#yet that was clearly framed as a red flag | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

occamstfs · 2 months

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No Need to Apply

Here is my 1K special! Though admittedly it is nothing much out of the ordinary- Thanks to everyone who submitted prompts but especially the anonymous suggestion that spurred this transformation of a desperate twink into a cocky slob! -Occam

Brock really needed a lucky break. He had been staying with his ex since they ended it, but now that he’s sleeping with someone it’s clear that Brock needs to get his own place. Unfortunately the market is not being quite so accommodating to his urgent needs. Given that he is now to be living alone it’s evident he also needs the place on the cheap. He had been denied all reasonable accommodations that he could afford and was beginning to contemplate moving back in with his parents when he suddenly received an email from an apparent realtor he’d never met.

It was an invitation to an open house at some ritzy downtown apartment that he was sure was out of his price range. Rather than just tossing it to his spam folder though, he finds himself looking at the handful of images with a voracity, whether it’s simple curiosity or a fantasy to have such clearly luxurious housing Brock reads through the whole listing. Reaching the end of the invitation and looking at the specs he finds the rent impossibly labeled as just under half his monthly paycheck.

Nearly spitting up coffee all over himself in shock, Brock’s eyes flutter to find exactly when and where this open house was. Surely the demand for this place would box him out but god wouldn’t it be nice to just check it out and dream. He sends an RSVP and far too quickly the realtor, Lucas, thanks him for his prompt response, wishes him well, and signs off saying see you soon. Brock went about the rest of his day as normal, if not a little cheerier than he’s been for some time as he keeps finding his mind drift to that almost-too-perfect apartment’s view over the city.

Fortunately off from work the next day, Brock took the bus to the open house, stopping by his favorite cafe that just so happens to be nearby. He grabs a drink and finds himself preoccupied with thoughts of what a convenience, what a windfall, this break would be. He heads inside and takes the elevator up to the suite and hesitates before entering at the door. Odd that there is no one else here, he double checks the room and floor and puts his ear to the door to see if perhaps other visitors are inside already.

In his untrained attempt to eavesdrop he puts his weight squarely against the door, pushing it open and stumbling in, nearly spilling his coffee over the pristine floors as he crosses the threshold into the apartment. Light streams in through the blinds, only magnifying the manicured state of the spotless room around him. The floor is clean enough to see his reflection, mouth agape, staring at how impossibly clean the apartment is. The only record at all that the place had ever been lived in is the furniture that had clearly been procured by someone of great means, though one lacking any critical eye or desire for design. He sees framed posters of some real red flag movies near a large TV and some sports trophies lined on a shelf. Brock can’t help but wonder what could cause someone to leave such personal artifacts behind and feels a chill in the air.

He wanders away from the entrance to stand at the large windows, his phone ringing as he takes in the view of his town. Answering without checking the ID he hears a man’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Though he knows this must be the mystery realtor on the line, “How do you like the place Brock?” he begins to reply before being cut off by Lucas, “Have you seen the view yet, it’s quite something else.”

Brock feels something flicker through his mind as he gazes at the city blocks around him, below him. His eyes briefly catch on his reflection in the glass, though not long enough to see his eyelids droop slightly as he is able to reply, a tad slower than he usually likes to project, “uhh, yeah I know right, how could I not apply to live here? It’s almost too good to be true right?” There is another chill in the air and his body shivers before tensing up, shocking him back to reality and awareness to something strange afoot, “Excuse me actually, I’m so sorry, how did you get my phone number?”

Lucas clicks his tongue and speaks with an almost sickly sweet tone, “Now Brock come now, what can I do to get you to move in today?” Shaking his head in shock Brock is immediately, regardless of the clear sinister air to this man, he really cannot afford to pass up this chance. He clams up as he clambors to express interest, “No I uh! Of course I want the place, just send the lease over so I can read through it.” There is a real weight to Lucas’ words as Brock hears them, the cloying tone impressing itself on his mind, “Wonderful! That is all I needed to hear!”

It is suddenly dark in the apartment, but wasn’t he looking out the window? He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he cannot see. Brock tries to move his head around to see, to feel anything, he strains his mind reaching for any muscle to flex, any tendon to pull, limbs to controt. He loses track of time and reality as he sits in the darkness, trying to grasp anything beyond his own consciousness, unable to affect anything. He feels his right hand move in a familiar way then he feels a warmth, almost a burning, completely engulfs it. He can almost see the shine of a smile, stark perfectly lined teeth that seem eerily inhuman and suddenly there is once more light. He gasps, coughs, and spits up over himself. Immediately grateful that he can feel anything at all. After feeling his body, and seeing the world almost entirely like it was before he lost consciousness, besides a copy of some contract with his name signed at the bottom.

He takes deep breaths feeling his lungs stretch and he starts to read whatever he has gotten himself into in that stupor. He reads the first few lines before he loses where he was on the page. Going again he finds his eyes suddenly dry, doing an uncharacteristically heavy blink that he can’t quite recall ever doing before and as he wonders this he again forgets his work on the contract. He slams his hand on the thigh in a rare show of aggression and gives it one last go. Brock makes even less progress this time as he is almost immediately overcome by a headache. As soon as he looks away from the sheet though, it disappears.

Brock groans as he feels himself starting to lose control of his senses before he hears his stomach grumble, and he finds a purpose he can immediately resolve. He starts to the fridge, clearly something has happened, an episode or something, he can figure it out later, he just needs food in his stomach now. He doesn’t stop to realize that there should be no food in the fridge since no one’s been living there. Though he finds there is no need as in the fridge, under a note labeled: “To Help Moving In -Lucas,” Brock sees at least a week of prepped meals. The thought that this is bizarre beyond imagination, as well as the concern at his missing time, is immediately pushed from his mind as his stomach rumbles once more, his mouth watering as he sees his soon-to-be dinner.

Brock swiftly heats it up and begins to scarf it down, throwing something on the paying no mind or care to the thought that he’s using the account of whomever the previous tenant was. He quickly scans through seeing a handful of shows and movies that he wasn’t quite interested in before stumbling on a reality show he was watching with his Ex. He grimaces and almost loses his appetite as he thinks about his boyfriend for the first time in what feels like forever. He sets his meal down on the coffee table and crashes down onto the couch. He continues to stew in ire at his ex, palming his crotch as his feelings become more passionate. He rolls his eyes in irritation at himself and that jerk, he’s not going to masturbate to that asshole.

He reclines in the couch and hears the sound of paper shifting in the cushions, pulling it out he finds a crusted magazine lodged in the couch. What can he do besides shout “what the fuck” and toss it across the room. How could they have possibly missed that in their cleaning? Brock’s eyes shift across the room suspiciously, though he notices nothing amiss as the room is illuminated by only the television. He looks at his hand that grabbed the porn and blushes, wanting to joke about the absurdity to calm himself down. Though his body makes its priorities known once more as his cock pulses and he looks past to see the magazine once more. He did want to masturbate to anyone besides his ex right?

He shuffles to pick it up, the discomfort and anxiety from handling something covered in a total strangers cum only heightens his pleasure as he sits back down. He grimaces as he sees this is a real hetero-bullshit magazine, he quickly flips through to find something he can work with. His cock keeps demanding his attention as he flips through, almost impatiently pulsing as if to suggest he doesn’t need the magazine at all, just give it your attention. Though soon enough he finds an ad for some protein powder made to emasculate the reader into buying, that almost immediately helps him lose control.

Soon after he once more fades from consciousness, his cum joining the plethora of other stains in the magazine as he tosses it behind the couch. He finds himself in a darkness that this time feels almost familiar and pleasurable. He once more feels his hand, this time though it is wet and warm. He feels it scratching in briefs that are too tight, through pubes that are too thick. He hears snoring breaking through the silence of his sleep, but that can’t be right? He would know if he snores, surely that fucker of a boyfriend would have complained. He feels his head grow warm as if he’s got a fever, though he knows it is a rage. He feels his hand feel even tighter in his briefs as his cock begins to grow in them. He continues to think of every slight his ex made, every shortcoming he was made needlessly aware of, and of how much better things are going to be now.

The heat shifts from his mind through his whole body and as light begins to break through the windows. That is not what wakes him up though, rather it is the heavy scent coming from his now sweat stained clothes. He rolls off the couch onto his face, quickly removing his hand from his briefs to catch himself, landing the stinking hand too close to his face to not smell just how loud his underwear smells. He feels his clothes sit weird on his body as he starts to rise, while his shirt just feels like it’s hanging weird, surely from the sweat, it is impossible to not see how strained his underwear is. He groans as he feels them pull strangely before he just discards them and makes his way to the bathroom.

His eyes immediately latch onto his now exposed crotch, he does a double take as he notices that it seems distinctly larger. He also would have sworn that he shaved his pubes far more recently than it seems. He scratches through them, blushing as he sees dried cum flake off curls that are longer and thicker than he ever remembers them begin. Rather than hoping in the shower like any reasonable person would do he instead tosses on some boxers, not questioning why clothing that isn’t his would just be lying out, or why he would ever put them on. Instead choosing to focus on how right wearing them feels. He pulls them tight and turns wanting to see just how his ass and bulge fill them out, though is waylaid as his shirt blocks the view.

He sneers as he takes off the sweat-stained shirt and tosses it to the floor, stretching high as his reeking body feels the air on his skin. He smiles in shock as he sees the body he has now exposed, he sees hair spreading across his stomach and torso and sweat dripping off of pits that were sure to stain every shirt he is to wear from now on. Beyond that he feels a body that is indisputably powerful, where there wasn’t even fat on his body before there was now muscle accompanied with weight in all the right places. His eyes then trail down to see the weightiest part of him by far as it bulges even lower in his boxers.

He feels an urge to move, to flex, to stretch, fill him as he hungrily takes in every new change in his body. His eyes trace their way past muscles contorting to land on his face, seeing a jaw that could certainly do with a shave. He sees his eager grin begin to turn into a cocky sneer as he begins to stretch once more, trying to will his torso even longer, trying to force his body even taller. His voice grows even deeper to his barely-aware ears as he closes his eyes to stretch, not seeing his throat force itself thicker and longer. There is once again a flicker in his mind as Brock is in darkness once more. Where there was once discomfort and fear there is now only hunger and an eagerness to grow even more.

He feels an itch burn across his body. He feels his hands dig deep into his pits scratching as hair grows thick enough to hold an odor that would never dissipate. He smells as even in this dreamstate he raises his hands to his nose to give them a post-scratch whiff. He feels the same itch cry out from his chest and pubes, from his lower back and his ass. He feels himself move his jaw as it squares up, a rumble in his throat as he feels his groans grow even deeper. He feels his mind thicken and slow as his muscles flex in his sleep. His arms do rep after unconscious rep as he feels biceps that should not be rub against a chest that has never been there before.

Finally he wakes one last time, his hand as it apparently always is, shoved in his pants, once more barely fitting despite wearing the spacier boxers. Brock blearily looks to see lines of takeout containers covering his coffee table. He scratches his beard using the hand from his crotch and he deeply inhales, two birds one stone after all. He sets out to get started with his day, tossing over in his head if he should masterbate again or not, a stain from a wet dream clearly showing through his boxers. Instead he throws Drake on his speakers and starts getting an early workout in, seeing to every part of his body getting a pump as he feels the hunger in his crotch grow only more urgent.

Going about this workout Brock feels totally at home in this apartment. After all he’s lived here for? Uh? His mind empties as he looks around and sees weeks of piled up detritus and filth. He sees dirty clothes and cum stains on his couch. Looking past them there are his American Psycho and Fight Club posters, discarded underwear hanging off the latter, as well as the trophies he distinctly remembers winning back in college wrestling. He smirks and flexes tilting his head to sniff his pit. Beyond feeling at home in his apartment he also feels unequivocally at home in this, in his body, duh. He jumps to his feet with ease, his stomach rumbling as he once more goes to meet a basal need.

Throwing some of his favorite protein powder in a blender with some milk and eggs he hears his phone go off. There are a string of messages from some bitch asking him to come back and for the life in him Brock can’t remember who that little fucker is? Hearing his shake finish blending he stares at the profile picture of whoever this twink is as he starts to down it, wiping his lips on his sweaty arm as needed. The twink he doesn’t know calls him Brock and his eye twitches, ugh. Why is this dude calling him by his, uh? Is that his middle name? Or no he was Brock right?

He finishes the shake, tossing the blender onto the pile of dishes in the sink and his mind finds itself deeply conflicted. As ever though, his body is more than happy to assuage him, the phone vibrates once more and his cock begins to bring him clarity, demanding his attention once more. Brock’s a little bitch name. He smirks as he looks around at his sty of an apartment, not remembering how neat it once was. Peeking from under a particularly dirty dish there’s a contract that he remembers that he meant to have a look at.

Bringing it to his face however he simply can’t find the motivation to even start. Why worry about this when he can masturbate, or fuck maybe he can get that whiny bitch to come over? His eyes trail to the end of the paper and see his signature, written clear as day “Adam.” He guffaws at this, god how stupid can you be, he basically forgot his own name after that twink called him uh, whatever that bitch name was. He feels his crotch grow tight again, that is kinda hot though? He moans to himself, pawing at his crotch and texts whoever this man is his address and to come ready to fuck. Adam feels no real attachment to whoever it is, nor should he, a hole is a hole after all. Saying that thought he can’t help but feel this hole is due to be taught a lesson.

If you enjoyed this I also recommend @fredwkong's The Voice in Your Head which explores a similar idea in quite a unique and captivating way!

#male tf #mental change #masculinization #muscle tf #jockification #reality change #musk tf

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word-wytch · 8 months

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 15

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 15/? 10k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ The aftermath of a kiss makes thoughts come alive — both desires and fears.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: smut 18+ (imagined oral f!receiving, piv, creampie), cumming in pants, angst

Wednesday, December 11th 1985

The flag was whipping in the wind. Towering above the parking lot in a blur of red, white, and blue, it cracked against the pale grey sky.

Meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror, you checked for any obvious signs of guilt. The harsh morning light made it clear what you’d missed in your haste to leave. You thought you had gotten it all, but the mascara resting in the lines beneath your eyes said otherwise. Truthfully, washing your face had been the last thing on your mind when you stumbled home after midnight, and it was clear you needed more than the five minutes you allotted this morning in front of the sink. After sleeping through your alarm, it was a miracle you were here at all. Swiping your knuckles across the bags under your eyes, you figured that would have to do.

