#Drew this at school while a teacher was right behind me

[lillypuppetchild]

He has crawled deep into the crevice of my brain and I can't stop drawing him help me

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 17

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 17/? 19k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Finally alone, tensions come to a head and feelings erupt.

✏︎ 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.

✏︎ Chapter CW: smut (18+ nsfw), emotional first time, heated conversations, hurt/comfort, love confessions, heavy petting, dry humping, body worship, unintentional edging, nipple play, cock stroking, piv sex (protected), aftercare

✏︎ For reference, here is a bingo score card map of Teach's apartment

✏︎ Special thank you to @the-unforgivenn @munson-blurbs @rip-quizilla @ladylilylost for holding my hand behind the scenes and rekindling my light with your own on a daily basis.

It was nothing like you had imagined. 

In your countless daydreams involving Eddie’s van, it was always things like the breeze gusting through a cracked window, or the bones of his knuckles as they stretched between yours that drew your focus. The details were always fuzzy. Staring into the open passenger door, they were coming into full view now under the yellow interior light. Cigarette butts crowded the ashtray beneath the radio. A nest of candy wrappers cradled naked tapes in the center console. McDonalds bags littered the seat that would soon be yours. Eddie crinkled them into hasty balls beneath his fists, arcing them over his shoulder to clatter against a cymbal somewhere in the back. 

“Sorry, I uh, wasn’t expecting company,” he said with a shameful shake of his curls. Bracing the seat cushion, he reached toward the floor before chucking two empty Mountain Dew cans into the rear abyss. French fry crumbs clattered to the weather mat with a brush of his hand against the plaid fabric. Coyly glancing from under his lashes, he sat back in his own seat and gave the space a final look. “Ok, should—should be good now.”

Like an open maw of caramel leather, it could have swallowed you. Securing your thumb under the strap of your bag, your boots left the salty pavement and found the ledge, lifting you out of the darkness and into the dim chaos. With a gracious smile, you slid into your place beside him. The seat was a comfortable cradle at your back; spacious and sturdy. Sliding your bag between your knees and feet, it found a home on top of the fry crumbs and other mysteries you decided not to entertain. 

You sat there for a beat as the details enveloped you; the scent of old cigarettes and leather, the stale hint of fast food, the exhaust on the cold night air wafting in through the open door. It squealed on its hinges when you shut it, sealing you behind its jaws as the light above you faded to black. 

Then it was just you and him. Just you and him in the dark leather cavern with nothing but the light from the dashboard and the soft floodlights making a halo of his frizz. Nothing but the engine rumbling idly, and the rush of your pulse in your ears. Nothing but short bursts of breath, and eyes that roamed with cautious amazement. 

It was strange for Eddie to see you here. You, in the passenger’s seat of his van. Out of your usual context. Surreal, like a dream he’d woken into. 

“Thank you,” you muttered into the silence, “for the ride.”

Eddie blinked hard, snapping from his trance. “Yeah—yeah. Sure thing.” Chains rattled against the zipper of his sleeve as he shifted the gear to reverse. Reflexively, his right hand braced your headrest, peering over his shoulder as he slowly backed out. “So uh, where are we going?”

His scent sucked the words off your tongue — the acrid remnants of grease on his fingers, the warm musk of his leather-clad wrist. Tearing your eyes away from his tendons flexing inches from your face, you eked out a response. “Oh—just make a left onto Randolph.”

With a nod, he hit the brake, removing his hand to shift forward toward the parking lot exit. Tail lights caught the soft glitter of snow as your small white sedan faded in the ample side-view mirror. There was a view from up here, like the van was swallowing the pavement as it careened out onto the road. Like you were seated in a leather throne, watching traffic below surge like a sea of subjects on the rush hour wave. 

Eddie tapped his hands against the wheel to a nervous rhythm before one of them reached toward the stereo—which might as well have been a button labeled detonate—because the thundering sound could have blasted you both back into 1984.

“SHIT—” he screeched with a manic twist of the volume dial, a stray curl wavering in his ragged breath. “Sorry.”

A laugh bubbled out of you. A wild, cackling thing, as if you were a toy wound up by nerves and the noise had released the crank. It was absurd—surreal—watching traffic lights change from the passenger’s seat in Eddie Munson’s van as Iron Maiden squeaked out the quietest guitar solo you’d ever heard. 

Eddie’s shoulders slacked in relief, hand relaxing against the wheel as he breathed a chuckle. The stoplight painted his cheeks even redder, and your spinning world stilled to a single focus as you gasped for air: his wild eyes, glimmering with soft bewilderment like you were an angel or a ghost he’d picked up along the road. Like he was struggling to believe you were real. Like he was struggling to believe you were here.

And just like that it was quiet again. The van rumbled idly beneath your seat, kicking up a smokescreen of exhaust. His soft lips parted and twitched. Straightening your shoulders and dipping your chin, you prepared to receive any words he had to offer. You even thought a soft smile might encourage their release, but nothing came out. The light turned him green, and with a sharp sigh through his nose he shifted his attention back to the road.

Smoothing your hands across the wool in your lap, you chewed at your own stubborn words as you did your bottom lip. But they were too big to make it out. Too loud, even with the rumble of the engine. Instead you cast your attention over your shoulder with a heavy sigh. Lately it was rare to find yourself out past dark. Even rarer that you looked past your own pained reflection in the glass. Passing below you like a panorama, Christmas lights wrapped stout bushes and glowed under a fresh blanket of snow. Plastic reindeers and light-up Santas crowded lawns amongst nativity scenes. Bright colored bulbs wrapped porches and rooftops. Through these dirty windows, you could almost call it beautiful. 

“Straight?”

You blinked out of your daydream. “Mhm, until Chester, then make a right.”

Eddie gave a single nod, keeping his eyes on the road. Typically by the time he made it past Melvald’s he would be fumbling in the pocket of his coat, pinching a cigarette out of the box and feeling for his lighter on the dash while his knee kept him out of a ditch. Today he had precious cargo. Chin locked dutifully forward, he still couldn’t keep his eyes from staying, from catching the lights as they danced across your holy form. You were watching them intently, lost in some daydream he could only speculate about. It was a vision he could get used to. Secretly he hoped you’d stay distracted, just a moment longer. Long enough to snap a mental polaroid, to shake it and save it for later. Tension splayed his hands on the wheel, and he firmly adjusted his grip with a slow exhale.

Shifting against the leather beneath you, your fingers found the stitching, running nervously along the smooth piping, filing it somewhere deep in your memory. It was good like this. Cruising like a tall ship above the sea of cars as Eddie palmed the wheel. Feeling his presence in the seat next to you; solid and stable like a captain at the helm. It was better than a dream. Absent of clasped palms and open windows, but rich in realness. 

Tin cans rolled hollowly in the back as the van veered right, and you wondered how many other lucky people had been given this place of honor after shows at The Hideout, or parties on the weekend, or long summer nights that bled into day. You could almost picture him pulling up to a gas station; the smoke wafting out of the doors as they opened, the crinkling of Snickers wrappers and cracking of pop cans, the laughter over the roar of the stereo. You were surrounded by remnants of good times past. Closing your eyes, you imagined for a moment that he was taking you somewhere else. Somewhere fun and exciting, somewhere you would surely leave behind remnants of your own.

When the van passed the baseball field and approached the tidy row of lights outside of each apartment door including yours, you wished he would just keep driving. Way out past the farms and forests, straight into the stars. You wouldn’t even look back.

“This lot here,” you gestured as a crushing feeling crept into your chest.

With a solemn nod, Eddie did as he was instructed. He braked and cranked the wheel, drove all the way to the end—to the last apartment on the single-story strip—and pulled into the empty spot in front of it. 

You sat there for a moment, idling as the large headlights illuminated a single red door, the number 8 beside it. Suddenly it was like you were a child again, being dropped off at home after a weekend with Janet. It was the same sinking feeling. With a slow exhale, you worried your lip between your teeth.

Eddie killed the engine. His hand splayed the wheel, brows pinching as his thumb dug into the leather with a heavy sigh. Your eyes connected, and the staring match began. It sucked the moisture from your mouth. All you could taste anymore was your heartbeat. All you could see were those eyes—dark and brimming with a million words behind them, almost loud enough to hear. Let me in, they begged. Please, I’m so close.

The door was right there, glowing and red. All it needed was for you to unlock it. Only you could do that. Words wrestled on your tongue. They grappled with each other, flung each other from the ropes and into the ring. You can come in, one side said. Help me find a mechanic. The angel—or was it the devil—pulled that voice into a headlock, gritted thank you, goodbye in a voice that sounded an awful lot like your mother.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight. In the end it was goodness that moved your hand, grabbed the leather from between your legs and slid the heavy burden onto your lap. It was goodness that placed your fingers on the cold plastic handle and pulled. 

“Wait—”

There was a sparkle in your eyes. It flickered in the darkness as you turned over your shoulder. 

“We need to talk.”

Your fingers left the handle as you settled back into your seat with a sigh. “I know, we do.”

“Like, now.” It was loud and insistent, much more than he intended, but it just leapt out. “I want to talk to you now,” he repeated softer this time, thumb digging into the leather of the steering wheel.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah—no you’re right.” Your stomach did a summersault at the admission.

The knot in Eddie’s gut released slightly. He chewed his lip for a second before continuing. “I mean, we could talk out here I guess but it’s like, twenty degrees out and I’m running low on gas.” 

Your front door glowed in the halo of his headlights. He didn’t have to spell it out. You weren’t going to make him. But it had to be him who was asking, because all your lips had space for were four words, pinning their opposition to the mat, buying just enough time to sneak out. “You can come in.” It was quiet, but clear as you tugged the plastic handle, nodding over your shoulder for him to follow.

Eddie’s eyes grew wide, and in an instant he was throwing off his seatbelt, fumbling his keys into his pocket, and scrambling out the door into the cold.

It was like your fingers were moving through molasses, like they’d never held a key before, less found the right one on your keychain, placed it in the slot, and turned. It didn’t help that he was watching so intently, that you could feel his breath in clouds over your shoulder. Still, despite your churning nerves and roaring conscience, one of the voices—whether it was the angel or the devil, you hadn’t decided—rose up in hope as you turned the handle and pushed in.

It was nothing like he had imagined. 

Then again, he wasn’t really sure what he had imagined, just that there was something—some sign of life—like posters, or paintings, or something that suggested you even lived here. Instead as you flicked on the lights to the narrow hallway, he saw nothing but white walls. He froze for a moment, glancing down at his boots weeping onto your clean white carpet. He was struck by the impulse to remove them, to preserve the cleanliness of such a sterile environment, but when you kept on walking, the impulse was greater to follow. 

