you nodded affirmatively, tucking a loose bit of hair behind your ear in a way that made Armin weak in the knees.

There was another pause.

“So, what are you doing out here?” the blonde asked, straightening his posture from the railing, “Shouldn’t you be inside enjoying the party?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the corners of your lips quirked up, and Armin felt his cheeks go hot. Hypocrite.

“Right, sorry, I just-” he choked out, a nervous chuckle falling from his mouth.

“No no, I should apologize,” you giggled, folding your hands neatly in front of your skirt, “To answer your question, I just kind of wanted a break from all those people.”

“Ah…” Armin realized, “Sorry then, you must have been displeased to find someone already here. I can leave, if you want.”

He took a half step away and was about to take another when you came a little closer to stop him.

“It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others,” you quoted, the rustle of the trees behind you, the breeze cool on Armin’s skin. The air stilled for a moment. You bore your gaze into his until his blue eyes lit up.

“...Was that from- was that Jane Austen?” Armin blinked once, and you brought your hands together with a clap. “Yes, yes it was! No one has ever gotten that before!” you beamed at him, and Armin could’ve sworn the stars shined just a little bit brighter.

He barely registered as you turned your head when someone beckoned you inside. His eyes were glued to you as you waved at him. They lingered on your form as you disappeared inside, and once you were gone, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. Armin wobbled slightly and leaned backwards against the railing, one hand over his chest and the other for support gripping onto the stone. The party continued on inside but the sounds were drowned out by the rapid thumping of Armin’s own heartbeat in his ears.

He barely registered the sideways glances he got as he wandered inside. He searched- for you? For Jean, or Mikasa? For an exit? The sound of his footsteps sped up. For anyone? Someone? For an answer to the flurry of questions running through his mind?

“Ah-!” Armin let out a squawk as he came into contact with something, halting his walk and train of thought. Armin stumbled slightly and looked forward to meet a pair of comforting brown eyes looking back into his with slight disquiet. “Please excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Onyankopon said politely, placing his hand on Armin’s shoulder, “I think this young man and I are due for a chat.”

“Here son, drink this,” the man said gently, offering over a glass of something clear and icy. Armin looked up at him suspiciously. “Don’t worry, it’s just water.”

Armin accepted the glass with a sigh, finally feeling his head clear up as the cool liquid ran down his throat. Flashes of your two minute encounter played over and over again in his mind.

“Thank you,” Armin let out a bated breath.

“Is something troubling you? You looked like a startled fawn when you ran into me,” Onyankopon questioned, taking the cup from Armin’s hand when he finished, setting it on top of the nearest white-clothed table.

“I… don’t really know the answer myself,” the blonde replied. He was shifting in his spot, repeatedly adjusting the lapels of his suit. In contrast to the boy's usual attentive attitude in conversation, his eyes continually shifted to linger on the crowd.

“Well it seems to me like something’s happened,” Onyankopon replied, “If you tell me what it is, maybe I can be of help.”

Armin seemed to contemplate for a moment, deciding how to word his thoughts.

“Have you ever felt… a really strong connection to someone?” he asked hesitantly.

“Depends on how you mean,” Onyankopon touched his chin in thought, “but I suppose so, yes.”

“But…” Armin sighed, “so strong that you just met them and after having a two minute conversation you can’t stop thinking about them and you don’t think you’ll be able to go on without talking to them at least one more time?”

How could Armin even begin to explain his situation? He should’ve organized his thoughts before confiding in someone else about it. How could he even be sure himself what the feeling in the pit of his stomach is, or why his eyes kept darting to every white dress he catches out of the corner of his eye. He found it equally thrilling and terrifying.

“Armin, are you in love?” Onyankopon's lips quirked, and Armin could tell he was trying not to smile by the way his eyes sparkled behind his golden mask.

“In love?” Armin dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand, “How could anyone fall in love just like that? I don’t even know her name.” He ignored the way his heart jumped at the thought.

"So there is a her?" Onyankopon raised an eyebrow. Armin flushed slightly.

“Love at first sight doesn’t work like most people seem to think,” the older man explained gently, “Love is a feeling built on trust, which takes time to build up. I think love at first sight refers to when you meet someone for the first time, and you just feel comfortable around them in a way you can’t explain. They look into your eyes and you can see each other’s souls. You know it would work, there isn’t a doubt in your mind. You get just a little taste of that deep trust, and it’s enough to make you fall a little in love.”