With a final, bracing sigh, you opened the door and slumped into the freezing cold. Slamming the door, you marched across the snow-dusted pavement and hiked the heavy leather strap onto your shoulder. Students scattered around you with bright colored backpacks, rushing from their cars toward the squat, concrete building that loomed on the horizon. Eyes steeled on the glass doors ahead, you swallowed a sickness rising up from the pit of your stomach. Pebbles crunched under your boots as you dodged glances, offering little more than a timid smile and a raise of your hand at the greetings hurled your way.

Pulling open the chilled metal handle, that school smell—indescribable yet unmistakable—gusted hotly over your numb cheeks. The office was abuzz with shrill ringing phones and gently chiding voices. Eyes glued to the long, grey weather mat below, you approached the clock-in station.

“Good morning!” the receptionist greeted cheerfully at the back of your head.

“Morning, Judy,” you offered weakly, selecting your punch card from its wooden slot on the wall. With a shaking hand, you slotted the index card into the machine, lining it up with this week’s row of black-inked numbers. It snapped to life, stamping today’s date in a crooked line beneath the rest.

Tucking your thumb under the strap, you trudged along your usual path, raising your eyes just enough to see where you were going. Fluorescents danced over the polished tile, over the shimmering salt-stained boot marks and stray pebbles you were suddenly so captivated by. Past the glass trophy cases, inside the cafeteria, you crossed the row of principal portraits from years prior outside the teachers lounge. It was difficult to look at them today, the judgement painted so clearly on their features from inside their thick, ornate frames. Their eyes seemed to follow you as you passed. Dodging their scorn, you ducked inside the door.

Your soles met the padding of the threadbare carpet, marching toward the one thing you truly depended on, stationed at its post on the end of the long, veneer table — the coffee machine. The room was spinning with activity, a bustle of chatter you hoped you could hide in. Most were on their way out, making small talk and gathering belongings from their seats at the round tables. Your skirt swished forward as you halted before the machine, tapping the cuff of your tall boots. Grabbing a mug from the stack, you filled it with haste.

You wondered if anyone could smell it on you — the cigarette smoke that clung to your coat. Shrinking down into your turtleneck, you sidestepped to return the pot to the warmer.

“Good morning,” stated a voice behind you with cold professionalism.

The plastic slipped in your hand, coffee hissing against the metal plate as you fumbled it into place. “Principal Higgins! H-hi—good morning!”

She always terrified you, even as a student here. Even before last night. Standing all of about four foot ten, her stern, nun-like demeanor and white cloud of hair remained consistent with your memory, as if she had reached a point in her aging where she just plateaued.

“How are you?” she asked. Not as though she really cared, just as something polite to say.

Whipping around as the blood drained from your face, you addressed her. “Good! I’m good. Just getting things wrapped up for the semester. You know how it is.”

She nodded curtly. “Glad to hear,” she answered, though nothing about her expression seemed glad. It never did. You thought you saw her smile once in September, but it could have been a trick of the light. Smiling weakly at the floor, you dipped around her and shuffled toward the open milk carton. The air was thick and stuffy, filling your lungs in shallow draws. Peeling back the soggy cardboard, you swallowed your hammering pulse.

“Hey stranger,” Diane greeted warmly, grabbing a mug from beside you. “You ready for winter break yet?”

Fixed on the coffee as the milk swirled like smoke, you couldn’t find the courage to meet her eyes. “I’ve been ready since October,” you admitted through a strained chuckle.

Diane tipped her head back, laughing into the fluorescents. “Oh man I feel ya, I’ve been counting down the days myself.” Steam rose from her mug as she filled it.

There must have been a sign on your back. Something like kick me. A bump from behind had you lurching into the table, sloshing coffee over the rim. Snapping your head over your shoulder, you glared at the culprit.

“Jeez it’s crowded in here,” muttered Ms. O’Donnell as she lumbered over to the coffee machine. “Everyone mingling like a flock of hens, you’d think we’d all have places to be by now.”

With a sharp sigh, you grabbed a handful of flimsy napkins from beside the sugar. Diane glanced in brief annoyance before reaching through your line of sight for the milk carton. “So, did you catch Cheers last night?”

You froze, heat creeping up the collar of your coat as the coffee bled through the paper. Images of sweating glasses on cocktail napkins and plush lips clouded your vision as you blotted up the mess with a trembling hand. “No I uh, turned in early I’m afraid.” Your stomach curdled with the lie.

“Aww, well you’ll have to catch it on re-run because it was a good one. I won’t spoil anything,” Diane said, bringing the mug to her lips as she leaned against the table.

Grabbing the handful of warm, soggy napkins, you pivoted to toss them in the trash. Finally, she caught you with her eyes. Rich umber, deep with caring and kindness, captive for anyone who needed a good listener, for you on so many occasions. Diane was good like a cashmere cardigan, like a box of tissues passed across a desk. Your eyes met the floor again quickly, heat rising in your face. You shuddered to imagine what she’d think if she knew.

The room became a blur of scooting chairs, of vending machines whirring, of crackers and candy dropping into the bins below. Metal flaps whined and slammed as hands reached in to grab them. It was closing in on you — the copy machine ink wafting warmly across the room as it spat out stacks of tests, the hole punchers clicking and binders snapping open to devour papers with their jagged maws. You stood there in the middle of it all, spinning like you’d stepped out of a carnival ride.

Diane leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You ok?”

Blinking rapidly, you snapped back to attention. “Yeah—yeah I’m fine.”

Folding her arms across her sweater, she knit her brows in disbelief. As the school counselor, it was her job to see through bullshit, and she was good at her job. Before she could comment, the bell had your stomach lurching. “I have to go,” you said with as much of a casual farce as you could muster. “I’ll see you later.” You grabbed your mug, shielding your face with it as you sipped off the top before vanishing into the hallway.

The AV cart was heavy despite its wheels. Avoiding your tired reflection in the glass of the large television, you braced the metal frame and peered around it, marching carefully down the crowded hallway. At least you had something to hide behind now.

There were footsteps all around you, weaving to accommodate the metal mass as you trudged slowly forward. What became unignorable was the set behind you, shuffling down the hall at an increasing speed, growing louder as they neared. Eddie halted just behind your shoulder, bumping it slightly in his haste. “Hey,” he breathed in your ear, curls tickling your cheek.

Sucking in a breath, you whipped your head around to meet his crinkling eyes. If he had a tail, he would be wagging it. “Eddie,” you hissed. “Get—” you elbowed him away, heart pounding into your temples as a hundred eyes passed by around you.

He didn’t seem phased. Hovering at an uncomfortable proximity, his focus stayed glued to you as if the rest of the world had fallen away. “Here,” he offered, reaching over to take the reins. The meat of his palms grazed your knuckles; warm and pliant like you remembered them.

“I’ve got it,” you insisted, gaze dutifully forward, gripping the metal frame firmly.

“Come on, let me help,” he muttered, leather forearms insisting against yours as he tugged the cart in his direction.

Face fully on fire now, you released your grip, repelling with a twinge of remorse from the solid contact of his shoulder. Head darting left and right, you scouted for faculty, keeping a steady pace beside him. Not so close as to draw suspicion, but close enough to feel his magnetism prickle your awareness. His fingers pinked under his rings, knuckles white in his grip as the strong angles of his hands kept the cart from veering. “It’s um—” Eddie started, dipping his head toward your ear again, “good to see you again,” he uttered with a fervency that could have evaporated you.

“Happy Wednesday!” chimed Ms. Click as she waved you down from outside her door.

The blood drained from your face. Raising a trembling hand, you returned a weak smile before locking your vision on the end of the hall. It was closing in again; the lockers, the voices, the squeaking of wet boots against the tile. There was the potent scent of cigarettes, fresh on his hair like the snowflakes that clung to his curls. They were melting, dripping down his wild ringlets onto his shoulders with every step. It was beautiful, the way they bounced and swayed in the wind as he walked. The way the droplets settled in the wrinkles of his leather coat. The way it tapered toward his narrow waist. As he braced the cart, you selfishly admired the angles of his shoulders — broad and capable. Selfishly, you wondered what else they could accomplish, how they would feel, bare under your palms. Crossing your arms coyly over your turtleneck, you snatched your mind from the gutter.

Eddie lolled his head toward you, peering under heavy lids. His smile was lazy and generous, brimming with boyish glee. “God you look pretty today,” he sighed. Your uterus beat your stomach to a backflip.

Halting outside the door to your classroom, you turned to face him. “Eddie, we can’t—” your desert mouth hung open as those soft umber eyes ushered your words into the din.

“I’m allowed to talk to you,” he asserted, shifting to the fullness of his height as he dropped his hands from the cart.

“Not like that. Not here,” you corrected, just above a whisper.

Brow lowering, he swiped his coat aside to access his hip, resting his hand above the chain that dripped toward his thigh. It was suffocating — the heat from his gaze, from your turtleneck, from the thoughts hammering like pinballs against the inside of your skull.

“Listen, I just…” you swallowed, “it’s just—” you glanced around, meeting the waves and bright hellos that passed through your door with a vacant smile before lowering your voice, “—hard to be back here today.”

Eddie tipped his head forward, shifting on the balls of his feet with a subtle nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

You huffed through your nose, eyes pleading with him as you shrank toward your door.

“I’ll see you later,” he promised, drifting in by an invisible tether with every inch you moved away.

“Yeah.” Your exhale was heavy, lingering in his gaze for an aching second before ducking through the threshold.

______

The static from the television prickled your forehead as you rewound the tape, fussing with the buttons on the VHS player seated on the shelf below it. The screen fizzled grey as as your fourth period class filed in, shuffling feet and relieved exclamations echoing behind you as they passed.

You could have left it alone and walked away, but you would take any excuse not to face them today. Leaning against the cart as you stared into the crackling static, that telltale scent wafted in on the air, tugging at memories of smoke rings and stage lights, filling you with equal parts dread and aching familiarity. You could see his silhouette out of the corner of your eye; tall and dark with a halo of frizz, boots heavy against the tile as he approached you. Swallowing your rising pulse, you couldn’t help but indulge for a second, shifting just enough to catch the soft pink of his smirk before his shoulder nudged yours in passing. Desks squeaked against the floor behind you, yielding to the weight of twenty students as they filled the five tidy rows. When the bell finally rang, you shut the door and mustered the courage to address them.

None of your classes were studying To Kill A Mockingbird. Irrelevant as it was to your lessons, you would excuse it to all of them by citing it as a great example of storytelling. Weak, but it was the best you could come up with on such short notice. You doubted anyone cared, they all seemed just as relieved as you were for a break from the fluorescents.

You flicked off the lights and pressed play on the VCR. The room was bathed in white and blue as the opening credits rolled, and you took your place behind the big desk. Propping your head wearily against your hand, you stared down at the sea of white below you. Eyes unfocused, black ink and graphite chicken scratch blurred together as a different film played out behind them.

The set was dramatically lit; a spotlight of interrogation that beamed down on your small chair facing Martha Higgins’ desk. The props were hyper-realistic; files she flipped through with her spindly, arthritic fingers containing your teaching license and contract for the year. The prominent lines on her forehead were growing increasingly severe as she considered the delivery of your inevitable punishment.

A jungle of items framed the papers that sprawled across your real desk — the spider plant Susan had given you when the leaves were beginning to blush with oranges and reds, the stapler you’d had since college, the mug with a quill printed on it which now held your pens. You wondered what it would feel like to pack them all into a banker box in the middle of a winter afternoon. To lug it down the hallway, dodging the scorn of your former colleagues. With a heavy sigh, you buried your spinning head in your hand.

Eddie was seated as he always was, cheek pressed to his knuckles as he watched you from his corner of the room. A straight shot toward your desk in front of him, he gazed with reverence as the white light from the television bathed your one exposed cheekbone in a holy glow. Picking at the chipped veneer on the desk with his restless thumb, he recounted the feeling of it in his hands. The angle of your jaw, the notch where it met below your ear, the soft skin of your throat that hummed beneath the pads of his frozen digits, warming them to life with every swell and swallow as his mouth enveloped yours. He’d played it over and over the whole drive home, every moment since he’d opened his eyes this morning, convincing himself with every replay that it wasn’t a dream.

He’d gotten a taste. Not enough to satisfy him — the opposite really. Like first bites often did, it only brought awareness to his hunger. The light played softly on your stiffened jaw. How he ached soothe it with his lips again, to feel the hard bone under supple skin, to hear and taste your sighs again; more moving than any music he’d ever heard.

The darkness gave quiet permission for his mind to play a film of its own. In this one, the room would be the same. Just as dark but empty, save for you and him. He would scale the isle in five swift steps. Lifting your worried chin with his knuckle, he would draw you to the fullness of your height, capture your body in his arms and pull you into a searing kiss. He knew what it felt like now, and that only fueled his wild imagination. He knew you’d melt like putty, let him be the only thing holding you together, keeping you from falling to the floor with the strength of his arms around your soft cotton waist.

He had memorized the shape of your lips, how slick with hunger they were as they slipped against his. Your hums would be quiet here, timid and shy as you glanced over his shoulder toward the door with worried eyes. On this set there were no real hallways, no extras making noise or slamming lockers. Nothing in the script suggesting an interruption, only the pretend risk that made a thrill rise in him like the tent in his jeans. The way you would shyly toy with the pins on his vest, insisting that “we shouldn’t,” and “it’s just not right.”

You wouldn’t protest for long, not in this script. Not when his teeth found your neck again, dipping down below the collar of your turtleneck. It was a nuisance really, nothing but a sponge for his spit as his tongue soothed over where his teeth left off. You would be needing it later because he would leave a mark this time. Several, tasting every moan you offered as he sucked bruises onto your delicate skin. He hadn’t tasted nearly enough of you, hadn’t felt nearly as much as he’d wanted.

Closing his eyes, he surfaced a touch-memory; the shape of you beneath your coat. He imagined the slope of your waist in his hands as it looked like today; where the cotton met the wool of your skirt, heaving against his palms as he left his sloppy trail. Impatiently, he would free you from the confines of it, tug at the cotton and greet your warm, soft flesh with his aching fingers. You, of course, would give him full permission to remove it once you felt the insistence of his touch, felt his thumb drag over the small of your back, across that dip he caught a glance of last night.