In a few strides he was passing a kitchen to his left; plain with a small formica table and chairs. He couldn’t get a glimpse of much else before the hallway emptied into the living room. This space looked slightly more lived in, but barely. There was a crocheted afghan in shades of brown draped over the cream floral couch. A remote and papers on the coffee table. A TV in the center of the room. In the corner by the sliding glass doors were few cardboard boxes labeled with words he couldn’t make out. Even the Christmas tree beside them was bare. It was amazing to him how much nothing there could be in a place somebody lived, how it was even possible. The only piece of furniture that seemed to hold some fragment of personality was the long record cabinet pushed up against the wall to his right. On top there were even a few records leaning between the speakers and the record player. It was hard to make out what they were from the track list on the back, not that he had much time before you turned around.

Eddie Munson was standing in your living room. Right behind the TV. You had to blink a few times to believe it. The dark, broad angles of his shoulders jumped out against the stark wall behind him as if he was a cardboard cutout. Out of place, out of time. He was moving though; stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels as he chewed his bottom lip. 

You’d really done it now—invited a wolf inside your den. And now you were alone with him. Truly alone. Hidden from the outside world behind a door you’d locked yourself. You could say anything—do anything—you wanted. Fingers moving to the top button of your coat, they froze just as they did when you passed the front closet. As if removing it would render you vulnerable, would encourage him to do the same, encourage him to stay. Goodness drew your fingers from the plastic, tucked them safely inside your pocket.

“Thank you for the ride, I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He took a step forward, and a knot began to twist low in your belly. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said last week. About it not being a big deal,” he began with a slow, deep breath. “It was like, really fucking stupid a-and just—god,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “insensitive of me and I’m sorry.”

You could tell he’d really thought about it. By the look in his eyes you were sure it had eaten away at him ever since you’d left him in your classroom. “Thanks, I appreciate the apology.”

His shoulders relaxed a little.

“I’m sorry too, honestly. This whole situation is…” you shook your head, breaking his gaze with a bitter sigh, “a mess. I never—” you sucked your teeth, searching for the words like they were stones on a dark path through the woods. “This is my fault.”

Eddie blinked in disbelief, offering a hollow laugh. “No, it isn’t.”

“No, it is.”

He rolled his eyes, unable to mask his annoyance. “What, like I didn’t ask you out? Ask you to smoke with me? Ask you to kiss me?” The last question lingered in the air between you, hanging for a second before you cut in.

“I should have said no,” you doubled down. “It’s my responsibility—”

“Stop.”

“I never should have put you in this position—”

“STOP.”

“No, it is my fault, Eddie. I’m your—”

“What, you’re my superior?” He strode forward, spitting fire like a volcano. “What like—like I’m some helpless child?”

“No—”

“Then talk to me like I’m an adult, because I am.” He was yelling now. Suddenly it felt like you were shrinking, dwarfed by his imposing silhouette. He must have seen the fear flicker in your eyes because he doubled back, raking his hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “I’m twenty years old,” he leveled. “I’m twenty years old and still in fucking high school for some reason.”

Folding your arms across your thick coat, your lips twitched but nothing made it out. It was swallowed by the emptiness of the room, by the silence he left you in, by his dark eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t come here to argue, I—” he balled his fist and lowered it with a sharp breath through his nose. “I’ve barely been here five minutes and I’m already fucking everything up.”

Tentatively, your boot met the carpet in front of you, approaching as if he were a wounded animal. “You’re not,” you soothed.

Eddie took a deep breath, eyes smoldering like coal. “I hate this.” 

“Yeah, me too,” you stated quietly.

“I hate that has to be like this. That I’m like this and you’re—” he gestured toward you, hand falling dejectedly as if the next word was too painful to speak, “that I can’t—” he swallowed the wavering threatening his voice, “can’t be with you the way I really want to be.”

The heat in his voice could have melted you—leaked you out of your coat, and your boots, and your blouse until you seeped into the carpet. Until there was nothing left but the puddle he had rendered you. “I know,” you breathed. “So do I—”

“Then why don’t we just—?” He stepped forward, a hunger growing in his eyes like he’d glimpsed his first meal in days. Like he wanted to devour you.

And you wanted it. More than you cared to admit. The heat creeping up your neck didn’t lie, but your feet were far more self-preserving, treading backwards on the carpet. “It’s dangerous.”

He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders with a frustrated sigh. “You know what, how ‘bout I just drop out?”

“Eddie—”

“No, really. As soon as we come back from break.”

You shook your head, pulse pounding in your temples. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? It would solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”

Your coat was suddenly suffocating, the room closing in like the narrowing space between you as he encroached with another step. “No. I’m supposed to be helping you a-and now I’m just getting in the way.”

Eddie fumed, nostrils flaring. “Getting in the way of what, some stupid piece of paper? I mean what the fuck do I need a diploma for anyway?” He gave a hollow laugh. “W-what you think I’m gonna be like, a doctor or some shit?”

His words were like daggers, aimed at himself but they sank into you. “It’s important to you. I know it is because you would have dropped out a long time ago if it wasn’t. I’m not gonna let you throw that away. Not when you’re this close. Not for me.”

The anger was rising again, building like steam in his chest. “Then what do you want me to do? Stay in school, risk your job?”

You paused for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth over the carpet. “Even if you did drop out, how do you think that would look to this whole town? You suddenly drop out of school and then… what? We just happen to start dating? You don’t think that would raise a few eyebrows? Most of my coworkers know that I’m tutoring you. It’s easy to put two and two together. People talk.”

Eddie heaved a sigh, glaring at the tidy stack of papers on your coffee table, the neatly folded afghan on your couch, suddenly swallowed by the order, the evidence of both of your positions. “Then what should we do?” He felt like he was on trial, like you held a wooden hammer, like he was waiting for it to fall. 

In the end, all you could offer was your honesty, like a hollow whisper. “I don’t know.”

It sunk like an arrow in his chest, shocked him with the depth of its sting. “Why not?” The words just shot out, and the pinch in your brow let him know where they landed. “I’m sorry—I mean of course I know why not—like practically speaking but—” His retort was drying up on his tongue, pounding feebly in his chest. “I just thought that, I mean we both—we both have feelings for each other.” A tangible pain flickered in his eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Yes, but—” The words caught in your throat at the sight of him. Those enormous almond eyes that haunted you whenever you closed yours. The way his lips twitched and trembled and begged you to capture and still them. And those hands, capable of so many things. Under stage lights they were sure and nimble, plucking complex melodies with ease and precision. Under fluorescents they fumbled carelessly, left everything they touched either bent, broken, or beaten. Did you trust them to protect you? Trust them with your career, your reputation, your heart? Did he know what he was truly asking you? When you finally collected the words, they came out low, and quivering. “You could ruin me.”

He wasn’t sure what hurt more, the fear in your eyes or the sting of your mistrust. Eddie took a step forward, placing a hand on his chest in earnest. “I would never do that.”

Anger startled you as it rose up, clawing its way out of the grave you buried it in when you slammed your car door shut outside the pawn shop. “I’ve known you for four months, Eddie.” Your lips formed a hard line, tears threatening behind your eyes as you gestured to the boxes in the corner. “I knew him for five years.” 

Eddie seethed, a fury rising in his chest at the man who’d hurt you, at the whole situation. “I can’t change that,” he snapped. “I wish I could. I wish I could just-just wave my hand and make it all better. I wish—” he breathed a hollow laugh, “that everything was different. That we’d met at some bar and I was some—some… I don’t know, just some guy instead of some fuckup who needs your help with his chemistry homework.” His voice betrayed him, fracturing the last few words. He swallowed, tears welling behind his eyes. After a deep breath, he finished. “I wish I could change a lot of things, but I can’t. All I can do is ask for you to trust me because the only thing I want in this world is a chance to show you how much I love you.”

The words bloomed in your chest, stung behind your eyes, hung like the aftershock of a bomb in the space between you. All your life you had wanted so many things. All of them ended up stored in boxes, sitting in drawers, held in secret daydreams. Remnants collecting dust. Fantasies no one would ever know. Eddie Munson stood there in your living room and told you that he loved you, and never in your whole entire life did you want something as badly as you wanted to believe him. To tell him that you loved him too. To crash into his arms and never leave. But fear held its icy grip, kept you frozen in place. Tears burned behind your eyes but you buried them too. “Those are big words, Eddie,” you whispered. 

Molten feelings churned in his gut, came spewing out before he could stop them. “I’m not illiterate,” he snapped.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what this probably looks like to you,” he wavered hotly, nostrils flaring as his mouth became a thin, hard line, though his eyes were welling and wounded. “That—that I’m just some young, reckless guy who has the hots for his—” the last word caught in his throat.

“I don’t think that,” you whispered.

“Then what do you mean?”

The pain in his voice fractured the ice around your heart. “I just...” You breathed a deep sigh, searching for the words in the carpet before meeting his gaze again. “I just need to make sure you mean them, like really mean them, because—” your voice snagged. Through the hot blur, you glanced at your full moving boxes. Your empty Christmas tree. Your empty walls. Empty as the day you left Indianapolis. Empty as the day you moved in. “I can’t do this again.”

The crack in your voice could have shattered him, much less the image of you, shrinking in your stiff wool coat, swallowed by the sparseness of the room. You, trembling like prey, smaller than he’d ever seen you. 

“I mean them,” he uttered hotly. “I can’t do anything about your position, or mine, or your past, or how difficult this is for both of us. But…” he drew a deep breath, treading his words like rocks on a river. “I want you to give me a chance. A chance to be like—like a real person with you. Someone who can take you on a real date a-and—” The rest of it snagged in his throat, eyes welling as he swallowed back tears. He clenched his hand into a fist. Steadying himself with a deep, convicted breath, he continued. “I promise you will never have to worry—at least about how I feel—because I love you. And I mean it.” He let it hang in the air for a moment, straightening his shoulders. “All I’m asking for is a chance to show you.” 

You closed your eyes, tears cascading down your cheeks as you stifled a sob. When you opened them to a blurry room, Eddie was standing there, waiting for you. In your whole life you could count on one hand all the truly bad things you’d ever done. This, by any technical account, would be the worst of them all by a long shot. But when you searched your heart for the right answer, all you could find were fragmented dreams of the wind in your hair, and your feet on the dash, and his hand clasped in yours, and the wild open road, and every soft, quiet want you had ever locked away. When you finally opened your mouth, all you could manage were two words—broken, half-whispered, terrifying, and true. “Show me.” 