“What’s a soul?” Armin's head tilted.

Onyankopon let out a sigh.

“I understand what you’re trying to say, I just…” Armin trailed off, earning Onyankopon’s hand on his shoulder. “I think the best thing you can do right now is find them and try to talk to them again. If you feel that same spark, don’t let it slip away,” the man smiled warmly and Armin nodded in response. Onyankopon patted him on the back before turning away to return to his previous conversation.

Armin did search for you, in fact he was prepared to search the entire night if need be. Much to his dismay, the next face he recognized was not yours. Not that he technically knew was it looked like, but Armin was sure he'd be able to recognize it anyway. Jean approached him with a grin tugging on his lips and a certain glimmer in his eye.

“Armin!” Jean waved, “I couldn’t find you after I went to grab us some drinks, but they’re starting something we’ve got to be involved in.” He slung his arm around Armin’s shoulders, and in one swift motion, began leading him across the crystalline ballroom.

“Involved in? What do you mean? Like territory negotiations?” Armin perked up, barely keeping his eyes ahead.

“Even better,” Jean replied.

Armin tilted his head. “A waltz.”

Armin had never been more grateful for his habit of picking up random bits of information in his life. Karma could be sweet.

A few weeks back, he just so happened to pick up a book on cultural dances from around the world from a library in Marley. A few weeks back, Historia’s advisors realized that their Queen lacked the ability to twirl properly on the marble floors of the palace. A few weeks back, Armin just so happened to conveniently know a thing or two about ballroom dancing. The rest of the crew just so happened to decide that they needed to know too, and Onyankopon just so happened to be adept in the art. For some reason Armin didn’t find himself surprised by the fact.

So Armin danced; his touches were feather light on his partner’s waist and back, he cradled their hand 'las if it’s made of the most fragile glass,' as Onyankopon instructed. The chords of the piano hopped around the room. The sound of the violin led every masked face together with a spool of invisible thread. The melody of the flute danced under their feet, allowing them to sway and twirl and float in an almost mindless tradition.

To think that two weeks ago he could barely step his left foot over his right.

The whole dance seemed like some kind of performance- dresses and suits weaving between each other, a sweet song floating above their heads. They twirled, smiled, switched partners, and started the same steps all over again.

Armin was so focused that he almost missed the familiarity of the white silk underneath his fingertips. He almost missed the tinkling of the metal around your neck as you spun into him. He almost missed the familiar hue of the ocean-colored mask that laid around your eyes. Almost, but he would never miss how it felt when you dropped your gaze on him. He could practically feel it under his skin.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a smile curved onto your lips, which Armin matched. You spun out, then in, he led you by the hand.

“I was actually looking for you,” he admitted with a bashful grin, mentally shaking off the possibility of having caught the hint of a flush on your cheeks.

“Really?” your gaze warmed at this.

“Although I’d rather do it without having to hide…” he added with a mumble. You stepped back, he lifted his arm, you twirled, he pulled you back in.

“I know what you mean,” you replied, your hand gripping onto his shoulder, “Having important figures get to know each other with no prejudices is a good idea, but I don’t see much of a point if we aren’t allowed to take off our masks at the end.”

“You get it,” Armin exhaled. A small grin played on your lips.

“Is that why you were hiding on the balcony?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow as he led you in a twirl.

“I wasn’t hiding… just looking for a more secluded place to read,” he replied with a soft smile.

Armin stepped back, you both pivoted outwards and away from each other before meeting in perfect coalition, he held your hand.

“Aw, I thought I’d found someone to hide with,” you pouted playfully. Armin admired the way the light shone on your skin as you both spun around.

He replied with a bashful smile, you seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking up.

“I was hoping that I’d get the chance to dance with you though,” your grip on his shoulder tightened a little as you spoke.

“...Are you being serious?” he murmured.

“Completely." Armin felt a flutter in his chest.

“But why?” the blonde continued, twirling you both inwards and preparing to loosen his grip, “There are so many more interesting people here.” You gave him a look. “I mean,” he said with a half hearted chuckle, “What kind of man reads in a corner at a party like this?” He looked back up and the two of you locked eyes. “My kind of man,” you replied with a smile.