Tugging the cloying barrier up and over your head, he would shield you from the door with his body, letting the mass of the AV cart block any eyes wandering the hall from what he was about to do next. In the soft, flickering light from the television, your chest would rise and fall, spilling over from your white lace bra as it heaved in anticipation.

The real you sank deeper into your chair. Shoulders slumped, shielding your eyes with your knuckles as you stared blankly down into the sea of papers. There was a heat emanating from the back corner of the room, one you could feel with the crown of your head. You knew exactly where it was coming from, and from whom. Hesitant as you were to address him, it was burning too hot to ignore, boring into you with a palpable insistence. With a swift, upward glance, you faced off.

Eddie’s lids were heavy, cheeks pinking at the sudden confrontation. He licked his lips, eyes darkening as he swallowed. You could almost feel them again, cradling yours in a phantom kiss just like they did fourteen hours ago. His mouth had been so needy. So hot and plush, tongue slipping against yours like he’d been starving.

Eddie closed his eyes in a slow blink. When he opened them again, they were so heavy with want that it rippled from across the room, shooting straight between your legs. You’d never been kissed like that before. Kissed so hard it robbed you of your senses, of your oxygen, of your goodness. It was easy to imagine; doing it again. Especially when he was looking at you like that.

You indulged for just a moment, joined him in the scene. Alone together in the dark, empty room. It was easy to imagine what those lips would feel like going further; sucking your collar bone, grazing it with his teeth, trailing his sopping mouth to the place where your neck meets your shoulder before his calloused thumb slipped the strap of your bra to the side.

Wringing a hand behind your neck, you glanced toward the television with a sudden feigned interest. The feeling wouldn’t leave you though; clouding your mind with wet smacking lips and the chill of the air at your nipples.

He knew they would be perfect. He could just tell. They would heave beneath his watering mouth, puckered and primed for him to latch. Capturing one of them in his wet heat, you would melt into his waiting arms. Back arched, mewling so needy and loud it would cause the door to open if the scene was real. He was certain he’d be able to taste your hums through your skin here too. Even better perhaps.

Eddie shifted in his seat with a mild grimace, hand darting beneath his desk in time with a swift raise of his hips as chair legs scraped the tile. He glanced at his lap, then back up at you.

Your face became a roaring furnace, paling only to the heat pooling under you. The pale television light flickered across his flushed cheeks, his lowered brow, his smoldering eyes that held you captive. He wanted you to know. Indulging, you imagined what was going on under that desk. What it would look like if he were to stand, to scale the room in a few eager strides and show you up close.

“Need you now, Eddie,” you’d croon with a swipe of your hand up the generous bulge he was sporting, punctuating it with a pinch of his weeping head through the denim.

Eddie took his cue. In one dramatic swoop, the papers fluttered to the floor, the plant made a mess of the tile, the stapler clattered beside your shattered mug as pens rolled down the isles. Backing you into the edge of the big desk, he kissed you again. Hot and slick, body flush with yours, pressing his need against your pelvis as he probed your aching mouth. Parting only to shed himself of his outer layer, to lay it down behind you like a blanket, shielding your bare back from the cold wood.

From the confines of his small desk across the room, real Eddie took a deep breath, lids closing heavy on the inhale, fluttering open to a pained pout on the exhale.

Seating yourself on the edge of your desk on set, you would free him from the confines of his jeans. Pawing at his belt, you would tuck your fingers beneath it and tug urgently, rattling metal and leather before working his button free. Slowly, your nimble fingers would locate and lower his zipper, and a sigh would be the second thing that escaped.

You were an A-list actress, looking down at his proud length like you’d never seen a dick before in your whole life. The coyness with which you peered from under your lashes was thoroughly convincing. Oscar-worthy. With a timid, chalk-dusted finger, you would draw a line from base to tip, admiring the way it bobbed, the way your touch encouraged it to glisten. Real Eddie swallowed, drawing a deep, impatient breath. Convincing as you were of your innocence, he was certain those fingers would know what they were doing as they traced his ridges with a teasing curiosity.

Unable to take any more of it, his hands would find your knees; bare where the stockings left off. They would roam under your thick wool skirt, up those impossibly soft thighs and draw back the curtain as you braced yourself against the desk behind you. In this scene, of course, your costume called for nothing underneath. You would be ready for him. Back flush with his coat, legs spread, glistening with need in the pale light from the television behind him.

Impatient as he was, he would be remiss not take this opportunity to satisfy a curiosity of his own. Crouching down to level with your sex, he would take in your scent first. Breathe in your delicious, heady pheromones, let it cloud his vision further, as if there was room for anything else other than the persistent thought of you. Eddie wondered what you tasted like. Your mouth was exquisite, so what must you taste like here? With a generous swipe of his tongue, he would find the answer.

The real you crossed your legs tightly, as if that would stave off the throbbing between them. Real Eddie caught it, the shift in your seat, the subtle raise of your knee under your plaid skirt, the way you worried your lip with your teeth as you glanced shyly toward the papers still, unfortunately, on your desk.

What might his tongue feel like there? The question grappled for your attention despite futile attempts to shove it away. His tongue had a certain talent, you’d noticed, as it probed against yours in the dark last night. A sense of rhythm was a hard thing to teach. His tongue would be warm, you were certain of that, saliva slick as he pressed it flatly to your heat. He would take his time, savoring every groove and fold across this new terrain as if he were committing it to memory. Propping up on your elbows against the satin liner of his coat, you would catch those deep brown eyes, peering into yours with a smoldering hunger, lower lids pinching in pleasure as he drew slowly upward.

You would paw at the crown of his head, rake your fingers through his curls and tug, feeling his approving hum against your core. Halo of frizz tickling your thighs, his tongue would lathe slow and steady, closing those plush lips over your aching bud before sucking a kiss where you needed it most.

Exhaling deeply, you toyed with a pen on your desk; pressed your thumb into the cold metal nub, studied the tension a moment before releasing. Eyes unfocused, you were helpless as the film played out behind them. Click. Click. Click. Light flickered from the TV, twenty eyes distracted and oblivious. Throbbing, you shifted in your seat and caught the scent of your own arousal. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks. Never in your life had you been so grateful to be in the dark.

Try as you might to gleam a single chaste thought from the words printed below you, there was no space in your head for it. Just Eddie, crouched over you like a preying animal, looking at you with those lust-blown eyes like he’d make you his meal. Wrapping those ringed fingers around your hips, shifting his to meet them as he stood. You could almost feel it; his cockhead pressing with insistence at your entrance. Almost feel the safety of his shadow, how his curls would kiss his cheekbones as he hovered above you, how his lids would flutter as he pushed in. That deep, relieved sigh you would both breathe together as the long ache was soothed upon joining.

It was a moving picture.

From the back of the room, Eddie watched your face burrow into your hand; fingers splayed across your forehead and eyes, shoulders slumping on your ragged exhale. How desperately he itched to ease them with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. It was painful; his cock straining against the confines of his jeans. Silently, he thanked himself for grabbing the black pair from the pile on the chair in his bedroom this morning, certain he was leaking through by now.

Slowly, he shifted his hips upward, relishing in the drag of the fabric against his sensitive head as it moved toward his waistband. He paused before tucking it, arching forward again with sinful fulfillment. It felt good. Too good. Good enough to do it again. The way the cotton raked against the heart-ridge of his cock, the way the stiff bend in his zipper hit that sweet spot when his hips canted forward.

Eddie glanced around the room, flushing furiously. All eyes were forward. No one seemed to notice. Gripping the edge of the desk, he continued to rock his hips; slow and quiet micro-movements, careful not to creak the plastic chair. The shrinking, logical part of his brain couldn’t believe he was doing this. It was a new low. Perverted, even for him. But the tension was mounting, becoming unbearable, and the relief it offered was enough to drown out the shame.

He bet you would be so tight. He could almost feel those gorgeous legs wrap around his waist, your boots crossing at the ankles behind him, drawing him closer as you whined from the stretch. He could almost see you bite your lip and knit your brows, feel your fingers dig into his strong shoulders as you adjusted to his size. He would go slow, knowing it’s been a while for you. You would clench and arch but take him so well as he inched his way to the hilt. Then, bracing against the wood, he would happily give you what you needed — jack hammer hard, rutting like an animal in heat. You would be sinfully wet. He bet you were right now, sitting up there with your legs crossed and head down. Pity it would go to waste. If he had it his way it would be dripping onto the desk, slicking his balls as those pretty, perfect tits of yours bounced with every snap of his hips.

The fabric was hitting him just right, scratching that itch with each flex of his cock against the dampened cotton. It was a slow mount, subtle and teasing, but it was enough. Anything would have been enough. A breeze. Eyes closed, forehead hung on the heel of his hand in feigned boredom, he imagined it what you would feel like under his thumb; rubbing that little button of yours that made you squirm and moan so deeply he could feel it from the inside.

The hardest part was steadying his breath. He supposed he couldn’t fault his body, it was just doing what was natural in a place he shouldn’t be doing it. He couldn’t fault his heart for hammering, or his hips from wanting to buck, or his hands for itching to expedite the relief. What he would give to crank the volume on the television, to draw a curtain and just get it over with. God forbid you wisened up to his antics, although the thought did send a jolt to his dick. He knew he should stop before he did something utterly shameful, but the spot he was hitting was just too sweet, a feeling he was helpless but to chase.

He would give you everything you ever wanted. With gritted teeth he would ream you until you came undone, make that pretty face of yours contort over and over as you writhed against the desk, howling his name into the drop ceiling. The slap of skin on skin would echo off the tile until he’d rendered you utterly stupid, which was difficult to do.

“You want it, huh?” he’d huff into your ear, peppered with nip of your lobe. “Want me? Want my cum?”

Tugging the hair at the nape of his neck, you’d mewl your answer. “Yes. Please.”

Slumping forward in his desk, Eddie buried his head in the crook of his arm. Fuck. His boots dug into the tile, thighs straining, lip pinched in his teeth, desperate to restrain the bucking of his hips. There was an animal inside him, tugging like a rubber band waiting to snap. His aching balls begged as they drew upward, cockhead so sensitive it could feel every stitch. Eddie burrowed his nose into the desk, both chasing the feeling and running from it.

He would show you how much of a man he was, paint you with proof on the inside. Remind you as it slicked your thighs with every click of your boots down the hall.

Huffing into the dark cocoon, his free hand gripped the metal legs below him, holding on for dear life as the wave approached its crest. Hips stuttering, breath fogging the desk, he hit the wall. The one that made his mind go blank, his eyes roll back, his whole body tense and tingle like a yawn.

It came out like a whimper. Warmer and wetter with each pathetic spurt. A small, strangled sound threatened the back of his throat. It tried to escape his gaping, downturned mouth, but he choked it back. It was a relief to get it out, like a dirty confession. Wave after hot, thick wave of frustration pooled in his boxers, clung to his balls as he emptied them completely. When the last of it crested with nothing more to give, his hips rocked to stillness, and the rest of his body went limp.

He looked like a puddle of leather and hair. Squinting as you peered around the student in front of him, you wondered why his back was heaving like he had been running.

Eddie peeled his face up from the desk; cheeks flushed, mouth slack, looking at you in a way you could only describe as absolutely fucked-out. A stray ringlet swayed in his ragged breath. There was that feeling again, that pulse between your legs that made you clench them. Quickly as he’d met your eyes, he blinked away as if it burned.

Eddie was a mess. Shifting in his seat with a grimace, he could feel the cotton cling to his skin as he sobered to the chalkboard, and the desks, and the twenty other people he prayed were oblivious to what he’d just done. It was like he was waking up from a wet dream, only he had never gone to sleep. He blinked down at his desk, mortified as his cock softened happily, lolling in its sticky puddle. It was seeping through the denim, cooling in his lap as the seconds ticked by. Glancing at the clock, he calculated another twenty minutes before he could clean it up. Twenty whole minutes to sit with the consequences, to stew in a puddle of his own shame. He supposed he could excuse himself to the bathroom but that would, of course, mean addressing you. It would mean getting up and walking in front of your desk, and the entire class, while you handed him a hall pass like a fucking child. He would rather sit.

Blinking back your thoughts from the gutter, you righted yourself in your chair, chastising yourself as you uncrossed your legs, your own mess trailing cooly against your inner thigh. It was uncomfortable, embarrassing, but there was nothing you could about it now. Flipping through your Rolodex of thoughts, you searched for anything. Anything at all that was chase, or sensible, or mildly interesting.

Looking down at your naked hands, another scene fell open. This time the set came from memory. A pawn shop in early summer. It was vivid — the rain beating against the large window framing the on-ramp of the highway, Frank Sinatra mocking from the dusty speaker in the corner. The diamond sparkled magnificently as you passed the ring over the glass countertop. Brilliant rainbow fractals brought out by certain lights. They would catch you by surprise sometimes, tickle you with delight in the supermarket or the mall. It winked at you under the fluorescents then, a fleeting goodbye. In the moment, you weren’t sure which was worse — catching your own pained reflection in the glass below you or the pity in the eyes of the man who took your once-prized possession.

You left with twelve hundred dollars in an envelope, a fraction of what it cost him. The banker box rattled in the passenger’s seat as you slammed the door. Stuffed too full for a lid, your quill mug clattered against the plates your grandma gave you. You’d run out of newspaper wrapping your knick-knacks, resorted to your clothes to pad the rest.

The mug cast a shadow across your desk now, flickering in the light of the television.

You clenched your fists, fighting the touch-memory of Eddie’s ribs under your palms. You’d felt safe for a moment; nestled in his coat, in his hair, melting into the heat of his mouth. What you would give to live it all again, right now. What you would give to have him all to yourself, every day. For the luxury to go on a date, to be seen in public together, to explore where this was going. Glancing across the sea of twenty desks, reality stared back. Where did you think this was going?

Eddie’s pencil clattered to the floor. His curse was audible, even from the front of the room. Was this where you would place your trust? Your career, your future? In the reckless hands of a twenty year old man? He could ruin you. With a bold move, or a misplaced word, or a drunken gloat one night with his friends. Or god forbid it all went south and in a blind fury he lashed out and retaliated somehow. He wouldn’t do that, would he? You thought you knew him well enough to know that he would never, but did you really? You’d known Eddie Munson for all of four months, which felt strange to consider. It terrified you, the depth of your feelings in so short a time. Terrified you almost as much as the consequences for them.