Swiftly, like a summer wind, Eddie crossed the room in two quick steps, snatched your face in both his hands, and kissed you. And just like that you were swept away. Stunned and breathless and whole all at once. Crushed between his hands and mouth, hot tears pinching through your lashes to cascade over the rough pads of his thumbs. You blindly grasped for him, fisting the leather of his coat to keep him from evaporating, to keep you from floating away. An exhale shook from both of you—wet and shuddering—as he parted just a fraction, just enough to capture you again. You melted there against his lips, wept like melting snow into his palms, dripping toward the carpet as his thumbs swiped the remnants from your cheeks. It was sniffling and sloppy, messy and real, and here—in the absence of bells, and desks, and lights that made everything wrong—it was the rightest thing that you had ever known.

With both his agent hands, Eddie kissed you for every time he wanted to but couldn’t. A thousand fervent daydreams pressed against your lips. One for every time he saw you in the hall, every time you’d brushed against his arm, every time you’d looked at him with kindness when everyone else saw a freak and a waste of their time. 

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips. A shallow sob escaped through the corners of his mouth and you kissed it away, thumbs soothing over his wet cheeks. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” And you meant every word.

Eddie stilled against the bridge of your nose and sighed, eyes closed, relishing as the words washed over him like a balm. Your breath mingled in soft pants as you rocked against his forehead, swaying to a rhythm only the two of you could hear. As if on cue, you opened your eyes together and were swallowed by two massive brown spheres. 

His thumbs gave your cheeks another swipe before dropping from your face, and yours did the same. You both took a moment to reset yourselves, wiping your eyes and noses on your palms and sleeves, soft chuckles escaping through giddy, disbelieving smiles at one another. His lashes were wet and clinging in a way that made him impossibly more beautiful.

Until now, your touch had belonged to the shadows. A timid trek across the ridges of his knuckles under the cover of a desk. A fenced exploration over the landscape of his ribs in the dark outside The Hideout. Now—in the gentle glow of the lamp beside your couch—you boldly cupped his face with both your hands. 

He was real, all of a sudden. The oval face that shot you smirks in the hallway and haunted your waking dreams, now here in the palms of your hands. Dragging your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks, they dimpled with a smile. Warm and flush in the golden light, softer than you’d ever imagined. Every subtle angle of his face, drawn together to make him—the ridge of his jaw under your fingertips, the phantom brush of stubble as you traced it. With gentle awe, your thumbs grazed over the crinkles in the corners of his dark, roving eyes. Real. Here. Yours. Now.

“I read your assignment,” you softly admitted. 

Eddie’s eyes widened with a gentle puff through his nose. “Oh yeah, how���d I do?” he murmured playfully. “B minus? I mean I didn’t exactly finish so it’s probably more like a—“

You silenced him with your lips. After a breathless, five second eternity, you parted with a heavy smack and looked him dead in the eyes. “A plus.”

Eddie melted between your palms. Trailing your hands down the soft contours of his cheeks, jaw, and neck, they flattened against his chest for a moment as it rose and fell beneath his black hoodie; steady and strong. He glanced down at your hands through gentle lashes, and then back up at you. With a coy flick of your eyes, you slipped up and over his shoulders, fingers diving under the silken liner of his coat. With both palms, you traced the strong angles, guiding the leather off of them until it thudded to the floor.

There was a single beat before he kissed you. Hard. Drawing the air from your lungs and the sense from the rest of you. When his tongue asked for admission there was no hesitation. You let him in, parting your lips to accept his wet heat, swept away by his current—breaking and cresting over and over. Hands hanging limply at your sides, he captured and devoured you, drawing you into his maw with every slip of his tongue against yours.

Your chest lurched forward as he tugged the buttons of your coat, working them from the thick wool eyelets with an urgency that bordered on frustration with the garment’s existence. His lips parted slightly as he glanced down, noses still touching, panting into the fractional distance as the eagerness of his fingers threatened the strength of the thread. Your mantle fell to the floor in a heap, and his hands—greedy and splayed at your waist—pulled you close.

His kiss came in waves, taking you under, again and again. It was the most delicious thing, to drown. To go slack and let the slick heat of his mouth take you under. You were learning to love drowning. Learning to love the darkness and the lack of air, the crushing of his body, the lapping of his mouth—bringing you to surface just enough before plunging back in. It was safe, to drown with him. 

Both hands twisted into his hair, tugging with fervent desperation as need rose up in you like a bubble that had been trapped at the bottom of the ocean, so sudden and consuming. Your teeth dragged along his bottom lip, tugging the plush membrane with a boldness that earned you a groan, a tightening of hands around your waist, a warm, wet tongue which you eagerly accepted. Yours danced against the gummy muscle, tasting everything—the hint of acrid smoke, the wistful sighs that echoed in the cavern of your mouth, the satisfied fulfillment of being truly alone.

His hands were burning through your blouse, splayed open at your waist like he was trying to make contact with every atom, pulling you so close it stifled your breath. There was a whole landscape here, a hill under your soft red cardigan where your back dipped toward your spine. He trekked it with his fingers, up and over, back and forth, feeling the muscle bend to his touch, and the subtle arch in your back when he did.

A feeling prickled through him. Up through his fingers, low in his belly. Desire—so familiar, and yet foreign as it ignited in a way that satisfied this time. There was something else too, rippling through his chest, seating somewhere in his sternum as he dipped his fingers—just the middle and ring—beneath the wool barrier of your skirt. The zipper grazed his knuckles, and he tasted something even sweeter than the strangled moan that ushered past your tongue:

Power.

He did it again. Pressing his fingers into the curve of your spine, splaying beneath the wool and pulling back in a firm grip around the muscle of your lower back, letting his fingers drag firmly over your skin like he was trying to claw through the cotton. 

It burned in a slow, delicious way. Burned in a way that made you dizzy, made your pulse jump from your throat and thrum in that low, forbidden place, beating life into a space that could no longer be ignored. You clenched your thighs together, arching your back at the demand of his touch, dipping your tongue into his sopping mouth as a helpless sigh escaped you. 

He lapped it up eagerly. Again, fingers splaying, clawing, burning. Like a sorcerer weaving a spell through the fabric—drawing you nearer, making you pliant. He met your sighs with approving hums. Bright, like the timbre of his voice, but the color was deeper, thick with a coaxing desire. They slipped down your throat like water in a desert, leaving you thirsty for more. 

There was an animal in you. Eager and starving. Pawing at his chest as his lips slid between yours in a rhythmic cadence. His hand burned at your back, clawing with insistence, warring with the few remaining shreds of his decent will. You obeyed with a cant of your hips, more than was proper, more than was chaste. Your rational mind flickered in for a moment, but the throaty, approving hum it earned you and solid mass of his waist molding and conforming to yours hushed it quickly. 

Eddie nipped at your bottom lip—testing, eager. A tingling rush flooded your core, tugged at your wrists like marionette strings, draped them over his shoulders and around his neck. Do it again, you begged with an arch of your back, pressing your chest to the contours of his. Eddie obliged with a drag of his teeth.

There was an animal in him too. Stirred by rocking of your hips, taunted by your boldness. It was like a waking dream, more unbelievable than any fantasy he’d ever had. You, draped around him like a doll, begging him to play. Boldly, he splayed his hand, starting between your shoulder blades and dragging firmly down your soft cardigan as he traced the length of your spine. You, bending like a string on a guitar, molded by his touch to sing the sweet release of your sigh. It ghosted hotly on his tongue, swirled in the pit of his belly. What other melodies were locked inside, waiting for his hand to be expressed?

Boldly, he breeched the barrier of your skirt, palming past the ridge of rough fabric, down, slowly down, over the mound of your rear. He rested there, grabbing with the full spread of his hand. It was sinful, how taught and plump the muscle was, how he’d watched it move for countless days from his station in the back of your classroom, eyeing how it shifted as you leaned on tired feet, etching words onto the board while he memorized your figure. Eddie tightened his grip, drawing upward, letting the swell of it pinch through his grasp.

Music—in the gasp of your mouth against his, the quick suck of air hushed by his lips, relinquished in a sigh. Guiding you closer, rocking you into him with the strength of his wrist, repeating the motion, reveling in the waves he made with every grapple of his palm.

The ice in you was melting, tingling to life like a limb half asleep, radiating through the pinch of his hands to that dormant place again. He was using both of them now—spreading and massaging as his tongue probed deeper. Your arms relaxed, limp on his sturdy shoulders, eyes closed, letting him do as he pleased—mold you like putty in his palms. Letting him lead you with the dance of his lips. Letting him sway you to his own silent rhythm. Letting him, letting him. 

It was like a waking dream to feel him in this way. To feel the angles of his body rock into yours, timed with the rhythm of his mouth. Such sensual movements coming fromthe man whose heated glances often gave you pause to wonder. It was a fantasy you could get lost in. Words—as they had been since you had met—were too bold, too brash, too loud. But here, you could tell him anything you wanted. So you told him, whispered the deep desires of your heart with a slow grind of your pelvis. He answered with a moan—sticky sweet, rippling across your tongue and down your throat. 

Your arms released slightly from their seat atop his shoulders, unable to mask your delight in the softness of his curls against your wrists and fingers, how the ringlets slipped through them like silk. How desperately you’d longed to touch them. How suddenly evident that was. 

It felt so good to feel him with the wholeness of your hands—free now to wander wherever they pleased. Possessed by the animal stirring inside you, they padded up the ridges of his neck, tangled in the hair at the nape and tugged. 

Eddie groaned into your mouth, surprise and delight ghosting hotly on your tongue. It jolted in the space between your legs, aching alive with every movement of his body, every sigh and sound. It ached for more, curious about what else you could coax out of him. Breaking from his lips, yours traveled south, over and under the ridge of his jaw, delighting in the barely-there brush of sandpaper stubble as you tracked it, the way he tipped his head to expose the pale column of his neck. 

His scent was so present here—concentrated, rich, and sweet all at once, clinging to him in the delicate oils of his skin and hair. It spoke to you in a silent language, one that the animal in you was fluent in. Heady and intoxicating with green lights, and safety, and irrepressible desire. You pressed your lips to his neck, inhaling deeply as his pulse thrummed with life beneath them. It was a chaste and reverent gesture, honoring his life-force with your mouth as you trailed slowly down. 

Eddie sighed at the contact, closing his eyes, presenting his neck to you like a feast. It occurred to him here—in the fuzzy, swirling mush his brain was becoming as the blood rushed south—that he had never been kissed like this before. So reverently and lovingly, as if you painted worship with your lips. 

Tendons rippled as he swallowed, and the animal in you stirred to gather a taste. Starting with kitten licks, innocent flicks of your tongue peppered between kisses against his beating flesh, so salty and musky and sweet. His chest dipped in a sudden exhale against yours. Tightening your grip in his silky curls, you angled him to you, jaw unhinging with a mind of its own before swiping a long, greedy trail up his tendons.