His heart squeezed so hard it was almost painful.

In the next moment, you spun out of his grasp; he turned and took someone else into his. The cadence carried him along, but his mind was clouded, desperately trying to decipher your intentions, and consider that Onyankopon may have been onto something.

“I’m honestly impressed, Armin. You’re usually so sensible. I mean you haven’t even known this woman for a full hour yet!” Jean crossed his arms with a chuckle; the blonde remained unfazed.

“Jean, you weren’t there. You didn’t see her or hear her voice. I just…” Armin placed a hand over his chest with a far-off sigh. “Wow.”

“I think I’d like to meet her,” Mikasa replied, skepticism bleeding into her tone.

“So how are you planning on finding her again?” Jean inquired, adjusting the silver watch on his wrist before looking over at his friend again. “You’re at least going to try and get a name, right?”

“I… don’t really have a plan,” Armin’s face twisted, “But I know what she looks like, so I should be able to find her again.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jean grinned, “How hard can it be?”

Apparently, much harder than he expected, as Armin soon discovered.

The first thing he did was inspect the perimeter of the ballroom. Armin traced the tapestries that hung from far above his head and admired the colorful glass windows that made up the dome of the ceiling.

He also peeked out every door through which one could access the wide stone balcony that wrapped around the whole building. There were specially-built street lamps on the posts and matching lanterns that jutted out from the walls of the palace. The warm illumination made it a good spot for reading.

Armin politely turned down offers to dance as he made his way across the main part of the floor underneath the stunning crystal chandeliers.

He wondered how long it took to build up a place like this. Every available surface seemed to have been etched with some intricate pattern or dusted with gold. Additionally, he hadn’t run into a single speck of dust the entire night, making him wonder about the back-breaking labor that the servants must have put in to make this place shine the way it did.

He peeked into the coat closet, drifted around the tables that lined the perimeter where everyone sat when they wanted to eat, then did it all over again.

“Armin, we’ve got to go. We couldn’t afford to have a carriage waiting for us the entire night, remember?” Mikasa placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder and nodded her head towards the rather grand entryway to the ballroom. There were cream-colored pillars on either side, a glass window of a sun sitting comfortably on top.

“That’s only because of the extra tax on the Eldians…” Armin mumbled, taking one last glance at the ballroom before the carved wooden doors shut behind him.

He inhaled deeply when he stepped outside, not finding it nearly as satisfying as the time before. He descended the marble steps to find the others already waiting on the ground. The chatter and music of the ball were still audible. A certain glow bathed that room and drowned them all while they were in it, now contrasting so greatly with the stillness of the night and the stars twinkling gently above their heads.

“Where’s Historia?” Armin asked, looking around to find no sign of the woman anywhere.

Almost as if on cue, an unmistakable voice chimed from behind him.

“Armin! Sorry, I’m right here! I was just chatting with my acquaintance and she’s leaving too so we decided to walk out together,” Historia smiled politely as she approached, arm interlocked with another figure who trailed slightly behind her. She wore a stunning white dress.

Armin knew who he’d see before he turned around; he knew the moment he felt your eyes on the back of his head. He felt your gaze in his soul.

You seemed just as pleased, Armin didn’t miss the way your eyes lit up when his blue ones locked with yours. He wondered if doing so would ever stop taking his breath away.

“So your name is Armin, then?” you said sweetly, Historia drifted away to whisper about something with Mikasa. Armin did his best to suppress the way his heart thrummed when his name rolled so perfectly off his tongue.

“Yeah, it is,” his hand subconciously came up to scratch the back of his undercut, “Armin Arlert. May I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”

“Y/n L/n,” you grinned and did a little curtsey, “and the pleasure is all mine.”

Blue eyes trailed along with your form after the goodbyes as you drifted away to your own carriage. He lost himself more with each passing moment, his fingers fiddling lithely with the lapel of his suit. Onyankopon gave Armin a pat on the back and he sighed. They shared a knowing smile before heading off to their separate carriages.

Yeah… in love… Armin thought, not being able to help the smile that tugged up on his lips, Just like that? Not a chance...

A/n: Not Armin falling in love after one book reference (╥ ω ╥) Anyway, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

(Masterlist)

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