Your hand twitched beside the green grading pen resting on the pile of tests you’d barely touched in the last thirty minutes. There were more in your bag to be graded — the stack you’d abandoned on your coffee table last night. It would all catch up to you eventually. The homework, the papers, the secrets. After all you’d been through, had you learned nothing? No one really knows what they want at twenty years old. You certainly didn’t. A head full of fantasies is what you had. Snatching your pen with a firm click, you slashed an X through one of the questions on the test below you and buried yourself in your work.

When the bell finally rang, Eddie hung back in his seat like he always did, waiting for his moment with you. But by the time he had stripped himself of his jacket and secured his flannel around his waist, you had already made for the door.

______

The metal serving spoon smacked the plastic tray, leaving behind a glob of tomato sauce over the tangle of limp noodles. With a tight-lipped nod of thanks, Eddie took it from the lunch lady and made his way into the settled cafeteria, finding his place at the end of the Hellfire table. Steamed carrots bounced from the tray onto the sticky veneer as it fell from his hands with a clatter. Slugging off his backpack to the floor, he slumped into the empty chair that had been waiting patiently for him for the past twenty minutes.

“There he is,” Jeff nodded to Dustin across the table.

“What’s the story this time? Got abducted by aliens?” chortled Dave.

He would think they would stop asking questions by now, but apparently he needed to teach them a lesson. “Nah, just… jerking off,” Eddie said with a deadpan shake of his head before spearing a meatball with his fork.

The half-truth earned him a rowdy chuckle from the peanut gallery, a gag from Mike. He would spare them the uglier details, like the balled up boxers shoved in the bottom of his backpack or how awkward it was to strip them off in the stall of a bustling bathroom. Glancing down at his lap, he checked that the flannel was still cloaking the drying white stain.

Jeff’s leather jacket squeaked from the bend in his arm as he leaned against the table. “I was just filling the boys in on the show last night,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

Eddie looked up with a full mouth, eyes like saucers.

“Yeah, told them about our special guest,” Dave added with a raise of his eyebrows.

He could only respond with a nervous huff, turning back to his tray as his stomach did kick flips.

“Is it true?” Mike asked Eddie. “She seriously got up and danced?”

Eddie swallowed the whole mouthful at once. He couldn’t lie his way out of this one. “I mean, nothing too crazy. Just for a song.”

“Yeah a song Eddie made us play for her,” Jeff said with a wink. Dustin and Mike’s mouthes fell open simultaneously.

“Think I saw her tits at one point,” Dave reminisced.

Eddie scoffed. “You did not see her tits, dude. You’re so full of shit.”

“I dunno man, her shirt was pretty short,” Gareth added with a playful nudge.

“They’re both full of shit,” Eddie shakily assured to the two youngest members.

They barely paid him a glance, chuckling amongst the rest while Dave rubbed lewd circles over his chest.

“HEY,” Eddie barked. “Look at me, all of you. This doesn’t leave this table, do you understand me? If I catch wind that any of you went and told anyone about last night I’ll skin you alive, I swear to god.”

Gareth shot him a tired look. “Jesus, dude. Nothing even happened.”

The knot in Eddie’s stomach released slightly. “That’s right. Nothing happened.”

Dave snorted, stabbing his bendy straw into a leftover carrot. “Yeah man, chill out. Nobody’s gonna get your girlfriend in trouble.”

The blood drained from Eddie’s face as the whole gang erupted in laughter. The uproarious, table slapping kind. It was a joke. A good one, it seemed. The word echoed like the pulse pounding in his ears. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. A warm, gooey word. One that made his stomach churn with longing. Biting back venom, he wondered how their faces would change if he slapped them with the truth. Would they still be laughing? Would they even believe him? They could laugh all they want—for your sake at least—but it stung nonetheless.

Dave caught the bitter shift in his expression. “What? You clearly have the hots for her.”

“Who doesn’t?” Jeff laughed.

“ANYWAY!” Eddie punctuated with a smack of his hands against the table. “Gareth, you’ve been awfully quiet about your date this past Sunday. Please, regale us,” he gestured grandly.

Gareth chuckled nervously, pushing a noodle around with his fork. “Oh uh, nothing really happened there either.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Seriously dude? You’ve been on like three dates and you haven’t even made it to first base?”

“I told you, Cindy’s not like that!” Gareth defended before glancing around sheepishly. “But we did…kinda… hold hands on Sunday.”

A long oooh emanated from the table. “Hands cupped or laced?” Dustin asked with a raise of his eyebrows, demonstrating with his own hands.

“Ok so,” Gareth began with an emerging smirk, “you know the Large Marge part of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure where her face goes all,” he demonstrated with a bug-eyed look, hands splayed on either side of his face.

The table responded with chuckles and nods. “Gets me every time,” muttered Dustin.

“Well, Cindy’d never seen it before, so she jumped and like, grabbed my arm,” he paused for effect, “so I just went for it.”

Approval bubbled up from his captive audience.

“Cupped at first,” he clarified, cutting through the noise, “but after like ten minutes she didn’t pull away, so,” he laced his fingers triumphantly. There was a barking applause, fists rattling the table. Jeff clapped him on the back with a blinding grin.

Eddie was an island. Oceans away, he managed a soft smile. His night had been far from innocent — a frantic tangle of hands, and tongues, and teeth in the frigid darkness. Phantom feelings that tugged at his lips and fingers, at the forefront of his every thought. Thumbing at the rubber rim of the lunch table, he dreamt of a universe where the walls and roles fell away, one where he could speak of his firsts too.

______

Eddie had been watching the clock all day. In eighth period trigonometry he watched second hand crawl around the clock face fifty times as his thumbnail worked the paint off a pencil, chipping at the indents his teeth left behind. The final bell was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. Slugging his backpack over his shoulder, he didn’t even bother to stop at his locker before ducking down the hall where your room resided. He almost collided with a straggling sophomore exiting your door on his way in.

Perhaps he had arrived too early. It wasn’t the scene he was accustomed to — you, standing at your desk, shoving folders into your satchel like you were trying to make a run for it. His small wooden chair still leaned against the wall. The AV cart still towered where it was when the lights were off. Glancing down, he quickly checked to make sure the flannel was draping correctly.

“Going somewhere?” he teased, unable to hide the concern creeping in.

Your smile was a coy, fragile thing. Chest rising with the kicking of your heart, you opened your mouth but had no words to show for it. Fumbling with an overstuffed folder, you hovered it over the opening of your bag before sliding it in with a sigh.

Eddie shut the door.

Turning over his shoulder, he snatched your eyes with a startling hunger. Your hands went slack, leather slumping against the desk as his heavy boots met the tile. He was slow in his approach, stalking past the empty rows, parched eyes drinking in every detail of your features. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you met him at the edge of your desk.

His curls were wild, chocolate eyes fiending, a soft concern weighing his brow. Under the fluorescents you could see very clearly what you’d felt last night. The shadow of stubble, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft ball of his nose that was cold against your cheek. Under his jacket, the taught landscape of his chest rose and fell. You swallowed, toying with the wool of your skirt.

“Hey,” he half-whispered, lids drooping ever so slightly.

“Hey,” you replied, like your tongue was feeling the word for the first time. It tugged a gooey softness from the corners of his mouth, and you cursed yourself for the pang to taste it again. So plush and pink, drawing your gaze long enough for him to notice.

Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor, tossing it hard enough to collide with the wall below the chalkboard. Shoulders unburdened, he rolled them back to assume the fullness of his height. With pupils blown, he darted out his tongue to wet his lips, looming like a wolf that sees a rabbit.

He closed in with a step, to which you retreated. The edge of the desk bumped the back of your thighs. Heart hammering, you peered into his hungry eyes. You’d been here before. Not long ago, in your imagination. Different, darker, quieter.

Eddie drank in the sight of you — your tight cotton shirt and your soft heaving chest. How the band of your skirt hugged the curve of your waist. You, woman.

Like a false sense of safety, his scent enveloped you. It was dizzying, how badly your hands burned to trace the swell of his pecks, to tangle in his hair, to capture his hot, slick mouth again. Terrifying, the part of you that begged for him to press forward, to tumble you backward, to take his place on top of you. Timidly, your fingers curled over the corner of the desk.

As he leaned closer, you could feel the tingle of heat from his chest, the ghost of his breath on your face. His arm became a cage as he steadied his palm against the wood behind you. “Been thinking about you all day,” he murmured in your ear.

You shivered, lids fluttering closed for a selfish, greedy moment. Glancing over his shoulder at the narrow sliver of a window in the door, you peered at the lockers on the other side of the hall. There were some still slamming, slowly petering out as voices drifted further with each passing second. “Eddie,” you warned, placing a hand over his sternum. Eyes dipping slightly at your touch, the solid swell of his chest expanded under the cotton. He stepped back with a gentle push, your palm lingering before falling away.

A deep breath fumed through his nostrils, heavy and tired. With a tight lipped nod, he backed away, pivoting toward his folded chair beside the door. It screeched as he dragged it across the tile, past the rows of desks, in front of yours, all the way to his usual place beside you. He snapped it open and paused, gripping the wood in his palms, staring down at the place where he’d sat countless times. How small it was compared to yours; padded with armrests and wheels.

“So we just…” he flexed his fingers and shook his head, unable to suppress the sting in his voice, “go back to normal then?”

Eyes cast down at the empty seats, you sighed. “I don’t… think we can.”

“Good,” he stated, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

It was enticing, that chair with its worn leather padding. What was more enticing was the space beneath the desk; a safe haven for hands and arms, for cupped palms and laced fingers. On top of the desk lay your bag, and your keys, and the plant still alive in its unbroken pot. Your head was pounding; a dull ache that had been radiating from your temples since lunch. Lockers slammed outside the room, fluorescents hot on your skin. With a deep, lamenting sigh, you gave him all you could manage — your honesty. “It’s been… a hell of a day for me—”

“You could say that again.”

“I—” you sighed sharply, “I really think I just need to go home a-and… think things through.”

“What’s there to think about?” The words tumbled out like an avalanche he couldn’t chase. Your balking expression made him wish he could suck them all back.

“Oh gee, I don’t know,” you gestured wildly to the classroom, “we could start with my job.”

“I’m sorry that was—y-you know what I mean.”

“Do I?” The steam from the pressure could have burned him.

“We—we both clearly have feelings for each other,” he explained, lowering his voice. “I just… thought we would figure it out.”

There was a gap between you, cluttered with papers and pens. Your bag slumped in the middle of the mess, gaping and stuffed to the brim. Pulse hammering behind your eyes, you blinked them slowly with a pained sigh. “I know,” you admitted, toying with the strap. “Eddie, please, I need some time to think about all this.”

It hurt to imagine. You, going home, sitting there in your slippers at your coffee table and deciding that he wasn’t worth the risk. Closing the flap on your satchel, you tugged the leather heap across the desk, but Eddie’s hand was quick to pounce. “No, we need to talk.”

Frustration pinched your brow. “I know but—”

“Then let’s talk, yeah?” he gestured to the chairs.

A cluster of shadows passed by the window over your shoulder. “Not here, not right now.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Then let’s get out of here.”

“And go where? A table at Benny’s?” you snapped.

“You’ve got a place, right?”

Folding your arms, you shot him an incredulous look, though the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. You lowered your voice. “What happened last night was… impulsive.”

“I’d say it was a long time coming.”

You sighed. “Regardless, I think that’s enough for this week.”

Eddie would disagree, but his tongue had a wrangle on the words this time. In the pause, it was easy for both of you to picture; his clothes on your bedroom floor. Easy to picture the ways he could ruin you in private — fold you like the chair under his wringing palms. Still, the ways he could ruin you in public were equally vivid.

You turned to grab your coat, brushing past him. The arm of his jacket was smooth against yours. Electrified by the contact, you lingered for a moment, unable to abstain from drinking in his form, his scent, from basking in the prickle of his aura.

He could see it clearly in the harsh light — the shadow that clung beneath your lower lashes, the sagging exhaustion in your eyes. Gravity tugged at the corners of your natural lips, so different from how they appeared last night — dark and dusty red, framing a smile that outshined the moon. His fingers twisted against the wood. “Please stay,” he begged softly.

Your eyes drifted shut, a split-second relish in the sweet pang of his voice, though the words rung a different bell; a different man saying them. In a flash, another scene appeared — you, at the door of your old home in Indianapolis, cradling the last of your belongings as your free hand gripped the knob.

Opening your eyes to the radiator, and the windows, and the pale grey sky before you now, you relinquished a shaky sigh and tucked your fingers under the thick collar of your coat. It still held a subtle fragrance, clinging to the memory of last night, desperately as you were. Eddie watched with rapt attention as your brow pinched in pain, fingers twitching under the wool he’d memorized the shape of you through. When your lip began to tremble, his hand lost control.

“Hey,” he whispered, meeting the soft cotton slope of your shoulder with his palm.

Your head snapped toward his umber eyes; warmer than the hand that thawed your shoulder, callus catching on the cotton as his thumb soothed over it. You followed it down to his wrist, to the tendons flexing beneath the chain, dipping under the sleeve of his worn, leather coat. How desperately you longed to wrap yourself inside it again, to nestle into his beating chest and hide there forever.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, and reflex had you flinching. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed, tears burning behind your eyes as you snatched your coat off the hook.

Bitterly, he dropped his hand. The contact hurt to break, almost as much as it hurt to watch you don your coat, to snatch your bag, to sling the heavy strap over your shoulder. Helplessly, he stood there, feeling like a fool until the welling of your eyes made it unbearable not to advance. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he pleaded. “Like—like a big deal. Not if we don’t make it one.”

You froze, eyes narrowing as a pained fume left your nose. “That’s easy for you to say.” With a bitter huff, you turned on your heel and left him in the classroom with only the echo of your footsteps.

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A/N: Yes, in my story Principal Higgins is a woman. I know in canon Eddie says “flip him the bird,” but for some reason my brain didn’t register that until literally two months ago. I always pictured Higgins as a stern, ancient, nun-like woman and I can’t seem to shake that characterization from my brain. Perhaps I’m just scarred from Catholic grade school. I think it works well for this story, so Martha Higgins it is.

Also sorry I never stated this in the tags but the upside down does not exist in this universe.

The smut is coming very soon. Pinky swear. Our Lady of Internal Conflict is just having a moment.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

______

MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me #dssctm

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lgbtlunaverse · 3 months

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One underdiscussed aspect of the bone-deep lack of mutual understanding during the nieyao stairs scene is that Nie Mingjue doesn't know - and can't know - what he's actually asking of Jin Guangyao. Not because he doesn't understand how his father treats him, or how tenuous his position is. But because he has no clue Xue Yang is a demonic cultivator.