“Ohh—” The sound leapt out of Eddie’s throat, surprising even himself. Not that he would have wanted to catch it. He wanted to let you know, wanted to ensure that you continue.

You tasted the velvet vibration under your tongue. Felt the release of his hands, the warmth at your waist, dipping under your cardigan to feel you as closely as he could. Buried in the shadow of his hair and scent, you continued your trek—licking and kissing while his palms pressed you closer. 

Eddie was turning to putty by the second, all logical thoughts escaping out his rushing ears like steam. The animal was stirring below his belt; stretching and yawning, tingling awake. Suddenly he was clawing at the starchy cotton barrier, digging up the fabric from where it was secured beneath your skirt. 

The air was cool all of a sudden there, tingling from exposure but quickly soothed by a clammy warmth. The animal in you preened, arched into his touch, dizzy from the contact with your skin. It bared its teeth, dragging them slowly along the column of his neck with the next pass of your lips.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie groaned, unsure in his haze whether it was from the rush of your teeth or the bareness of your flesh under his fingers. Finally. Lids twitching as his eyes rolled back in his head, a memory flickered in—a bustling, crowded hallway. You, standing front of his locker clutching books in your arms. Him, ushering you forward. The first time he’d ever touched you here. He had stored the memory away safely, memorized the dip of your waist under his palm, played it over and over until it wore out like an old tape. Your skin was alive under his fingers now—smooth and warm and real and reacting. 

With one hand resting on his shoulder, your other twisted deeper into his hair. Silk between your fingers, nails grazing up the back of his skull. You mumbled nonsense into the wet trail of his neck, nipping and kissing and licking, tasting his swallow as his hand splayed across your skin. There was a whisper of perspiration at his hairline as the room became incredibly hot all of a sudden. 

You were reacting. Arching under his fingers, growing bolder and bolder with every pass of your mouth across that incredibly sensitive spot. It made him dizzy, stupid. Absolutely set his blood on fire. With a slow, upward swipe, his hand climbed the column of your spine—up, up, up—until his fingers grazed the clasp of your bra. Jesus Christ. It was hardly the first time he’d touched a bra, but it was your bra, and you were the one reacting beneath it.

Eddie was reacting too. He could feel himself unfurling in his boxers, rising fully to attention. God damn it, Munson. It’s just a bra for crying out loud. But there was no hope of taming it now, not when your teeth were grazing that sensitive spot that made his entire body flush with heat. It throbbed as your tongue dipped below the collar of his shirt, your hips so dangerously close. He wasn’t exactly ready to give you an anatomy lesson, fearful it scare you with its realness somehow. 

But you were gone, lost in the smoke-acrid scent of his clothing, in the salt of his skin yielding under your tongue, in the hiss of his breath as it left his lungs. Lost in the warmth of his hand sliding down your bare spine. Pressing raw, wet kisses to the humming stretch of his neck, you concluded that you couldn’t feel nearly enough. 

You captured his mouth again, and this time the kiss was open and hungry, sweeping and led by your tongue. Hands breaking from around his shoulders, you trailed over the firm swell of his pecks, down his ribs, around his waist. You pawed down his back with a slow, greedy swipe, admiring the firmness of his muscles under the thick cotton, the way his hips tilted from the pressure as you neared his belt. You did it again, more pressure this time, trekking your pelvis upward across the landscape: stiff denim zipper, steel belt buckle, and—

A hard jab to the hip. 

Eddie gasped into your mouth and drew back in horror, lips gaping and sputtering the beginnings of an apology. “I—um—”

Your eyes flicked down at the tent in his jeans, unable to stop yourself. “It’s—it’s ok, we were just—” 

“Yeah I know, but—” he swallowed, face like a roaring furnace under your gaze. His hand twitched with the impulse to cover himself, but he redirected it behind his neck, wringing it through his hair with an embarrassed laugh. “I got a bit carried away.”

Your eyes shot back up to his and you fought to keep them level. “No, it—it was me. It’s ok, we can stop—”

“I don’t want to,” Eddie blurted out.

Your eyes widened, lips parting as the gravity of his words set in. It was suddenly quiet enough to hear the clock ticking in the corner, the heat rushing through the vents in the floor. 

“I think that’s um,” he sucked his lip, glancing to the side before meeting your gaze again, “kind of the problem.”

The look in his eyes was darkly threatening, brimming with a wild heat. A feeling stirred deep in your core, something like fear but it fluttered and trembled like yearning. 

“We can if you do though—want to stop, I mean.”

It was suddenly so real—Eddie Munson standing in your living room, offering himself to you in this very bad way. You wanted to think you’d be good, but as the words left his kiss-swollen lips, all you could think about was how badly you wanted to know how it felt.

Eddie just stood there, forcing his shoulders back against the fear closing in around his heart as he awaited your possible rejection. He followed your eyes as they slowly scanned his form, flushing under your gaze, suddenly so aware of himself. It was a look he’d never seen on you before, a heat that simmered beneath curious amazement. 

He wanted you to look.

In all your years of discipline, there had always been a series of events in between you and a moment like this. Coffees, dinners, chaste kisses outside the door of your apartment. It was a long time before you let anyone in, and even still, it had only been one man. One whose cues and advances had become familiar. Predictable. Monotonous. Boring.

You wondered what he looked like under there; that forbidden line protruding under denim, attentive and alert, made ready by your touch. An offering to you, if you would have it. You thought about his skin under the bulk of that sweatshirt as his chest rose and fell, how good it would feel pressed to yours in the dark. How you ached to feel him move in that way. How badly you wanted to know. So terribly bad. 

Finally, you whispered the truth. “I don’t want to stop.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, face falling in near disbelief. Suddenly he felt like a dog that caught a car. 

Show me, your voice echoed in his mind as the carpet, and your records, and your tree came into focus. Show me, as the lamp beside your couch painted your features with soft anticipation. Suddenly, a dam broke, flooding him with images of Fs thrown face up on a small desk in front of him. Of folded arms and disapproving glares. Of a corner somewhere with his back to his classmates as they played with blocks and snickered as he sulked in time-out. 

Show me.

The memories coiled in his belly like a serpent, struck him with a fear that if he did, you might be disappointed. But the way you were looking at him—like a virgin on prom night with your wide eyes and fingers tangled in a knot in front of you—made it all subside.

Slowly, he closed in, umber eyes flickering with a blended hue of want and trepidation. His hand came to your cheek, delicate fingers tracing your jaw as if you would disintegrate beneath his touch. When you didn’t, his thumb grew bold enough to swipe across the apple, palm sure enough to cup your face, angling it upward to meet his lips. It was chaste. Reverent. Different, somehow, than any other kiss you’d shared. His exhale mingled with yours as you melted against his mouth, hand snaking around your waist to pull you close. Every angle of you against every angle of him. No gaps. 

And then he showed you. Open mouthed, tongue scooping in a desperate rhythm with yours. The kind of kiss that left you bruised and breathless. You tasted every aching unsaid word between you, cupping his face to capture all of them. Tasted the power of his want, the demand of his tongue dancing against yours. The taste was deep, heady and complex with the knowing where all of this was heading. He showed you with his palms, clawing at the fabric of your blouse, bunching it up to slip his eager hands beneath it. 

He showed you with a roll of his pelvis, hardness pressed against your hip, splitting your mouthes into a shared sigh from the satisfaction of the friction. It rippled through every dormant part of you, blooming deep and low. Heat raced to your cheeks, heart thumping in the cage of your chest. It occurred to you then, how deeply love and fear were intertwined. How tangled fascination was between them. How desperate you were for him to show you. Desperate to feel every inch of him. Desperate to experience it all. You responded with a tilt of your hips, reveling in the feeling of his length as it dragged, in the delicious sin of it all. And his touch transformed you, made that deeply-buried need rise up in you full-force. 

You kissed him deeply. Eyes closed, swaying under the direction of his palms, tongue dancing in time to his rhythm. How good it felt to just be led, how satisfying his leadership tasted. Abandoning all thoughts, listening only to the soft desires of the animal in you. Yes. Good. More, it whispered. You arched your back, grinding your pelvis sinfully along his length, lost in the feeling. 

Eddie was gone. Consumed. Possessed. Directed solely by the need to feel that delicious friction spark and soothe. He braced you, tightly gripping your rear, guiding your movements just how he wanted. Suddenly—as if something snapped in his brain—he was pivoting you in a 180 motion to trade places. Lips breaking only to glance where he was going, he backed you into the wall shared by your kitchen. 

“Mmnh!” The noise was pressed out of you as your back met the solid surface. Eddie descended on you, lips locking with your neck, pelvis pressing you firmly to the wall. His hand wandered down your right leg, hiking it up around his hip for better leverage. And you just let him. Pliant like prey, encouraging his savage nature with your sounds. 

It was a position you had never been in before—skirt pooling at your hip, thigh-high stockings and panties exposed like a scene from a book you’d gotten in trouble for reading back when you were in high school. It was something you’d resigned to fantasy, to dog-eared pages illuminated by a flashlight under your blankets. Suddenly you were on the cover—chin tipped toward the ceiling, head dragging against the plaster as Eddie trailed a dizzying path down your neck. He pressed you into the wall with a grind of his pelvis, dragging his stiffness along your most intimate seam. You groaned, eyes rolling into the back of your head as the last remaining shred of goodness dissolved. What was left spoke only the language of desire. A language that felt native, yet foreign, like one you learned before words. Before rules and desks and pencils and report cards and curfews and diplomas. Before your goodness forced you to forget. 

It almost hurt, in the best way though—his fingers digging into your thigh, the muscles threatening to cramp as you squeezed your heel under his ass to hold your position, sweat tingling the back of your knee. A fair price for how good he felt there. Even under the barrier of the stiff denim, you could feel the way he tapered off, the fat ridge of his cockhead as it rutted over your mound. Firm and insistent.

There was a fire in you—alive and insatiable. Stirred awake with every pass of his hips, by the look on his face when you met his eyes—savage and dark, pinching in pleasure, mouth hanging open like he wanted to devour you. His curls were a curtain between you and the light, a shadow both of you could hide in, swaying in his ragged breath. You snaked a hand over his shoulder, tangled it in his mane and gripped hard at the back of his head.

The sound he made was somewhere between a purr and a whine, thick and desperate as he met flesh below your ear again. It rushed through every cell of your body—dizzying, pulsing through the veins in your hand as you raked your fingers across his scalp. You arched against the wall, straining to present your neck to him. 

It was almost too much. You, in his clutches, writhing under the drag of his teeth, the scent of your skin and clothes, the tingle of your nails against the base of his skull. Eddie’s hand wandered down your thigh, swept up in the current of that doughy flesh and the mound of your cunt with only cotton and denim between you. He broke from your neck to get a look at you—stiff blouse disheveled, wool skirt rumpled, skin sinfully exposed, that heavy-lidded, fucked-out look you wore better than all of it. All by his doing. Your breaths exchanged in silence for a moment as his pelvis kept the pace; slow and undulating. His mouth became a gaping O, brows pinching as he reached the apex of his movement before drawing back again.

There was a scent hanging in the air between you. Warm and heady. Deep and complex. One you recognized surely as your own. It was emanating from under your skirt, from that slick, throbbing place. Heat burned your cheeks as Eddie inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes pinching, mouth parting in recognition.

You. So warm and rich and you. Even through the barriers he could feel a slickness, a non-resistance as he thrusted upward over your mound. It drove him absolutely crazy, made the part of his brain that spoke only the language of friction and pheromones take over, made him tingle and twitch and clench with that tell-tale sign of immanent conclusion. Eddie had to brace the wall, close his eyes, collect himself before he lost all sense of control. 

“Oh Jesusfuck—” he panted, “I—ohgod—mmm-hmm-hmm—” Eddie trailed off with a crazed and slightly nervous chuckle, biting his lip as he mustered every fleeting ounce of self-control to draw back from the edge. His cock protested, weeping furiously at the denial. Blood was racing through him at an alarming rate. Sweat tingled his forehead, his chest, his hand still locked under your knee. The animal in him was chomping at the bit, pleading for him to unlatch his belt, undo his zipper, push aside those white cotton panties and slide home. He stiffened his jaw. Clawing into the wall, he hung his head with a sigh. “I want you,” he gritted. “You want me?”

The words throbbed. Buzzed. Ached. You looked up at him fuzzily and responded without a second thought. “Yes.”

“Here?” he breathed before sobering to his own suggestion. “Fuck—sorry.”

The lewd heat of his question sent a pulse deep and low, a question that the animal in you had no qualms about answering. But the human in you wanted so much more. 

“Forget I asked that, I’m just—hah.” He lowered your leg with a deep sigh. Delicate curls clung to the sides of his neck, tingling from perspiration. He cleared them with a wring of his hand, chest heaving beneath a sauna of clinging cotton. “Just need to cool down.” Suddenly he was tugging up sweatshirt from behind his shoulder blades, pulling it up and over his head. It hit the floor with a thud. His shirt went with it.

He stood there for a moment, filling the silence with his breath as you drank him in; a landscape of smooth, pale skin. You swallowed a rush of feelings coursing through you at the prospect of his bareness. A whole new world to your eyes. Ink mapped the space under his collarbone. Delicate curls dusted the valley between his pecks—subtle hills which plateaued to rows of heaving ribs. You followed the trail of dark hair below his navel until it disappeared beneath his belt. A breathtaking vista. 

His skin drew you in like a magnet. Stepping into the sphere of his radiant heat, you traced the swell of his pecks with your fingertips, flattening your palms against the smooth, warm terrain. His heart pounded beneath them. Living, breathing, and bare. With a coy, tentative finger, you traced a path over the ink beneath his collarbone, offering a soft chuckle at the cartoon zombie there. 

“I think he likes you,” Eddie joked, mentally kicking himself the moment he said it. But your smile only grew.

“That’s good, I think I like him too,” you offered playfully, tracing the lines of its wispy hair as your teeth caught your bottom lip.

“Good, ‘cause uh,” Eddie snaked a hand around your waist, eyes crinkling warmly, “he’s not going anywhere.” His words were so suddenly earnest, trailing to almost a whisper.

You melted, eyes flitting to his with a foreign but effortless sultriness as your fingers walked the ridge of his collarbone down into the valley between his pecks. You raked over the delicate curls dusting the path, nails dragging bluntly against his skin. A wonder to explore.

Eddie’s expression darkened at the gesture, filled with a sudden awareness of his own body, his own solid strength reflected back at him through your eyes. Carding your fingers through the whisper of hair, you flashed him a glance before trailing lower. The sensitive skin of his stomach rippled softly under your touch before you hopped the ridge of his navel, entering new territory. 

Thick, dark hair spread between your fingers—down, down over the swell of his belly, following the trail until it disappeared below his belt. There was a hesitance, a coyness that colored your pause before you tucked them curiously beneath it, feeling soft curls against your knuckles. Eddie swallowed thickly, eyes growing wide with anticipation, flitting to yours like a dare.

A strange, thrilling darkness coursed through your hand, gripped his belt buckle and tugged. You were mesmerized by the flex of his abs, by the buck of his hips in response. His nostrils flared, and a sharp puff ghosted over your arms. The tip of his cock almost grazed your palm, flexing against the black denim, perfectly outlined, flooding you with that darkness again. Pulsing deep and low, it bared its teeth and purred its next command.

You obeyed, dropping your hand to the space between his legs. Eddie’s breath hitched, hands freezing in flexed position at his sides. The denim seam stretched out like a runway beneath your fingertips, bulge heavy and round on either side, hot and humid. It was sinful, the way his balls drew upward under your touch, how clearly you could feel their outline, their weight. It filled you with that irresistible darkness, a badness that swelled as your hand trailed upward. His anatomy was evident even through his jeans—roughly six inches, stiff and thick, veering off to the side to seek space inside the tight cage. The ridge of his tip plumed under your palm, fat and damp as your fingers trailed behind. You swallowed, throbbing at the realness of it all.

Eddie hissed, rapidly disintegrating as he watched your hand trace his cock like it was the most mesmerizing thing you’d ever seen. And it was. Watching him fall apart as your fingertips reset themselves under his package, as they drew slowly across every aching inch. The way he twitched as you neared his leaking tip, the strangled sound trapped behind his bitten lips. You pressed against him firmly, dizzy from how sinful this all was, from the ridge of his tip so evident under the denim, from how badly you ached to feel it raw, feel it sink between your thighs and fill you. A purr rippled in the back of your throat as you offered him another slow stroke, pausing at the tip to draw a slow, firm circle with your thumb.

“Holy fuck—“ he breathed, tipping his head back toward the ceiling as his most sensitive nerve endings wept alive. He was desperate—for you, for your touch, for any friction you could offer. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should stop you. But that voice was distant, tiny, barely a whisper. What was louder was the rush of satisfaction emanating from under your thumb. 

The darkness was growing in you—coiling in your abdomen and stretching through your fingers as you watched his Adam’s apple bob with a thick swallow. Fluid seeped through the denim, and your contact with it flooded you with feelings that made you want to rub harder, faster, to draw other things out of him.

A strangled groan caught in the back of his throat as Eddie tried to tamper down the feelings rising up in him again. The ones that tightened deep within his body, made him twitch and buck his hips to seek your hand. The friction was delicious, overdue, a feeling he was both desperate and fearful to chase. 

“Mmm, yeah?” you purred with a voice you almost didn’t recognize, sliding your thumb right under his heart-ridge where it met his shaft, rubbing up and down in short bursts.

“Yeah,” he choked. It was his favorite spot. The one that sent fireworks straight to his brain, made his brows pinch and knees turn to jelly. He closed his eyes, lost in the feeling, drifting away until the sudden absence of your hand had his eyes snapping open. He whined, flooded with equal parts relief and disappointment.

The rise and fall of his stomach had your body suddenly—violently—crying out for the warmth of his skin against yours. Fumbling with the top button of your cardigan, you slipped it free, working the others until it peeled off of you to join Eddie’s sweatshirt on the floor. Heart hammering with eager anticipation, your fingers met the starch of your blouse.

“Wait—”

You froze over the top button. 

“I wanna do it,” he uttered. 

Hands falling to your sides, you granted him permission with a dip of your chin. 

Slowly, delicately—as if sudden movement would cause you to flee—he feathered the stiff collar with his knuckles, brushing it back to expose the slope of bone beneath it. Tracing the stitching down to the first button, he padded the bone-white plastic, ushering it through the slit with his trembling thumb. 

You swallowed, heart pounding under the intensity of his gaze as the V in your shirt grew deeper. How soft his eyes were—wide and alive but dipping in a way that could only be described as reverent. 

He worked the next button free, exposing a pink satin bow at your sternum, breath fanning the skin beneath it in awe. Like a pearl in the shell of your blouse, nestled between two heaving cups. Unable to help himself, he brushed it with the ridge of his knuckle, smiling as his chocolate eyes lit up.

It was beautiful to watch—the subtle twitching of his cheeks, the angles of his working hands, the curious amazement hiding under his lashes as he exposed you. Such careful movements from a man who could destroy you. 

It was nothing like he had imagined. In his countless daydreams involving him taking your clothes off, he’d failed to capture the subtlety in it. The shy dip in your eyes, the rippling of your heated skin as it met the cool air, the brush of peach fuzz hair under his knuckles as he slowly worked you free. So alive. So real. 

When he was finished, he stepped back and admired his work, checking in with a meeting of your eyes before continuing. With a warm brush of his hand, Eddie slipped the stiff fabric over your shoulder, exposing your bra and the soft, forbidden slopes of it all. You shrugged off the blouse like a shell you’d outgrown, let it fall from around you till it crumpled at your feet. 

You stood there a moment as he drank you in, a sense of power rising in your stillness like a statue at a shrine. With a dip of your eyes, you granted him your divine permission.

Eddie traced the strap with his finger; a shimmering runway of elastic. He’d seen it once before, stored it safely in his memory—black and daring like caution tape, taunting him at a distance as your lips popped from a bottle in The Hideout. Here it was baby pink, rising and falling with the swell of your breath as your lashes dipped shyly toward his roaming hand. He tucked a finger beneath it, impossibly soft skin gliding against his knuckle as he ushered it off of your shoulder. 

Your smile was unstoppable, puffing softly through your nose at such an innocent gesture, the way it made his eyes light up with boyish wonder as the straps yielded to his touch. 

Eddie swallowed thickly, heart racing as his fingers walked along the underwire ridge, across the well-washed pilling satin under your arm and around your back. He located the clasp, eyes dipping down into your cleavage with anticipation as he pinched you free.

The cage fell, straps trailing down your arms until it landed on the ground between you. The chill of the air had you reacting; puckered and alert as you bravely drew back your shoulders.

Eddie’s mouth fell open. 

There was a coyness in your smile that surprised even yourself. A sudden rush of girlishness watching his hungry eyes roam your figure. Not because it was the first time a man had seen you like this, but because it was the first time a man had looked at you like this. Flickering between boy-like awe and man-like heat, you realized that you had never felt more beautiful exposed. 

They weren’t the first pair Eddie had seen. Between all the magazines under his bed and the few real girls that had been desperate or curious enough to show him, he had seen all shapes and sizes. Yours were different. Yours he had memorized from the back of the classroom, dreamt about with his elbow propped against the small desk. Yours had existed as only speculation from stolen glances in the small chair next to yours, as a fantasy just out of reach. 