Remember: Nie Mingjue is still alive, which means the position of chief cultivator doesn't exist yet and Jin Guangshan is facing heavy pushback for suggesting it. Most of that is coming from a fear that the Jin will try to become the next Wen. So having an outer disciple murder an entire clan and then not even punish him properly? This is a collosally bad move politically! You might as well be waving a red flag around yelling "I want to kill other sects with impunity!" There's a reason that years in the future, the moment Jin Guangyao becomes acting sect leader, he will immediately order Xue Yang's death (He doesn't actually die, either by accident or on purpose on jgy's part. But the point is that as far as the public is concerned he had Xue Yang executed.)

From Nie Mingjue's perspective, Jin Guangshan just shot himself in the foot politically for some random outer disciple. It's morally wrong, but it's also incredibly fucking stupid. In his eyes, he is asking Jin Guangyao to do the glaringly obvious right thing, even when exclusively looking at the Jins' self-interest. The thing that surely everyone else in the Jin also wants Jin Guangshan to do! Jin Guangyao can say that he has no influence on his father all he wants, but it is obvious how much work he does and so, as much as his father may not respect him, he clearly at least trusts Jin Guangyao's competence. Nie Mingjue has already tried shouting directly at Jin Guangshan during the trial and it seemed to work, but then Jin Guangshan went back on his decision like a complete idiot. So now Nie Mingjue is asking the guy who is famous for being good at rhetoric and convincing people to convince his donkey of a father to do the obviously correct thing with minimal downsides because again, to Nie Mingjue, this is all about some random outer disciple. It makes sense to ask this! It's a pretty reasonable request! Jin Guangshan can't possibly care that much.

Except of course he does. Because Xue Yang isn't some random outer disciple. He's the only good shot Jin Guangshan has at recreating the yin tiger tally. And Jin Guangshan reaaaaaally wants the yin tiger tally. So bad that he is fully willing to tank an ungodly amount of political goodwill to get it. Jin Guangyao is fully aware that not only will Jin Guangshan never kill Xue Yang, he isn't planning on keeping him locked up either. In fact, after Nie Mingjue is dead, he'll free Xue Yang and strongarm Chang Ping into denying the guilt of his family's murderer. Jin Guangshan cares a lot about keeping Xue Yang in his employ.

And Jin Guangyao knows this. But he can't tell Nie Mingjue that! Because then he'd have to admit they've been doing demonic cultivation. That the fucking ghost geneal is in their basement. That, oopsie, they actually also killed a whole other entire clan just a while ago after framing their sect leader for an assasination attempt and then used their bodies as fodder to make more fierce corpses. You know, in case one mass murder wasn't enough!

So obviously he's not gonna say that. Which means Nie Mingjue has no idea what he's demanding from Jin Guangyao, and therefore no idea why he absolutely can't fullfill that request.

I get why it's not mentioned very often because there are a lot of other problems which are both more obvious and more fun to talk about. (Who doesn't love a little overcomplicated trolley problem?) But I think it adds just another layer to the chasm between them in this scene. They're not just disagreeing, they're having completely different conversations.

#mdzs #mdzs meta #obviously there are like 50 other issues plus saber disease packed on top of this #which is what makes it go so catastrophically wrong #but this is one aspect of that i don't see mentioned very often #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #meng yao #i call nmj calling for xy's head 'reasonable' here. obviously it only is if you believe in the death penalty which i don't #but everyone in mdzs does so... yeah if xue yang really was just a random disciple this'd be a petty reasonable thing to ask #but he isn't except jgy can't EXPLAIN that so they're stuck

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blockgamepirate · 5 months

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idk if anyone has done this yet but I just wanted to share close-ups of each of the custom signs Richas, Pomme and Bad made, with individual alt-text descriptions (the descriptions are a bit subjective but I wanted to make them as vivid as I could because I feel like these designs deserve that)

I might include my own feedback in a reblog, to get extra subjective, but the main gist of it would be that these are super cute and much much easier to read.

Note that these are not the final designs! Richas, Pomme and Bad said they're still working on them and asking for feedback, especially in regards to the accessibility aspect.

The same descriptions under a cut, just in case the alt-text doesn't work for some reason:

Pomme's custom canvas sign on a wall. This will be the most detailed description since it's the first: The sign has a wooden frame that surrounds a red canvas. The canvas has a very subtle patchwork like texture and is slightly darker on the edges than in the middle. The text is a slightly transparent white (effectively beige) and reads Pomme in all caps.

The custom texture pack version is a much darker shade of red, which makes the contrast between the text and the background much bigger and thus the text much more readable. The frame is also decorated with a little French flag in the bottom left corner and tree branches with green leaves and apples on the right. The leaves and apples overlap the canvas portion slightly. The overall vibe is very classy and makes you think of a roadsign advertising a French vineyard. Or I guess more like an orchard in this case.

Sunny's custom sign: The colour is a much softer and lighter orange than before, almost more like a warm yellow. The text is black like in all the lighter coloured signs. The frame is decorated with sparkly blue diamonds, a small diamond shaped one in the lower left corner with sparkles almost as big as itself, and one big one in the lower right corner which is in the princess cut shape. The general vibe is like a pre-teen girl's notebook decorated with glittery stickers.

Chayanne's custom sign: The colour is a very soft and pale lemon yellow. The frame is covered in subtle vines on the top and the bottom. In the lower left corner there's a small orange pumpkin among the vines, and in the lower right corner there's a little yellow rubber duckie, also partially covered in vines, which does blend into the background a little bit where it overlaps the yellow canvas. The vibe is very cottagecore but also very childlike, this could be a sign for some kind of family vacation location with cabins and gardens.

Tallulah's custom sign: The colour is medium pink, somewhere between her original pink signs (now used by Pepito) and her current magenta signs. Clearly lighter than the latter, but darker than the former. The frame is decorated with poppies in the lower right corner, and some kind of blue flower, maybe a blue lily, on the lower left corner. One of the blue flowers also sort of peeks into the frame on the right between the poppies, right in the corner. The flowers are of course framed by their leaves, which reach out towards the middle around them. This definitely has the vibe of a sign for a flower garden, probably one maintained by a little old lady who loves pink.

Richarlyson's custom sign: The colour is a deeper indigo blue than his original signs, like deep blue denim. The text colour is the same light beige as Pomme's signs and as all the darker coloured signs. The frame is decorated with a tiny Brazilian flag in the lower right corner, and red-cap mushrooms in the lower left corner. The mushrooms seem to be releasing little white spores into the air, some of which can be seen in the top right corner as well. I can't quite pin down the vibe. There's something a bit fairy tale like, like a storybook maybe. You half expect a little troll creature to show up. But also… random Brazilian flag I guess lol

Empanada's custom sign: The colour seems to be the same soft beige as before, I can't tell if it has changed at all. The frame is covered in golden syrup in the top left corner, which spreads out all over that side of the sign, dripping down in big goopy clumps. It looks delicious and I don't even care that much for syrup. The lower right corner across from it is decorated with white flowers, maybe white cherry blossoms? The flowers are stemless and leafless, just the flower floating over the frame and the canvas. One big one and one small one. There seem to also be small petals floating in the other two corners of the sign, over the canvas. One petal is even floating on the syrup where it drips down on the left. This would definitely be a sign for a small independent bakery.

Ramón's custom sign: The colour is the same white as always, I don't think it has changed at all. The frame is very simply decorated with copper-coloured gears in the lower left and lower right corners, with one particularly big gear on the right side. It doesn't bring any particular vibes to mind but it is cute. The gears look very shiny and it fits Ramón very well. I guess the thing that it most reminds me of is actually Ramón's elevator shaft with its white walls and coppery create machinery.

Dapper's custom sign: The colour is a darker grey than usual, I would honestly call it black rather than grey. The lower edge of the frame is decorated with what looks like darkened blotches of blood, with white ghostly spirits rising out of them towards the left and right edges of the sign, framing the canvas and partially overlapping it. The ghosts are similar to the souls that rise from soulsand in Minecraft but whiter, with only a hint of blue. The vibe is very Halloweeny of course.

Leonarda's custom sign: The colour is a much deeper purple than before, you could even say a more royal purple. In the lower right corner there's a beautiful sparkly cluster of amethysts which are a lighter pinkish lilac colour and which look absolutely gorgeous, just masterful pixel art crystals. There is an amazing sense of depth and transparency in such a minimal resolution. There are also some pinkish sparkles in the lower left corner to balance out the composition a little bit. I don't know how to describe the vibes but it's beautiful. It's like a much classier version of Sunny's sign (not an insult to Sunny's sign, just a neutral description. It's like the cliché of the nouveau riche versus old money. Sunny's gems make you think of glitter stickers, Leo's look like she just happened to place the sign next to an actual cluster of amethysts with perfect artistic composition. Or maybe like she hired a professional painter to decorate each sign.)

(Okay sorry for the rambling, I just can't get over how pretty these amethysts are. Sunny's diamonds are also very pretty but they do look more like stickers to me)

10:

Pepito's custom sign: I think the colour is a softer and lighter pink than the original, it looks like freshly washed baby clothes. The sign is decorated with a tub of popcorn in the lower right corner, with the classic red-and-white design, which sits partly on the frame but mostly overlaps the canvas. Some popcorn seems to have fallen out and is scattered across the lower edge of the sign. There's also a stripe of alternating red and white on the right (over the edge of the canvas rather than on top of the frame itself) which vaguely makes me think of film reel, probably because of the popcorn. I should note that the white and red on both the tub and the "film" are a bit desaturated and dark, technically the white is more like light grey, which gives an effect of shadow and contrast compared to the very light pink canvas which looks very cool. There's also some subtle white flakes across the sides of the canvas; I'm not sure what they're meant to represent. They're very similar to Empanada's petals. The overall effect of the sign is very retro to me. It makes me think of the sixties.

11:

Gegg's custom sign: The colour is a softer version of the lime green of the original sign, and slightly lighter. The canvas is decorated with a little Gegg pixel art sitting in the lower right corner. Otherwise the sign is undecorated, but there's a subtle effect on the canvas itself that makes it look a bit goopier, like there's a thin film of slime over it. And there's a tiny reflection of light in the upper left corner which adds to the wet look. It's very subtle though, it could very easily be missed if you didn't look at the sign closely. The overall vibe is: Gegg

#qsmp #qsmp richarlyson #qsmp pomme #badboyhalo #qsmp eggs

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kaitcreates · 7 months

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Over analyzing the Sword Catcher official art because I can.

First up Kel. He has his sword catcher medallion on and his clothes look blue then green like he’s described wearing in the book because the Queen wanted him to wear her home country’s colours and it doesn’t look like what we see Conor wearing in his portrait so Kel might’ve picked this outfit himself. The coat also ruffed up’s little, one of the sleeves even has a tear in it, he doesn’t start getting into any serious fights in the book until he sides with the Ragpicker King, around the same time he starts finally exploring his own identity if only slightly so this’s probably around that time frame. He has the scar on his eyebrow that Conor is described as having which I can feel has some sort of importance to their characters. The background is some waves, clearly referencing his love of the ocean and sailing, along with swords indicating his sword catcher title. His foreground is one of the less interesting with just a pile coins for his wealth as the prince’s fake cousin, a pile of scroll for how much reading he does, and a pile of something back that I’m not quite sure what it is. It looks like it might be some black powder but he hasn’t done anything with black powder yet in the story. Maybe it’s a metaphor for life as he knows it getting blown up as the story goes along, who knows. It’s also worth noting that he doesn’t have any flowers in his portrait, this might be nothing but it’s almost like a theme with most of the other portraits so it’s worth noting.

More characters under the cut because this got long:

After that we have Conor. His clothes and jewelry aren’t anything to write home about, it looks properly royal with plenty of jewels showing of his wealth. Though I do take not that the eyebrow that has a scar though it is covered in his portrait. His background depicts the Castelane lion on top of the city state’s national colour of red obviously a nod to him being the prince of the City-State. The hour glasses seem to represent his limited time as pressure begins to build on him, and I’m not quite sure what the falling rings represent, maybe they’re supposed to be coins and represent something about his debt. Again the piles of money, books, and scrolls represents his wealth and being well read. We can see what one do the scrolls says but it’s not very clear and seem to be written in one of the world’s fictional languages, if anyone can translate it please send it to me but it might not be anything special. The banner/flag in the corner is certainly important but I can’t remember anywhere that it would belong to at the moment so again if you can think of anything that would be a huge help. It’s also once again worth noting he’s one of the few character to not have flowers in his portrait.

Lin’s is arguably the most obvious. She has her mystery-stone brooch, her ashkar ring, is wearing the ashkar’s mandatry colours of blue and grey, and her medical satchel. The background has a glyph behind her with runes in it since she’s trying to bring magic back, the golden whisps also look magical, and the herbs and plants are for healing. There are diagrams of human anatomy behind her and the flowers have vials of what I presume is medicine strewn in them. This is also the first showing of flowers in a characters portrait, I thought it was representing her medical herbs and flowers. In the flower bed you can also see a split open pomegranate which could symbolize her growing doesn’t into darkness and crime as she tries to find a cure to Mariam similar to Persephone and the underworld.

Antonetta’s is relatively simple. Her outfit is what her mom forces her to wear throughout most of the book and she’s wearing her heart locket. Her background is also pretty simple with no special patterns or symbols to speak of, just some lace patterning at the edge of the circle similar to her outfits. It’s really the foreground that interests me. The perfume bottle is slightly odd as we never get any focus on her using perfume or smelling nice, but it does fit the perfect noble woman image so it’s not out of place. The sword being mostly hidden except the hilt is a nod to the secret sword lessons she takes, which she’s hiding from nearly everyone. The rose is obvious symbolism for looking beautiful and pretty but having thorns if you try to grab it. Around this I started thinking that maybe the flowers represented characters who were trying to get more then their current position in life was giving them. The most confusing thing about her portrait though is the bloodied handkerchief and golden locket around it. Bloodied handkerchieves are pretty much solely used in fiction for someone with a deathly illness but as far as I know Antonetta isn’t sick in anyway and defiant not of the fatal kind. Maybe it’s a nod to her friendship with Mariam.