Jesus.

Christ.

Eddie blinked hard and swallowed. The details were mesmerizing. Holy in their you-ness. The pebbled skin which puckered into hardened peaks, their unique color, the soft flesh around them. Full and round. Rising and falling with shallow, anticipating breaths. Impossibly real. Impossibly you. You, who he adored from far away, trusting him enough to bare yourself up close.

Tracing a featherlight knuckle along the soft underside, Eddie flicked up to your eyes with a heat that could have melted you. All you could muster was a fluttering sigh, and he took his cue. Cupping your breast with his whole hand, he drew his thumb upward across your nipple, watching the peak of it bend to his touch and pop from underneath it. Mesmerized. On the downstroke he captured it against his forefinger, pinching and rolling the sensitive peak. 

A soft hiss escaped you, strangled and desperate to escape. His touch sent a jolt that buzzed through your whole body. All rational thoughts were just noise now, fading away as the angles of his hand came into focus. His hand. There was a roughness to it, a calloused graze that sparked pleasure with every pass. Timid at first, but growing bolder. Through the thickening haze, you watched him watching you—those lust-blown eyes under heavy lids, his features pinched in reverent disbelief. A look he wore unspeakably well.

Eddie swallowed. It was absolutely brain-blanking—the soft, supple skin yielding to his thumb as he cupped that forbidden curve. How your back seemed to arch as though you were a puppet and he held the strings. How your chest—your chest—rose and fell to a rhythm of his making. So much power in a single digit. He extended it in tight circles, studying you, committing every atom to his memory. But watching you slip between his fingers was nothing compared to the look on your face. Your pinching brows, your bitten lip, your begging eyes. A puddle, rendered by his touch.

With sudden animation, both his hands splayed wide, palms clamping over your breasts to grapple in a firm squeeze. Your skin dimpled like dough between his slowly tightening fingers. He did it again, relishing in your fullness, watching with rapt attention the way they yielded to his digits; heavy, soft, and round. Licking his lips, he removed his hands, hovering just above your nipple to rasp a question. “Can I kiss you here?”

“Yes,” you managed, struck with a sudden pang for the fact he even asked. Your answer barely faded out before he descended on you, pressing his pillow lips around your peak, flicking out his wet tongue, taking you into his furnace mouth. You heaved a deep sigh, eyes rolling back into your head. It tingled like a limb that was asleep. You hadn’t known it though, not until he’d kissed you there. It occurred to you—in the thickness of your haze—just how many parts of you had been sleeping. For how long was uncertain, but as you thawed under his touch, the rest of you begged to know what it was like to feel awake.

Eddie lathed his tongue around the peak, pressing his hands to your back to draw you closer, as if he couldn’t possibly be close enough. A hunger had arisen in him, one he’d suppressed on a daily basis since he first laid eyes on you. It coursed through his veins as he latched, surged into his fingertips as he dragged them down your back. His lips locked tight, tongue flicking over that attentive bundle of nerves, sucking it. He was gone, lost in he arch of your back, the heave of your breast against his chin on your sharp inhale, the reward of your moan on your exhale. And just like that, he devoured you. It was sloppy, careless, and yet somehow deeply reverent. The unhinging of his jaw, the way he dragged his whole tongue across your nipple as his bottom lip trailed behind, lathing and sucking again and again until he’d had his fill of one and transitioned to the other.

You’d never had a man consume you in this way; devour you like he was starving. No desire had ever possessed you this badly. But for him, you were a willing feast, and it had never felt so good.

Your nipple left his lips with a pop, eyes darting darkly to yours as he panted through the hanging O his mouth became. This sparked a hunger in you; a fierce desire to taste him again, to feel his bare skin against yours. As if both of you shared the same thought, your bodies collided, slotting at the hips like a puzzle as his arms coiled around your waist. You captured those puffy lips again, delighting in the wet heat behind them. They pressed fervent wishes to yours, ones too bold to utter but distinctive in their taste. His mouth found a rhythm, ferocious and insistent, tongue sliding home against yours, in and out. 

Excitement turned his body to a live-wire at the feeling of your bare curves pressed to his, animated with a sudden urge to rid you of the rest of your clothing, to drag you to the bed and make you his. Images zapped through his brain at lightning speed, raced through his blood with every pump of his pounding heart. Suddenly his lips were at your collarbone, lathing a hot trail up the ridges of your neck as the heat sung through his veins. It came out as a mumble against the skin below your ear. “Bedroom?” 

It was one word. His voice. So heavy and colored with lust that it tingled through your entire body. A million images shot through your head, rippled and throbbed with the want to experience every one. Eddie paused there for the answer, breathing hotly against the skin of your neck, pressing insistently into your hip. It was a sobering word, and yet the weight of it clouded all logic. The clock ticked on in the corner. Your pulse hammered in your ears. The animal in you responded, met his eyes, took his hand, and led him down the hallway through the door on the left.

It was dark in there. Between the glow coming in through the cracked door behind him and the street lamp shining through the slats of your blinds, Eddie could make out the shape of a dresser, a desk, a bookshelf, the rectangular mass of a bed against the wall to the left. And you—a soft silhouette—stopping in the center of the room to look at him. 

There was a small part of you that still could not believe you were about to do this. That Eddie Munson was standing in your bedroom, shirtless and heaving his breath as the faint hallway light made a halo of his frizz. He shut the door behind him, leaving you both in near darkness. There was a pause. A space filled with both your anticipating breaths for just a beat until he descended on you, and then there were no thoughts anymore.

Suddenly it was like you were drunk at a party. Between the wet smacks of his crushing lips, you could almost hear the thud of the bass from the living room, the din of voices bleeding into one outside the door. Every party you had never attended, every bad thing you had always craved to do—flashing behind your eyelids as his kisses intoxicated you.

You surrendered completely. To the fantasy, to desire, to him—parting your lips, receiving his tongue, giving in to the rush of his skin pressed to yours, the waves of him taking you under, his crushing arms around you. In the dark, all hesitance dissolved, all trepidation vanished. His mouth was hot and insistent. His hands, completely in charge. A whine escaped your lips, one that you had never heard before. It was needy and desperate and only stoked the fire in his kiss.

Desire spoke plainly, simply. A language you were learning with each pass of his demonstrating tongue. Soft syllables of “yes” and “good”. Sounds that transcended meaning, reverberated in your chest and throat, distilled down to its essence—love. Pure and true. Rising with each breath. Singing in your veins. You were learning to listen. Learning to forget all you had been taught. Learning to remember. When all was dark and there was nothing left but desire, there was so much to hear, so much to feel, so much to learn, and he was a masterful teacher.

Desire spoke volumes through your fingertips; clawing across the thick muscles of the back of his neck as you collided. It spoke in verses in the breath exchanged between you. Soft stanzas in the rush of skin-on-skin. It moved in daring undulation, a dance laid dormant in your bones, sparked to memory by the soft hair below his navel, by his strong arms around you. 

In the dark, there were only feelings. The tangle of his curls around your fingers, the angle of his jaw between your palms. The friction of your dewey bodies pressed together, nipples dragging against the sparse hair of his hammering chest. The muscles of your hands and mouth burned with desperate heat. Every nerve heightened. Every cell aware. 

Eddie lead the dance with his hips, his tongue, his impatient fingers—free to seek and roam. It was like every fantasy he’d ever had about you was coming to life beneath his palms. In this one he didn’t need to imagine. It could have been any of them—backstage in a dressing room after a sold-out show, at a hotel somewhere along a desert highway, right here in your bedroom just being real people. There was a boldness that came over him, an agency the darkness provided, one where he could be the sort of man he always dreamed he was. One where his hands were sure and stable, never fumbling. One where he impressed you with his prowess, rendered you awestruck and proud. 

Breaking to kiss his neck, you savored the oily sweetness of his skin, the richness of the scent emanating from under his arms—musky and spicy and so indescribably him. You’d caught it a few times in the past when he’d propped his head in his hand on the desk, or stretched toward the sky against the stiff wooden chair. It made you dizzy, filled you with a pang so deep you had to bury yourself in the textbook to sober you human again.

Presently, all rational thoughts were clouded by the tightening of his biceps around you, the tendons rippling under his skin as he swallowed. You flicked out your tongue to taste them, pawing down his smooth back, dragging your nails over his shoulder blades, down, down, down over the dip in his spine, the muscles of his lower back. 

In the dark, only the animals in you remained; ferocious and insatiable. Yours felt like nipping at his jaw, his clawed impatiently at the zipper of your skirt, yanking it down, working it free to pool at your feet. You stepped out of it like an old skin, kicking it toward your dresser. Feeling for the zippers on your boots, you steadied yourself on Eddie’s shoulder, tugging them down with a few clumsy hops before toeing them off. Tossing them into the darkness, they clattered against your dresser before thudding to the floor. The same with your stockings, which landed somewhere by your desk.

Eddie’s kisses became sloppy, erratic, barely a split second before his sweaty palms descended on your rear. They clung to the thin cotton fabric—one at each cheek—and dragged slowly, tightly upward. The burn was delicious, stoking the fire in you as the delicate cotton bunched under his palms to expose you. 

“I have a condom in my wallet,” he mumbled into your neck.

The words struck you dumb, dizzy, rippled up your spine to loll your head backward. He reset his hands, fingertips raking over your naked flesh, clawing into you like dough. All you could respond with was a thick, fuzzy laugh as your cheeks splayed under his touch—back arched, chest sparking against his, brain quickly turning to putty. 

There was no masking his delight as he clawed the cotton fabric, spreading your cheeks like dough under his palms. How pliant you were. Eager. A willing landscape for him to explore. His fingers trekked lower, dipping under your cheek until they brushed a hill of wet cotton. Eddie choked on the sound leaping out of his throat, zapped senseless with need. Snaking his arm around your back, he swiped his fingers slowly over your mound. You were saturated. Soaked through to slick between your thighs. For him. 

The thickness in his breath could have rendered you to ash. You arched your back like a cat in heat; fluttering open, throbbing with emptiness. The sound that came out of you was unrecognizable, rising from that deep, foreign place to purr against his neck. You were learning how much you liked this position—like a ragdoll in his arms, eyes closed as his finger dipped under the seam of your panties, as it slipped against your folds. You loved the way he explored you—heated but tentative. Loved how it made you feel—desired, craved. Loved most of all how it made him react, his breathless cursing, how now two of his fingers were spreading and sliding, parting your folds, exploring your heat. It felt unbelievably good. You spread your legs a little, hoping to encourage one of them inside you. 