For The Ragpicker King I would like to bring your anterior to his right hand. As you can hopefully see it looks like some slights scars are peaking out from his sleeve. What does this mean? I don’t know. I have no memory of this being described in the book, and was just something interesting I noticed. In the background you can see something that almost looks like a jail cell, likely referring to him being a criminal. There are also many playing cards flying around behind him for some reason, I’m not really sure since it’s never made note of him being especially in to card games or to use card metaphors in his plans. The piles of envelopes are likely his letters to and from the King and the books represent him once again being well read and his enjoyment of research. The evolvement of flowers once again confuses me because from what we see he seems perfectly content in his current life. Maybe it’s about how he escaped a life he was unhappy in.

Ji-an doensy have much going on, neither do most of the characters moving forward. The most interesting thing I could find about her appearance is that she’s wearing makeup. She has the two black swans, which I’m pretty sure I’m not remembering the full importance of, from her line about the swan pulling her carriage. She has a variety of swords in the back ground, one of which is she is holding. This could both represent her status as a killer but also as sort of like ghosts of the family she killed. Her flowers continue to feed into my “escape from current life/escaped from past life” theory and there isn’t much else to say.

Merren has nothing super interesting about his appearance in this portrait. It suits his personality and that’s about all I could say. The background is an obvious nod to his poisoner status with the wisps of smoke(possibly from hot tea?) leading up to a skull. I’m not entirely sure what the quills are supposed to represent, maybe it’s supposed to be because he’s a student so quills are like pencils in their world. Mostly his foreground also just seems to be about him being smart if a little messy when it comes to parts of his life outside of poisons and antidotes. The most specific thing I can find is the spilt concoction which is likely poisons. Once again the flowers are confusing, I had a theory that the flowers represented someone studiously seeking out knowledge, except Ji-an and Antonetta don’t follow this pattern. Merren also doesn’t fit into the “run/ran away from a life they didn’t like” theory unless there’s a part of his backstory that we don’t know about that fits into it. If anything he was pushed out of a life he liked. The flowers aren’t a super big part of the portrait and more of just an accessory anyways so fine, maybe it’s not meant to connect to the other flower portraits.

Joss’s portrait has two elements worth taking note of. First, the abundance of arrows and bows. This is mostly likely a nod to indoor archery, but I do hope we get more archery in his character and fighting style down the line. Second, he has some flowers in the foreground. Which just adds to the confusion because, as far as we know, he’s pretty happy with his current life and he almost definitely hasn’t ran away from an old life.

And the flowers continue to be confusing. Vienne is special in the fact that the flowers are pretty much the only other element of her portrait outside of herself. They do kind of make it look like she’s buried in flowers, especially with her helmet resting on the bed, and does work with the fact that she died at the end since giving flowers is a common way to pay respects to the dead, at least in western culture. In my admittedly short research session, the flowers seem to be Marigolds. These flowers are commonly used in day of the dead and symbolized grief and mourning in the victorian era, continuing the idea that these flowers are being used to represent her death. In renaissance times(the time period Cassie says she took the most inspiration from for those world) Marigolds were gifted to woman that men wanted seduce. What this means for Vienne I have no idea but it felt worth mentioning.

Now at this point you might be thinking “Couldn’t the flowers not actually mean anything and instead it’s the lack of flowers that represents something?” And I was think that too until Jerrod and his lack of flowers came along! Why are the only characters without flowers Kel, Conor, and Jerrod?! In other news Jerrod has basically nothing to take note of. His fingers look much paler then the rest of his hand from the chalk and the daggers facing towards his head could either represent that he’s being threatened or that he’s threatening. That’s really it. The rope and keys seem to be vaguely related to being able to get into places, but at the current moment they don’t seem to really be that personally connected to him.

So over all I have three main questions after this:

What in the world do the presence or lack of presence of flowers mean?

Were the details that don’t make sense to us right now cut after the art was made or are they hinting at future developments?

Why didn’t Mariam get a portrait?

#sword catcher spoilers #sword catcher #sword catcher deep dives #conor aurelian #kel saren #lin caster #antonetta alleyne #joss falconet #merren asper #kang ji an #jerrod belmerci #the ragpicker king #tcoc #the chronicles of castellane

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marwhoa · 2 years

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request: marloweeee c; ‘tis me (tmntxthings) what about a oneshot for 2012 vampire!donnie x fem or gn reader?! the rest is up to you though a dash of jealousy would be amazinggg orrrr vamp!donnie being like a super-mega bad boy and reader gets warned against falling for him but reader is just like “so he’s a bit of a fixer-upper, that’s a minor thing~” iendjcksoejddi idk totally up to you I’ll love anything you write <33333

🝮 “ the sheep loves the wolf ”

2012!Vampire!donnie x female!reader

author’s note: hihi !! I love 2012 donnie smsmsmsmsmsm, so this request got me squealing !! there are a few… side characters! I’ll put all their text in green, to minimize how many different colors I’m using, so don’t get confused like, “Whuh, I thought he was green, why is she green too?” They’re just all side characters in the story between donnie and y/n uwu as always, thank you for reading, and consider dropping me a cute wittle request!!

word count: 4.8k

The feet of two in love danced in synchronized steps, across the barren ballroom’s floor. Hand in hand, their eyes never left the other—completely captivated in their waltz. A loving sigh left Y/N’s lips as she was twirled in the hands of a dashing fellow with mahogany eyes that glinted a tad bit redder than she would have liked in the chandelier’s light.

Nonetheless, the red flags might as well have been green through her rose-tinted glasses as her dress bellowed and fluttered with each spin and delicate yet swift footwork. The two lovers made the dance look so much easier as they swayed here and there, fingers interlaced, hand upon shoulder, and the gentlemen’s hand fitting puzzle-piece-perfect onto the lady’s hips.

It was upon the last spin that Y/N had finally caught a glimpse of something much too frightening to mask. Some walls in the ballroom were dedicated to being pristine, decorative mirrors, so that it’s dancers could see them and their partner’s wondrous performance.

But, all she saw was herself, and her hands placed upon…

Nothing.

With a nervous intake of breath, a hitching in her voice, Y/N had tried to mask her discovery as she gazed back to her partner and saw he had been looking too. A skin-crawling grin crept upon his features, and goosebumps grew upon her smooth skin. Reddened irises glinted with hunger as they gazed upon the scared doe eyes.

“ Now, now, “

He purred, bringing their dance to a slowed halt. Your dress riveted as he pulled your shaken frame flush against him. The once-upon-a-time welcomed fingers caressed your chin, stroking with the kindest adoration—akin to possibly the same touch you would give to a treasure,

“ Why did you have to go and ruin the surprise with those curious eyes, my dear? “

Thunder echoed in the distance, illuminating the already dim room. Your skin crawled as memories of how you made it here flooded in.

———-

“ Y/N! Do not be foolish, you know we are not to follow the Willow’s path at night—have you no brain? Have you forgotten where that path leads, woman! “

Your frightened mother held your hand, tugging you away from a path your village had so fearfully deemed the forbidden trail—clearly-named-so by the path which was lined by dozens of weeping willows, far too breathtaking this time of year, and the creeping thyme had hues of purple that made that little route all too alluring. The wind bellowed through the willow’s tresses, and you couldn’t help but feel something pulling you forth. It was almost as though the wind was whispering your name.

“ Yes, mother, but I know how foolish the townsfolk are to be afraid. I have seen the man who lives atop the Willow’s path, and may I say that he is nothing like the tales say he is? “

“ You may not! Now hush that delinquent mouth and heed my words. I may be so kind as to forgive this insolence, but I assure you the foolish townsfolk will not take such sympathy for ye who dare fool with that monster. “

With a huff, your mother tugged you home. Upon your hips bounced a woven basket filled with various fruits and berries, as well as a handful of herbs, and even a vegetable here or there.

You were but a regular little lady in a humble village, raised on a story that one day four men had been ever so ignorant as to venture to the castle atop the weeping willows and creeping thyme hills. They were in search of the monster who lived there, plaguing the lands with an insatiable appetite of blood. Hope had riffled through the townspeople, hoping his reign upon them would finally be stopped by these sudden heroes.

Alas, not every story is meant for a happy ending. The four never returned, and the townsfolk were still ever so afraid as those drained of their blood appeared once again—though at a slower, much slower pace than before. Rumors spread that one of the men still roamed the castle grounds, agonizing the loss of his brethren while praying upon the youthful and naive ladies of your quaint community. Despite such a story, filled to the brim with reasons to never give in to the siren’s call that beckoned you up the purple-hues road—the one call that held your hand, tugging it as if to say, “ please, please. come help yourself, i guarantee your safety “, you still found yourself inching closer and closer to climbing the path.

With each passing day of the path’s begging you to come forth, your ability to resist it dwindled.

Some days it was stronger than usual. On those days, you would swear there were eyes on you. And one day, you had even been able to catch the eyes while picking medicinal herbs.

Your hands had brushes of green upon them, kisses left behind by the plants so mercilessly torn from the ground for human benefit. Your eyes held a calmness not even the ocean’s waves could achieve as glowing red eyes pierced through you. A smile quirked upwards as you shifted your sitting position to face him, smoothing out the skirt of your dress.

“ It’s you, isn’t it? The one in the tales, the rumored Count Dracula, lord of the vampires, right? “

The anticipation and excitement swirling in your eyes, twinged with a hint of courage and need to challenge, all disappeared with a trace as the red eyes contorted with a look of sadness.

“ The Count Dracula? “

His voice came out all too normal (go on, hide that disappointment! what, had you expected him to sound scarier? a disembodied, gravelly tone?), and all too depressed as he slips from the bushes. His tall frame was clad in full black & brown; a long trench coat, hat, neat button-up, and fancy shoes. Unlike the people of your town, this man seemed even less like the town’s story, and definitely less dangerous than when you had seen him at the hill’s tallest point one night, and a silhouette you assumed was tending to a garden? It was dark and far, forgive yourself for not having caught all the details!

“ I could never be that fool. “

His hands clenched into a fist as you caught what seemed to be anger. Turned to your basket, you would shift herbs here and there until digging out a pristine red apple that caught your eye on the way here.

“ My deepest apologies then, are you perhaps one of the four men who were said to have ascended the Willow’s path some time ago? “

Y/N extended the apple, hoping to offer it as an extension to her apology. Her smile grew as it was accepted by the gentleman’s gentle touch. Their hands brushed—hers with tinted green fingertips, and his with smooth leather gloves. It had flown straight over her head that the gloves had only three fingers.

“ I am, those other three men were my brothers. “

A crunch of the apple being bitten filled the blanketing silence. You hesitated, but after casting your gaze to the basket, you pushed on,

“ Were? “

“ Yes, I assure you my speech holds no errors. What I say is what I mean. “

“ May I ask what became of them? “

“ You may not. “

His red eyes met yours, and you felt a heartbreaking blue twist in your chest. That was the look of a lonely man who had quite literally lost everything.

Your conversation continued until your basket was full. By then, it was time for you to return home and he gave a tip of his hat as farewell before ascending the purple hills.

The siren’s call begged you to follow him, it whispered in your ear, “ go on, don’t leave the gentleman all by his lonesome. have you no heart? were those weary eyes not enough for you, dearest lady Y/N? “

Y/N continued home with her basket.

Come the next day and the next after that—and far more days after— you were always able to find him somewhere near you. Fear was a foreign emotion when he was near. One of the days, you finally caught his name, Donatello. Donatello Hamato. He was not a monster per se, but rather a mutant of sorts. He described it as having been similar to a yokai.

He was the remaining brother of three others like him, the lone survivor after they had taken care of the true Dracula. Amidst your amazement, never had it crossed your mind to question who exactly had been draining the ladies of the town. In fact, there had been no found bodies since you had met this man and been seeked out by him each time you tended to laundry by the river or collected ingredients for that night’s dinner. No, no, he was much too confident you would never question any of those things.

After all, your focus revolves around him. He had never not noticed your searching eyes, a sheep who brightened at the sight of the wolf rather than shrinking away and rushing to safety.

Even the townspeople were beginning to notice you, searching for someone no body knew. That was, until one unlucky day.

There was no need for you to be out collecting berries and herbs today—your daily treks had made the inventory far too full. They could survive a whole winter without another trek. So of course you would find yourself to be followed by the village’s strongest, a well-known Caspien from a family of hunters, sent to see what nefarious deeds hast led themselves to you.

“ I knew it, you have been bewitched for that monster, Dracula, and only come here for him to have easy prey. “

Standing beside an imprint in the grass, where you and the one you almost would call beloved had sat for so long, discussing this and that—in fact, you had learned something about him that made all the pieces fall together. He told you about a world—or, rather, a time? A time after this one?

No, never mind that. Y/N, startled, whipped around to have her eyes met with the hunter’s forestry green ones seeing through to her soul.

“ Ca-Caspien? What are you doing here, following a lady like this? Have you no respect or mind to know it to be inappropriate! “

You were nervous, taking a shaky step back each time he got closer. Never had you felt it with Donnie, but right here and now with Caspien, you couldn’t help but shrink into the role of a frightened sheep before the hunting wolf.

“ Y/N, dear, with all due respect, it is not inappropriate at all for a hunter to ensure the safety of his people. “

Caspien took more steps forward, cornering you until you lost your footing and thumped hard against the ground. Fearfully, your eyes watched as his hand reached out, gesturing to help you up. What did he have to gain being out here? Would he hurt Donatello? Would he…

Would he hurt you?

Y/N’s hand stiffened as it took his, trying to play this out normally.

That was, until her frame was yanked up from the ground, stumbling into Caspien’s chest before then being thrusted into the tree whose roots previously tripped her.

“ I will force that monster’s hold off of you, even if I am to need to slay it. “

Y/N trembled, from both the night air’s chill and from the fear that ran down her spine. That, and the pain from having been slammed against the rough surface.

Unbeknownst to either of you, there had been a pair of watchful eyes taking in the scene for the past few minutes. Had his hands not been obscured by leather gloves, then it would be visible just how pale they turned as he gripped a log his weight was knelt into.

The scene, before now, had come off to him as two lovers meeting beneath moon’s light, albeit with a little trip from behavior Donnie couldn’t reason with (who backs away from their lover?). This would have been something he ignored, had it not been you that was here. You dared to lead him on? To smile at him as you had all these days the two of you sat together? He watched with a grin as it seemed that your affair was to be falling through. This guy seemed like a far-cry from the gentleman Donnie would proudly say he was, and he hoped that the souring quarrel in what should have been a romantic moment would prove to you just how much better he was. He could only imagine you running to him, pretty lips glossed up and kissable, your eyes shining in their usual doe-like shimmer, and your impeccably soft hands caressing him.

That dreamy fantasy whirled around his head, until he started realizing this situation was much the opposite of what he had assumed. The pained sounds from you were doing things to him, and none of them were of the good, nonviolent, potentially suggestive kind. There was a raging flame he himself hadn’t known laid dormant within. He bared his fangs in the shadows, slowly losing his ability to resist intervening.

You weren’t meeting some random human here, in this very place where you and him would share your time together. No, no, you were coming to meet him, weren’t you? But this nosy human had come to disturb that, hadn’t he?

Donatello agonized over whether or not to appear between the two of you, tearing apart this rattlecap. It had worked in his favor this long to never appear before anyone aside from…

Well, that didn’t matter, since now he had you and a dastardly mutt dared lay his mangy hands upon you.

He wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt his beauty. So, when the softest squeak slipped your lips as this man dared injure you once more—pinning and frightening you—Donatello wasted no time in making it at your side.

Y/N whimpered in pain, closing her eyes and wishing for her special someone to rescue her from this hunter (though, part of you wanted him to stay away. What would Caspian do if he saw Donnie?). A hand placed itself upon her hips, and Y/N cringed at the sight she imagined opening her eyes to. Sure that it would be Caspien, far closer than she could ever need him to be and with his hands far from where they ever should be, her heart skipped as she opened her eyes who see the familiar brown collar of a coat. Topped with a fancy black hat.

“ Donnie… “

You whispered, your voice a mixture between afraid and affectionate. His hold on your hip tightened as your quiet voice reached his ears, feathering kisses with the innocent longing braided into each syllable. Your eyes trailed up to find his other hand latched tightly onto Caspien’s arm. For once, you saw the hunter assume the position of prey. You almost swore a cracking sound vibrated through the still night as Caspien tore his hand from your body and out of Donatello’s vice-grip.

“ Muh-Monster, you dare show your face here and hold Y/N as though she belongs to you? ”

The collar of Donnie’s coat might as well have been laughing a Cheshire’s bout as it was obscuring your vision, stripping your nosy gaze from catching the all-knowing smirk grow upon the tortue’s face.

“ How laughable is it for the monster to call someone else a monster. No, no, you are not the monster—not the one who held his hand to a lady! The monster could never be the one who forced himself upon an innocent lady? “

His arm pulled you closer. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was preparing to move…?

“ I believe we both know who is the true monster here, O’ Great Hunter Caspien. “

He was taunting the hunter, Caspien. And for what, to throw him off his rhythm? Or just for petty delight? Regardless the reason, you had no time nor leisure to analyze anything. There was only a split second to respond as the atmosphere thickened, and you watched Caspien’s hand move to his hip.

“ Donatello! “

Cried out Y/N as she put all her strength and weight into shoving him out of the way. A shot rang out, followed by her fearful shriek, but thankfully the bullet had missed them both—whether that was from your quick thinking or Caspien’s shaky aim was anyone’s guess, though.

Anticipating to slam against the ground, Y/N was surprised to instead feel weightless and hear the wind whisking past her. It felt like it was bellowing down her bare skin, as though to be running faster than humanly possible. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes to see she was held against Donnie’s chest, and he was running—no, leaping? No, they were quite literally soaring through the tree tops! It was right about now that the stories of his ninja training played back in your head.

Your hold on him tightened and your face buried in his chest, letting slip the content smile he had as he realized you were becoming his more and more, bit by bit. What didn’t slip, however, was the slight tremble you felt while pressed against him.

“ I’m sorry. “

He said, a gasp escaping you as he thumped down to the ground while holding you securely. Donnie straightened up, placing you down outside the window of your room.

“ Why? “

Your hand lingered on his chest, falling after a few extra seconds of shared silence.

“ For letting you get hurt. “

Donnie decided it best to hold his tongue and not tell you he had been watching it play out with jealousy whirling around his head. But, his hands stroked where the hunter’s hand held you much too tightly. You shared his gaze, looking at were a dull pain radiated. For a second, you shifted the shoulder of your dress to reveal the faintest crescents starting to pearl a ruby red.

The man before you found himself blushing for more than one reason, averting his perverted gaze from both the bare skin of your shoulder and the beads of blood growing. You shifted your dress’s fabric back, seeping into the uneasy quiet.

“ … “

Y/N bit her lip before going in for another hug. She just knew he wasn’t the bad person everyone thought he was, and that made falling in love with him all the more easy.

“ You couldn’t have known, but I am grateful to have had a knight such as yourself rescue me. “

You stared into his mahogany eyes, noticing a slight unsettling white glow. Was the moonlight hitting his eyes just right? You gave but a quick glance up to the moon, noticing clouds covering its pale spotlight that could have casted that shine to his eyes. But, before being able to put anything more together, Donnie’s hand turned your head back to him by holding your chin with a light pressure.

“ A knight? Why, my lady, you flatter me..Though, I should leave you now, “

He smirked, winking,

“ Not appropriate to be with a lady so late at night. “

“ Wait, you heard that? “

“ Heard what? Y/N, I am a gentleman, and a gentleman knows how to treat a lady. “

He leaned down, placing a kiss upon the surface of your hand, before then taking a step backwards and waving goodbye. Back up the rolling hills, he went to the castle awaiting his return at the top.

You found yourself wanting to follow him, but instead you turned on your heel and went inside to sleep. Slumber found its way to you instantly, lulling you into its pillowy embrace. Alas, as quickly as sleep had come, just as swiftly away it would have gone, with you reawakening before the sun had risen. Your mother shook you awake, shouting to you things that your slumbering brain couldn’t make sense of. All you could see were glowing orange hues outside and your mother pushing a bag into your hand. Pulled from the bed and shoved out the back, your ears finally made sense of what she was shouting.

“ Y/N, you foolish, foolish girl! “

She sobbed out in harsh, choked whispers while shoving a wrap around your body to fight the midnight chill,

“ Go on, you have to get away! Sir Caspien is saying you were cursed by the monster, Dracula, and they have come to do away with you. “

Holding your face, she planted a rough kiss on your head before shoving you out and shutting the door.

Knowing she meant only the best, your tired hands clutched your bag and looked around. Where could you slip away to?! Where could you hide without them seeking you out? Where, where, wh—

The siren’s call came to you, but this time in the forms of three silhouettes, all beckoning you to follow them. Astral bandanas swayed in the wind as their whited out eyes watched you with anticipation, eagerly praying you would heed their call.

You were no fool. Giving in to the tempting invitation, you trailed after the three apparitions, and they led you up the Willow’s path. One held your hand, flashing a big toothy smile as he led you up. The other two lagged behind you, almost as if to protect you. Had you not been running for your life up the lavender hills, you may have noticed how similar these three looked to certain stories Donnie had told you of his brothers.

Never mind that, though. Y/N stumbled through the gates as they gave an eerie creek. She took a few hasty steps forward, crunching autumn leaves under the weight of her feet, before turning to look for the three spirits.

Nothing.

A chill ran down her spine, but a nervous gulp would push down all of that as she turned and ran up the castle stairs. The large door was given a heaving push then let to close behind her shaky frame.

It was dark, far too much to see, so instead Y/N took a blind step in the dark and readied her voice,

“ D-Donnie! “

Silence answered you, wrapping a shawl of empty fright around you. Your blood was running oh-so cold as tears threatened to slip, glossing over your eyes with an irresistible sheen.

“ Don—Donnie, please, it’s so—umphf! “

You stumbled, falling onto a soft surface. After a few pats, you deducted from touching it a few times that it was a carpet that you tripped on.

Well, touch, and the lights that came on just a second ago, illuminating the ornate indigo rug, tasseled at the edges. It rolled up the stairs, which split into two towards the top. A large painting was hung in the divide, between stairs going to the left and stairs to the right. Whatever was depicted had been slashed through, leaving hardly enough puzzle pieces to put the original back together.

But, that mattered far less than the figure descending the left side of the stairs, hand on the gold railing. The light basked his green skin in a warm orange hue.

“ Y/N? What are you doing here, at this hour? “

His voice was alarmed as he descended the stairs—though, looming behind him was a larger desire. Behind a mask, he was rejoicing at his victory. You had come up the path, and he didn’t even need to drag you here himself. His arms welcomed you, and you accepted the offer as you dove into the turtle’s comforting embrace. Snugly, he rubbed your back and gazed towards the windows. He wore a sinister grin, which melded into false security and worry as he pulled away from the embrace to feather-light stroke your cheeks.

“ Never mind my inquiries, dearest. Your silence is answer enough. I knew it would be only a matter of time before those snakes bared their fangs at the prettiest flower blooming. ”

You pressed into his loving hand with shut eyes. Soft sobs escaped you as light tears strum down your cheeks.

“ Where will I go, Donnie, they wish to harm me. Caspien has told my people that you have corrupted me, joined me to your evildoings, but dearest Donatello I know your truth,”

Had it not been for your softened heart, blurred eyes, and shaky touches, you would have caught how stiff those last four words made him.

“ M-My truth? “

He stammered, hands ready to betray their gentle hold on you.

“ Yes, I know you are not the monster they speak of, love. You couldn’t be. ”

Donnie loosened, leaning in close. His breath rolled over your delicate lips, of which were practically begging him to kiss them. Your doe eyes gazed up as you leaned into him, taking his lips for the first time.

One sweet kiss.

And one naive girl, obliging to belong to the true wolf.

———-

And that, my sweet lady, is how you got here.

In this gorgeous ballroom of the rumored Country Dracula’s castle atop the Willow’s path. Thunder rolled down the hills, illuminating your dimmed dance floor as well as the paths out below. Your heart dropped, seeing the smallest silhouettes in the distance marching forth.

“ Y-You … You were, you truly were the Count—-hyii! “

Y/N screeched as she was suddenly dipped, their previously dropped dance renewing itself. Her dearest partner had not missed the lamb’s eyes that gave one last once-over to the silver-backed mirrors that lined the walls.

“ Love, no. Heavens no, that was no lie. “

The dance which previously made you swoon was now making you sick. There were millions of thoughts rushing through your head: the silhouettes outside, that was the townsfolk in a mob, yes? Likely lead by Caspien, no less! And Donnie, he had no reflection, so surely that means he is… If not the monster, then surely a monster. But also, someone as kind as he—monster or not—could not truly be so foul? Though, there is the chance he could have been leading your poor heart along, but surely not! Could these gentle, loving hands truly be so…

Misleading? Manipulative? Desiring to corrupt?

“ Tut, tut, tut, Y/N, my lady, your mind seems to be straying when I,”

Another squeak slipped you as he spun you away from him then twirled you back, dipping you again with his face dangerously close. Your heart is sent fluttering.

“—should be your priority. “

The lovers’ feet begin to synchronize as he lavished your full attention.

“ As I have said before, I am not the Count Dracula. I wouldn’t even claim the title, despite living in his home. No, that, this home, I have taken as, say, payment. “

“ Payment? “

Your fingers interlaced, you noting his three fingers with familiarity.

“ Revenge might be a better word for it. My brothers and I were led here some years ago. Our guide, a time-keeper, had hoped we would be able to fix a small issue of hers. “

He spoke with a bitterness, tightening the hold his hand had with yours. You winced at this. Donnie noticed and was quick to correct his mistake.

“ The first to go was my brother, Raphael. Turns out the one true weakness my brothers and I shared was that we were powerful together, but if you take even one of us away, the rest will fall. “

“ Your brothers,”

Y/N had an eerie calmness settling in as she began to dance with almost the same liveliness as before she caught her dearest’s reflection. Her dress was riveting with almost as much excitement and energy.

“ Were they… Slain—ah! “

He pivoted, jerking you towards him with an almost graceful twirl.

“ Watch your tongue, Y/N. “

The spark of fear igniting once more in your eyes was enough for him to smirk. And this time, you caught it.

There was an uproar outside, muffled and distant, but slowly becoming too much to ignore any longer.

“ I… Apologize. For my reaction, but yes, they were… “

Your gaze left the window and returned to him. This time, he wore a new expression—one you hadn’t seen on him before. It was a sadness unlike any other you had seen. The way it played at the strings of your heart was all you needed to know for now.

You were truly, through in and throughout, enamored with Sir Donatello.. In far too deep…

“ Your silence is answer enough, my dearest Donatello… “

The way his eyes melted into yours… Whether they were just a clever ruse or a genuine show, you were prepared to venture down this path.

“ I… I am not afraid of you. That is a promise. “

“ Y/N… My lady, you are much too true and sweet. I fear you will be my undoing.. “

The two of you shared one more—or maybe, one last— kiss as the doors downstairs began to shake with thunderous banging and the crackling of outside lightning.

Everything was a recipe for tonight being a night no one would ever forget, for better..

Or for worse.

#Donatello x reader #Donnie x reader #tmnt Donatello x reader #tmnt Donnie x reader #2012 Donatello x Reader #2012 Donnie x reader #tmnt 2012 x reader #tmnt x reader #2012 tmnt x reader

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kazashiniwielder · 14 days

Text

Okay so I was re-reading RWBY ‘Before the Dawn’. So this passage in particular is interesting to me. This is AFTER Leo betrayed everyone but BEFORE Ruby’s message to the world so Atlas’ fall and Ironwood’s betrayal hasn’t happened yet. Theodore has limited contact with Glynda but no contact with the rest.

Now if I remember correctly, Qrow and Oz both expressed concern about Leo’s loyalty before we met him. They remarked Leo had been out of contact before the fall so clearly everyone was already suspecting Leo. Which explains part of why his photo is now gone from Theodore’s office. But Ironwood is also absent, which is interesting because as far as Theodore is aware, Ironwood should still be an ally.

There isn’t much to evaluate how Theodore feels about Ironwood but there are two comments that stick out to me. Theodore refers to Ozpin, Ironwood, and Leo as ‘reckless’. And in just two pages after this one, considers Ironwood’s actions during the vital festival as having weakened Beacon for the attack. So I think it’s safe to say Theo pretty much determined Leo and Ironwood couldn’t be trusted before they fell. As it stands, I think Theo probably has the best judge of character.