But he didn’t. Instead, his hands retreated. Eddie sucked his fingers, eyes pinching as he savored your tang. They left his mouth with a pop. “I need you, now. Like—like right now,” he wavered thickly. Metal jingled, leather snapped against his palm. There was a pop of a button, the sound of a zipper, a sigh of relief that ghosted over your face. He shoved his jeans down around his ass before pausing with an irritated huff. “Fuck, my boots.”

“Let me,” you offered, crouching down until your knees met the carpet. You felt for the laces, padding around his ankle to find the loops, impatiently digging your nails into the tight double knots to work them free. 

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, kneeling before him, fumbling and cursing and so incredibly real. When you finally pried the boots off his ankles, you stood up on your knees, eye-level with his open zipper.

The moonlight bleeding in from behind your curtains made his pale skin glow, accenting the dark trail below his navel. It looked delectable—the swell of his belly before it tapered off to dip below the waistband of his boxers. You pressed your lips to it, nuzzling into the hair before your teeth caught the swell of fat under his navel. It flinched against your lips with his gasp.

You couldn’t help yourself anymore. Your fingers—so trained in good behavior—were suddenly behaving very badly; moving on their own, dipping between his legs to cup his balls. They lurched against your hand, sliding up on either side of the humid cotton. Show me, you begged with your hand as it tracked slowly upward. It felt so bad, in the best way bad could feel. The carpet burning into your kneecaps, the jagged metal zipper grazing the backs of your fingers as you traced upward, the burning stretch of his hardness underneath the cotton, the soaked plume of his tip. So unbelievably bad. Your eyes darkened, and your nose dove into the checkered fabric without a second thought. All remaining fragments of your rational mind were melted by his musk into a fuzzy haze that only understood one thing. It spoke in flutters and wet, aching throbs. Your hand returned beneath his package as you began to track kisses up his clothed, attentive length.

Eddie’s breath hitched, belly ripping in your peripheral as your lips met the ridge of his tip. You pressed a lingering kiss against the soaked cotton. “Fuck,” he hissed, tipping his chin toward the ceiling. He gasped when he felt the warmth of your tongue bleed through the fabric. “Oh—ohhhmyfuckinggod.” 

His whine was almost enough to unravel you. Dragging your fingers coaxingly under the weight of his sack, your tongue got acquainted with his tip, flicking up under the fat, heart-shaped ridge, tasting the slick reward which you lapped through the fabric. It was bad. So terribly bad, yet nothing had ever tasted as satisfying or sounded as sweet as the ragged sighs your bad behavior earned you. 

You purred, giving him a couple generous pecks before your fingers wedged under his waistband. 

Show me, you said as your cool fingers met his molten skin, and Eddie found the strength to open his eyes and look down at you. You, from a thousand aching fantasies kneeling before him with heavy lids and mouth agape as you peeled down the fabric to free him. 

It was a proud thing. Holy in its him-ness. Like a singular painting, the motifs were consistent; a collection of lines and shapes that came together to make him. In the plume of his tip you could almost glimpse echos of the wide, pink bow of his lips, the ball of his nose. It curved attentively upward, bobbing with his breath as you admired it with equal parts reverence and heated curiosity until your hand closed the gap.

There was a breath you both let out together, a silent oh breathed in unison at such intimate contact. Eddie had to bite his lip, close his eyes, tip back his head toward the ceiling as your fingers—the ones he’d ached to touch a thousand times—so intimately explored him. He assumed he was not the first man you’d touched in this way, but the way you were grazing with such delicate wonder gave him pause to consider. 

Desire flooded your entire body, heightened and exhilarated, tingling with curiosity. Fingers trailed over velvet veins, eyes alight as your knuckle swiped upward along the underside, testing its weight and reactivity until it met the dimple of his weeping ridge. A whine left Eddie’s downturned lips; a guttural plea to continue. Obliging, you gripped him, tightening as he bucked into your hand, velvet skin gliding under your firm grasp. “Mmmm,” you purred on an upward stroke, a darkness rousing in you from his complete undoing.

Eddie half-buried his face in his hand, fingers raking across his scalp as your thumb breeched the ridge, padding over his most sensitive spot before circling his slit. “Ohh fuck,” he moaned. “Jesus fuck.”

It wept under your thumb, sticky and gushing another wave of arousal as you squeezed. “You like that?” came a voice you’d never heard before but liked the sound of.

“Ahhhh-hah,” he breathed a crazed laugh as his balls twitched from the friction and the sound of your voice saying that.

His tip was soft and rigid all at once. Slick and inviting to your thumb. You couldn’t stop yourself from rubbing it, from delighting in the way he bucked and melted and breathed under your touch. Your other hand dipped curiously, zipper scraping your knuckles, hair so soft against your palm as you cupped his sack—heavy and actively tightening against his body. 

Eddie’s eyes rolled back into his head, heaving a breath from the pressure mounting inside of him. The animal in him was desperate to chase it—to clench, and spill, and explode—but he wanted to be good for you. Good like he always imagined. He wanted to make your back arch, your toes curl, to drill you till your claws drew down at his back until you howled with your own release.

Mesmerized by his display of pleasure, you pumped your hand, twisting slowly at the top, delighting in the way he rutted into your grip, how effortless his hardness slid within your grasp, the way his breath hissed from behind clenched teeth. 

It felt so good. Ungodly good. Too good. Biting his lip, he sent a silent prayer toward your popcorn ceiling, searching for something—anything—in his bank of horrible memories to bring him back to Earth. But as your thumb settled into the spot that had him seeing stars, a sudden wave of fear crashed over him. “Stop,” he barked, hand clamping tightly on your wrist. “I’m gonna—hah—oh fuck.” Eddie hissed a long breath, drawing himself back from the edge with every last ounce of his will.

“Sorry,” you breathed, releasing your grip. His clammy grasp lingered a second before letting go.

“No, don’t be sorry, fuck, I just—” he released a slow, steadying breath through pursed lips before continuing, “I just don’t wanna totally ruin this. Know what I mean?”

You did, and you imagined it for a second; pumping his cock, feeling his balls twitch against your palm as he exploded to paint your chest white, how it would cream under your fingers as he painted the ceiling with the colors of his voice. It drove you mad with wanting, but the throb between your legs was more demanding. 

“Don’t get me wrong, it—it feels really good. Just… a little too good,” he said, wringing a hand behind his neck. 

With a sensual flick of your eyes, you tugged his jeans and boxers down until he was able to step out of them. Eddie extended a chivalrous hand, and you rose to your feet. Effortlessly, as if they belonged there, your lips found his in the dark, drawing his face between your palms and planting a kiss that lasted a whole breath. His lips parted, tongue seeking yours as his fingers found the waistband of your panties. He looped them through the leg hole with a pointed tug that had you stumbling into him. 

“Mmm?” he mumbled against your mouth.

“Mmhmm,” you sighed. 

He peeled them off of you, leaving a wet trail that clung to your inner thighs as they passed your knees and ankles. Breaking the kiss, you kicked them aside. 

There was a single beat as you both stood naked in the darkness, just breathing as you drank each other in. Bathed in moonlight, stripped away to reveal the truth of what you had been all along: simply a man and a woman. Then, suddenly, as if a trigger snapped in both of you at once, there was a collision. A smashing of lips, a tangle of arms, a slotting of hips as you entwined. 

Your whole body came alive at once, zapping with life as his velvet length pressed to your hip, zinging as his lips tracked down your jaw to seek your neck. It was bliss to come undone, to loll your head back and just give in. To let him lead the dance toward your mattress. To let his hands cup your rear, spread your legs and wedge his thigh between them. To let him do whatever he wanted. The sparse hair of his leg sparked along your delicate flesh. It had you clawing at the muscles of his shoulders, arching your back, grinding your pelvis in a way that would have put the novels you kept in your nightstand to shame.

Eddie propped his foot against your the boxspring of your mattress, kneading his hands against your ass as he made a meal of you. The wet trail you left against his thigh had his brain short-circuiting, leaving nothing but the animal in him to grapple with the living fantasy of you, naked in his arms. He could not possibly touch you enough. There was not enough flesh on his palms, nor nerves in his whole body to feel you in the million ways he wanted to at once. All at once, every fantasy he’d ever had, crashing like a tidal wave as his hands steered your hips in real time. 

It felt better than you’d ever imagined; the rush of his bare skin under your palms as they glided down his back, the estranged pleasure mounting where his thigh met your most intimate seam, the friction of his teeth against your neck. You were drowning in the most delicious way. Drifting toward some place on the horizon that spoke only the language of heavy palms and panting breaths. Letting him carry you there.

You whined when he lowered his leg—quickly replaced by his hand, spreading and exploring, breaking from your neck to watch it happen as his mouth became a silent, hanging O. There was a fire in his blood that was mounting, throbbing in his temples, blinding him with need as his fingers parted slick hair, carded through your folds, slipped against your eager entrance. Every inch of you. The fever broke, and the sliver of his brain that had urged patience snapped silent. Now, a much deeper voice barked. No more waiting. No more wanting. 

Your calves hit the edge of the mattress, sending you tumbling backwards onto the chilly comforter. Eddie was quick to pounce, climbing on top of you, prying your legs open with his. You fluttered eagerly, melting into the heat of his chest as he pinned you to the bed—trapped in the sweetest cage of his arms. 

In the course of your relationship, it was always your position that had wedged itself between you. Yours, behind the big desk. His, behind the small one. Your position—a thing at risk of being lost. A mantle. A standard for you to uphold. This one defied them all. Wrong, by all technical accounts, but in all your life, nothing had ever felt so right as your position beneath him. 

You breathed together for a moment, chests expanding into one another, foreheads pressed together, exploring the bridge of his nose with your own. Thighs splayed open, heart beating rabbit-fast, completely at his mercy. A faint terror whispered in the back of your mind at the prospect of his bareness, at the ways he could ruin you. And yet you ached for ruin all the same.

Eddie’s tip kissed the wet heat of your lips and the animal screamed from the base of his brain to push. But he caught the hitch in your breath, the way your hips flexed backward in response. He bucked reflexively but stilled, biting his lip with a pained huff. “I’m not—I’m not gonna, I just…” 

A soft sense of trust flooded in as Eddie drew a deep breath, dragging himself through your folds. It was a delicious sort of torture, the ache enough to drive you mad. Empty and thrumming with anticipation at the prospect of fullness so near. Drowning in the fantasy of him sinking deep, of feeling him leak from you later. You whined, drawing your fingers down his back as his hips rolled slowly. So dangerously close.

It took all of his strength to hold his position, all his control to keep from sliding in. He liked how it felt; you beneath him, writhing in the cage of his arms. He liked the little sounds you made, how evident your wanting was, how he could feel you almost take him in, how his cock would dip ever so slightly against your entrance like you wanted to. He was stunned by it, delirious from the rush of sensation. “Hmm—” he winced after a few more agonizing seconds, “fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” Peeling himself from your body, he shifted off the side of the bed with a creak of the mattress and into the darkness. 