It’s also pretty clear he still trusts Qrow. Qrow isn’t spoken about at all in the novel, but Velvet tells us on this page that Qrow’s picture is on Theodore’s wall. In fact the only two left from Oz’s circle are Qrow and Oz. Everyone else was either not up in the first place (Glynda) or removed (Leo and Ironwood’s). And interestingly enough just moments about this page, Theodore shatters the frame that Oz’s picture is in on accident. I really hope this isn’t foreshadowing for volume 10 (if we get it).

I think it’s really interesting how Theo still trusts Qrow (who as stated in volume 3 had gone silent for months and was thought to be compromised or possibly even dead) after he fell off the face of Remnant but when Ironwood did he saw enough signs to indicate to him Ironwood was not someone he could trust any further and had to be cut off.

Edit: the more I reread it, the more I’m weary of Theodore too. He’s got some red flags that combined with the picture shattering shadowing…I really hope I’m wrong but I’m concerned

Edit 2: I rewatched vol 4-6 yesterday. Leo’s betrayal was not made public. Qrow’s official report on the incident that was made public at Ozpin’s demand stated that Leo had worked WITH Qrow to defend the school from assailants. So Theo had no way of knowing that Leo actually betrayed them.

So for unknown reasons Theo removed James and Leo even though they were still ally’s

#rwby #professor theodore #Theodore #qrow branwen #professor ozpin #james ironwood #Leonardo Lionheart #before the dawn

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zenaidamacrouras1 · 2 years

Note

Heyo! For the wrapped ask, number 13? Stucky?

Also just wanted to say you’re one of my favourite fic authors I’ve found in a while ❤️ I often anticipate the smutty stuff the most but in your fics I enjoy the in-betweens so much! The way your write children is simultaneously the most warm yet hilarious prose and it always feels so much more lifelike than I often read? Having kids probably helps lol. Sorry I’m just rambling on but you’ve brought me a lot of comfort in the past few months and I appreciate you a lot

Hope you have a good one!!! :)

Thank you for the amazingly kind sweet words - so encouraging - flattery will get you everywhere, so here is a 2500 word smutty fic inspired by this wistful little love song, and yes, I wrote this whole fucking thing last night laying in bed and edited it today in between work calls because I have ADHD, we've talked about this, my brain is very good at doing exactly what it wants and sometimes our interests align and things like this happen.

I listened to this album (So Jealous) on repeat when writing the sad chapters of my fic Tension and Tonic, so not surprised this song ended up in my top songs nor in the direction this story took.

Tegan and Sarah - Take Me Anywhere

Warning this is smutty with graphic sexytimes.

“Stop making me laugh. I'm trying to be sexy," Steve laughs.

"If you can't laugh and be sexy what are you even doing, sweetheart," Bucky drawls back and that's probably when Steve fell in love with Bucky. Unfortunately it was also during their first hook up. It was decent enough - mutual blow jobs. Bucky clearly knew what he was doing. On the surface nothing too different than Steve’s normal routine of finding a guy and blowing off some steam, but there were a lot of subtle red flags that should have warned Steve to run like hell.

Like how entranced Steve was when it was his turn to make Bucky feel good. Bucky, with his dancer's grace, with the asymmetry of his missing arm making the lines of him more perfect somehow, his long hair falling loose into his face, framing his perfect jawline, the pink O of his mouth, the dark smudge of his eyelashes. The way his elegant fingers fluttered so tenderly along Steve's cheek when he sucked in. It was. Lovely. Bucky is lovely. Lovable. It's a problem.

That first time Bucky had sort of folded Steve into his body after, pulling him up onto the couch and burying his face in Steve's hair in a way that normally would have made Steve bristle because he is small but he's not a fucking stuffed animal. But Bucky hummed and sighed in this contented way. Bucky is all bones and muscular and yet fluid and it feels powerful to be held so desperately by someone like that.

"Sorry I’m a cuddler, just shove me off when you get sick of me," Bucky hums, and laughs after a minute, and lets Steve go. "Don't make fun of me, I can't have sex with out snuggling, I should have warned you in the Grindr chat," and Bucky is easy and lax and happy and Steve could have maybe stayed longer without it being weird, but by then, he kind of wanted to stay forever so he definitely needed to go right away.

Bucky is a former ballet dancer. Well, he still dances actually, but he was a principal with the New York City Ballet till he lost his arm, a story he shrugs off easily. "My ma always said I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached and turns out it's the same for my arm? I called the Coney Island lost and found, but it wasn't there? Just kidding, it was a car accident, just glad I'm alive." He's the assistant director of fundraising for the ballet now, and does some choreography too, Steve's not sure how it all works, but Bucky is happy and charming and Steve would definitely hand over all his money to fund the ballet if Bucky had asked him. But. Bucky's never asked him to donate to the ballet. They don't talk about work stuff beyond the minimum. Steve’s just happy they talk at all.

The next week Steve's phone pings and it's Bucky on Grindr again, and apparently Bucky had a shit day and wants to get fucked, and he likes Steve's dick so, well, does Steve top? Steve saves his work, stops his time tracker, and that's all the graphics that are getting designed for today. He changes out of his work from home sweats and puts on his date jeans, and heads over to Bucky's place to take them back off again. Bucky's wearing a suit, his hair slicked back, and the arm of the suit neatly tailored up. He looks amazing, his tie just a little loose around his neck, his eyes lazy and suggestive, moving right into Steve's space and dipping his head down for a kiss before Steve can even say hello.

Steve can work with that, he pushes Bucky into the wall and spreads Bucky’s legs enough so that they're the same height and untucks Bucky's shirt so he can feel up his slim frame. Steve moves Bucky through his apartment and into his bed, and climbs on top of Bucky, and Bucky reaches into the bedtime table for lube and condoms and it's good, it's so good, and Steve can't recommend fucking a ballerina or whatever a guy ballet dancer is any higher, especially when Bucky bites hard into Steve's shoulder and keens desperately and more and more until Steve's ready to last forever if Bucky needs him to, except then Bucky's shaking apart with his one hand in Steve's hair and kissing him messily all teeth and heaving breath and that's fine. Steve loves Bucky's teeth.

After, Steve's forcibly cuddled by Bucky again, which is fine because Steve's legs are kind of rubbery because he's not as athletic as Bucky - then again, who is.

Steve cuddles with Bucky and listens to him ramble on about nothing in particular before sliding back into his date jeans and letting himself out. In his head tells himself this is a business transaction more or less. Steve is a consultant who knows how to do authentic and meaningful work for his clients and move on. A skillshare of sorts.

It sort of becomes a Friday night thing. Most Friday nights Bucky seems to have some kind of high end fundraiser related to his work at the ballet. It makes sense that Bucky can’t be hunting for a hookup while representing his work, so it’s perfectly logical that he’d touch base with Steve after for a bit of no strings attached fun. Steve doesn’t see any need to tell Bucky that he’s not seeing anyone else and also that he’d love to be Bucky’s boyfriend because, haha, what? Why would he say that?

Honestly, they barely know each other beyond Steve having every inch of Bucky’s flexible, lovely body memorized. Steve’s favorite parts are the imperfections, the freckles, the scars, the cowlick that makes his hair stick up funny if he doesn’t slather product in it. He doesn’t mention it, because what kind of asshole would mention it, but he’s transfixed by the way Bucky adapts to having one arm, because it’s just so fucking beautiful. It draws the eye, the way his liquid grace casually defies gravity. It often seems his momentum should go one way, but it seamlessly flows another, and Steve wants to draw Bucky or at least take a picture of him. But they don’t do that.

"I looked up your art," Bucky murmurs into Steve's hair one evening during their post coital cling session that maybe gets a little longer every week. Steve kind of freezes because what? He didn’t realize Bucky even knew his last name? "It's good. You're pretty badass. It's impressive. I can't draw for shit, so I was curious what kind of art you do. Maybe we could commission you at the ballet, you like drawing ballet shoes and legs and shit?"

"Oh," Steve says because, like, seriously, Bucky, do you not know what a hookup is? Steve should be getting dressed right now, not letting Bucky lazily slide his hand up and down Steve's back while talking about his art.

"It's dynamic, lots of movement, reminded me of dancing. Maybe I have a dancing brain. Everything reminds me of dancing," Bucky laughs, and his breath is hot into Steve's hair, and Steve laughs too, because laughter is the appropriate response and also dear oh dear. Yeah. Bucky Barnes is lovable.

"You had heart surgery?" Bucky asks in a sudden subject change. And Steve wonders for a minute how Bucky knows that. In his defense, he's drunk on sex endorphins and being stroked like a kitten and practically purring.

"Yeah, couple of em," Steve says. It's such an enormous scar. Obviously Bucky noticed the damn thing, they’ve been naked together close to a dozen times.

"It's all ticking away alright now though?" Bucky says softly, and Steve huffs a yes and pulls back before he falls asleep. "Should I not have asked? I feel like I have no filter about scars and shit since I got de-armed. It's like, I dunno. My injury is the first thing everyone sees. You're probably as bored as I am of talking about it."

"Did you ever have a filter?" Steve teases, and Bucky laughs hard, his head thrown back with joy, and that feels good. "Yeah, Buck, I'm pretty healthy these days."

Steve manages to escape a little while later. He looks up videos of Bucky dancing. It's only fair if Bucky's been looking up Steve's art. What he does next in the privacy of his own home when he sees Bucky's thighs in those ballet tights is his own business. All of the videos are from before the car accident. Bucky looks strange with two arms, off balance and overloaded, which makes absolutely no sense, but Steve’s just so used to Bucky’s body how it is now.

They meet up the next week, and Bucky’s freshly showered from a dance performance, which, Steve didn’t realize Bucky was performing anymore, let alone today. Bucky’s full of adrenaline and way pushier than normal, taking Steve’s mouth and getting Steve up against the wall. Usually Steve doesn’t like to be pushed around, but he trusts Bucky by now. He’s really a super nice guy. Steve couldn’t be luckier in having such a convenient sex arrangement with such a beautiful, kind, sexually compatible person. This is a thought he has briefly before Bucky grabs him by the crotch and presses their shoulders together hard, slamming Steve into the wall, and Steve’s mind kind of whites out.

After they’re laying on the floor in the hallway of Bucky’s apartment, huffing and limp and half dressed. Steve reaches into his jacket pocket, (how convenient they are still right there by the door) and takes a puff of his inhaler.

“Shit, you ok?” Bucky asks in surprise.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m cat-sitting for a friend, got my allergies up, and you know, I know that wasn’t enough exertion to get your heart rate up, but some of us mere mortals have physical limits.”

Bucky laughs dryly. “My heart rate was up Steve. Before the physical exertion started, actually though,” he adds softly. And what is that supposed to mean?

Steve lays in bed awake half the night trying to decide if he should go to Bucky’s dance performance the next night. It’s in a massive hall, there’s no way Bucky would know. Is it too intimate? Is it too stalkery? Does he mention it after if he goes? Is it weirder if he goes and doesn’t mention it? That would be weird if he doesn’t mention it, so okay he has to mention it but does he mention it before or after he goes? The tickets are expensive too, so then it’s weird like, does he seem like he’s trying to score free tickets if he mentions it before? But then Bucky seems like the type to be annoyed if Steve pays when Bucky has free tickets on offer. Ugh.

In the end, Steve goes, and he buys the ticket and doesn’t tell Bucky, and he cries because Bucky’s dancing is amazing, and breathtaking, and every adjective, and Steve could draw only Bucky for the rest of his life and not have captured the lines, the strength of him, the defiance. He wants to explain to the person next to him that he’s not crying because he’s like inspired that Bucky is disabled, but because he’s in love with Bucky, and it’s one thing to suspect the guy you’ve been fucking with no strings attached every Friday night for months is perfect, but it’s another thing to have it proven.

Steve doesn’t mention to Bucky that he went to his performance, but he tries to put it into the way he touches Bucky the next week. Reverent. He spends close to an hour opening Bucky up with his mouth and fingers, and the sounds Bucky makes when Steve finally enters him, kissing him gently down his neck, the way Bucky’s out of athletic moves to try and wow Steve with, but just transcendently arching up, helpless with pleasure, that’s how Steve lets Bucky know he saw him dance, and he loved it, and he loves Bucky.

That night, Bucky asks him to stay the night, and Steve actually has an early Saturday meeting with a client, he’s not making it up, he even shows Bucky the calendar note, and Bucky laughs happily, and says it isn’t a big deal. But. It seems like a big deal. Steve makes sure not to schedule anything the next Saturday, in case Bucky asks again, but Bucky doesn’t ask again. Which is fine.

Then something strange happens. Steve’s locking up Wanda’s apartment from checking on her cat, and his phone pings, and it’s Bucky via Grindr, asking for Steve’s phone number. It’s actually super weird they haven’t done the phone number thing yet, honestly, Steve doesn’t even use Grindr except to confirm his weekly dates with Bucky. Steve sends his number over as he’s walking to the subway to head back home, it’s only one stop, but it’s cold.

Bucky texts him right away, asking him what he’s doing Friday. Steve says he’s open, because, duh? At this point, Steve would turn down the presidential medal of freedom if the ceremony was on a Friday night between 10 pm and midnight.

Bucky asks him what he’s doing at 6 pm on Friday, and that’s new. They almost never hang out before 10 pm, or whenever Bucky’s fundraising events wrap up. Steve’s not doing anything in particular, and says as much. Bucky asks if he’d hate wearing a suit and getting free wine? And Steve does not, in fact, hate free wine. He also has a decent suit, he thinks it’s pretty stylish still, he had it tailored a few years ago, but men’s styles don’t change as fast as women’s, which is a relief when you are not a standard human male size and have to have all your clothes custom fit to make sure you don’t look like a child wearing their dad’s dress up clothes.

Bucky asks if Steve would want to meet up with him at his fundraiser on Friday, it’s at an art gallery, and the art reminded him of Steve. Steve feels his heart pound.

S: I like free wine, wearing suits, and art galleries. Sure.

B: Another question.

S: I also like answering questions

B: Do you like holding hands?

S: Depends on the hand.

B: I mean, I only have the one.

Steve feels dizzy.

S: Yes, I would like holding your hand. One is sufficient for my needs.

B: And you would like holding my hand and going somewhere with me on a date?

S: You could take me anywhere.

#spotify wrapped writing challenge #spotify wrapped ficlet #spotify wrapped fic #this is 2500 words #it's a damn fic #I'll clean it up and post it to ao3 at some point too #stucky au #stucky fanfic #ballet Bucky #Catching feelings #is my weakness.#smut

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