You laid there on the comforter, staring dazed at the ceiling as he padded across the room. Lifting your head to glance, it struck you just how real this was, and yet more startling than his naked form making his way across your bedroom was how comfortable you felt with all of it. How at peace you were as his belt buckle jingled from the darkness, as his pants returned to a heap on the floor, as his wallet snapped shut. 

It was suddenly all very real—the cool sheets under his knees as you drew back the comforter, the condom wrapper crinkling between his fingers as he felt for the jagged grooves, the anticipating silence filled with both your breaths. The soft metal split, and he fished the rubber from the package with a trembling finger. Tossing the wrapper into the darkness, he felt for the nub that indicated the tip, the ridge that indicated which direction it should roll. He’d done this enough times to know by now but for some reason it felt like a foreign object; clumsy, slippery in his hands as he grasped himself. Finally, he got it; pinching the nub to roll it down over his flinching tip, he unraveled it until it was flush with him.

You watched his silhouette quietly through the frame of your legs, heart kicking up with a sudden, surprising nervousness as you felt the warmth of his hands on your knees. He resumed his position, settling between your thighs, propped on his elbows. The return of his warmth was a welcome thing; comforting and soothing, familiar and indescribably correct. You both laid there a moment just breathing. Just being. Sobering to the tickle of his bangs against your forehead, the sweat beneath them as you rocked against it, the tang of salt when you captured his lips. 

A sudden wave of nerves coiled through his belly as his tip kissed your entrance again, how it gelled with the rush of desire, the fire licking through his veins. His arms trembled under his own weight, the anticipation, the now-ness of it all. “Ok,” he breathed, “you want me?” 

You swiped down his face, clearing the stray hairs that clung to the sides of his mouth and sweaty temples. It was easy to answer. Easy to admit. “I want you.”

It soothed him like a balm, washed over his trembling shoulders, his hammering chest. Imbued him with an urgency that had him splaying his knees, rocking his hips, and inviting himself in.

There was a pressure at your entrance—a filling of that aching space that had you seeing stars. When he asked for admission there was no hesitation. You welcomed him with open thighs and hands that tracked the muscles of his back as you received him in one slow thrust. Your inhale stuttered at its crest, caught in your throat before hissing from your lips as you ached alive, ached awake. Finally, with no resistance. Only the sparks of ineffable pleasure as the emptiness inside you was filled at last. 

A shudder escaped both of you at once, something closer to a sob. Yours directed toward the ceiling, his ghosting over your neck. You stayed like this a moment—locked, seated, stunned by the pleasure of your joining. 

Eddie hung his head with a groan, curls waterfalling around your face as he rutted impossibly deeper. He could have died here, buried himself and made you his tomb. He was crumbling, coming apart, actively deteriorating from the warmth of your body around him, from the all sensations of you, from the stunned satisfaction flooding through every inch of him. Finally, it cried. Finally, finally. The edge was close, a few pushes away. He could feel the components preparing, desperate for release, begging the rest of him to push, push, push. His whole world was spinning, threatening to collapse in on itself. Dragging himself away from the edge with a deep breath, he reeled in the parts that threatened to unravel at at the way you accepted him. How effortless it was, how tightly you hugged him, both inside and out. How your palms gripped his shoulders, soft inner thighs like a cradle for his hips. He swallowed thickly, blinking hard to open his eyes up to you, beneath him, around him like a home he’d been missing his whole life. Finally, he allowed himself to relax into the feeling, to let his weight fall against your belly. Flush with every angle, gasping into the soft crook of your shoulder.

You drew him impossibly closer, tucking your ankles under his rear, raking your fingers across his scalp as he settled. The fullness was ecstatic, the stretch so deep it was like he was burrowing behind your navel, radiating dull pleasure from the space he occupied. It was a perfect fit. Tailor-made to reach the points that pined for pressure in both of you. So full you felt like you could burst. So full it prickled at the corners of your eyes, exited your downturned mouth in a gasp—a silent prayer, a thank you toward one that was answered. One you had asked for in secret, pressed into the folds of linen napkins, whispered into the ceiling of The Hideout as the stage lights touched your face. You could have stayed like this forever, merged and crystalized. Deliriously, you prayed you would, and yet you ached to feel his love animated. To be battered by it. Bruised by it. Bullied by his fierce, frenetic love. By an energy you had glimpsed in stolen moments, witnessed him harness on stage, tasted in the smoke on his tongue.

Eddie raised his head to look at you, admiring the shading of your features in the near darkness, the bliss painted across your lips, your heavy lids. A waking dream. You tipped your chin, feathering his mouth with yours; sensual, playful, eager. He brushed against your parted lips, twin breaths mingling in soft pants before an urge arrested him. It was loud and all-consuming, shouting from the base of his brain, seizing his hips to draw back and roll forward. It had both of you seeing stars, grunting soft exclamations into the fractional distance between you. The sound and the friction gelled like a gas to feed the fire coursing through him, igniting a fierce urge to move, to show you, to deliver his promise. 

And just like that he was gone. Possessed. Arrested by a driving need that had him hunkering forward, rocking his hips to a rhythm older than either of you could imagine. Familiar, ingrained, and almost involuntary. The pleasure had him drilling down to chase it; open-mouthed, eyes pinched, swept away by the current of his own making. He was dizzy with it. Lost in it. Fisting the sheets as his hips met your thighs with quick, heavy smacks. Desperate and frantic, hurtling toward his edge at a terrifying speed.

A moan was punched out of you—guttural, gasping. One that had your neck craning against the pillow as your chin reached toward your headboard. And you just held on; winding through his hair, dragging drown his back, drowning in feeling. Tight ripples of pleasure radiated from every thrust, stirring something so deep you had forgotten you had buried it—the fear that you would go your whole life and never feel this way. It bubbled up through your sternum, burned at the corners of your eyes, surfaced in strangled sounds at the back of your throat. 

The friction roared like wildfire between you, and a tightening deep in his body warned him with flashing lights that looked red but felt green. A blended hue of pleasure and fear coiled its way through his abdomen, but he was consumed by you—warm and wet and tight around him. Gasping to his rhythm, making music that he’d never heard before. He harmonized with it, quickening his pace with grunts through gritted teeth. His mind was a swirling mess, forearms burning and trembling, sweat dripping down his neck, but none of it even registered in the wake of blinding pleasure. So good. So fucking good. How badly he wanted to show you, to hear those sounds escalate to screams. 

You sobbed a moan, splitting at the seams as time and sense slipped away down the current. Unraveling like a spool of thread rolled down a hill. Becoming blissfully undone after a lifetime of being wound so tight. Pleasure sparked through your channel, tears flickered in the corners of your eyes. It felt as though you might break open. “Eddie,” you whined, clawing into his shoulders as you arched against the mattress.

It swirled between his ears, rushed down his spine to throb in that deep, low place. His name, your voice, this way. There was a kick inside. A switch that flipped. An urge that he was helpless but to follow, unable to control. His heart rate quickened, breath heaving as he spiraled down a tunnel with nothing to brace but the mattress. “Oh fuck, oh god, oh no, OH—”

It was the moment right before the release that was the sweetest. The tingle he could feel radiating from deep inside like a big yawn. He drew a deep breath with a skyward tilt of his chin, and for a few precious seconds there were no thoughts; no guilt, no shame, nothing at all in the midst of his blackout collision with pleasure. Eddie fisted the sheets, lurching forward as he slammed into you. 

Colors. Vibrant and rich. Painting the air between you with each shallow gasp. Escalating in pitch toward a spectacular display. It poured out of him. Every ounce of frustration, every bottled feeling, every unlived fantasy, erupting all at once. He buried it inside you. Hips pressed flush against your thighs, burrowing deeper with every pulse. Wave after white-hot wave. Crashing over him, coursing out of him with open-mouthed gasps. Waves of relief so good it threatened tears. 

It was breathtaking—the hue of each pitch. Sharp inhales through gritted teeth that melted into deep grunts on the exhale. Each twitch ignited inside you—sparks that had your eyes rolling back, had you drawing your knees toward the mattress to take it all. You grappled his shoulders, nails bluntly dragging down his sweat-kissed skin, grazing up the back of his neck as his moans faded to soft whines. So full. 

There was more. Still more. Coming out in dribbles now, petering to heaves with nothing left behind them. The spasms sent sparks inside you, and you fought to savor them—spreading wider, tucking in your ankles under his rear to draw him deeper. Finally, he collapsed, ragged with relief. He stayed like this a moment. Spent. Deflated. Chest expanding into yours as sharp pants dulled to steady breaths. 

Slowly, Eddie raised his head from where he’d hung it, sobering to the clock on your nightstand. It mocked him with glowing red numbers, of which he hazily calculated that only three had passed since he’d put the condom on. A surge of guilt rushed into the vacuum that pleasure left behind. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t—” he winced, hips jerking in the echoes of his climax. 

His words almost didn’t register through the fog of your bliss. “Sorry?” you breathed, blinking back into the room. 

“I—” he flinched again, fisting the pillow beneath you. “I came like, immediately. And you didn’t.”

“Oh—oh no it’s ok,” you soothed, running a hand down his back. “It felt unbelievably good. Like… the best I’ve ever had.”

Eddie heaved a sigh, overtaken by a strange mixture of shame for himself and pity for you. Suddenly he felt like he was back in your classroom, like you were ignoring his spelling mistakes, praising the C he got on his chemistry test. He shifted his weight, becoming increasingly aware of his chest sticking to yours, of the hair clinging to his neck, of the rubber around him straining with his own fluid, tight in the midst of hypersensitivity. 

He was quiet. A tense sort of quiet you’d seen from him before. Slowly, gently, your fingers found his temple, stroking away the sweat, tracking down to cup his jaw, settling just under his ear as your thumb busied itself with his soft cheek. “Eddie,” you whispered. 

It was soothing. Attentive. The kind of touch a hurt child might receive. A touch he’d craved for longer than he cared to admit, yet in this context, it was the last way he wanted to feel. “M’ gonna make it up to you,” he mumbled. Drawing on his quickly waning strength, he peeled himself from your body to sit back on his heels, still inside you. 

It was almost a shock—how chilly you felt in the absence of his weight. How bare and vulnerable. A soft cry escaped you, arms drawing around your body to shield against the cold creeping in.

The sound stirred him, dredged up and compounded the gnawing disappointment in himself. The nagging sense that he was fucking this up too, just like he did everything else. Desperate to hear something more satisfied, his fingers found your clit, drawing tight circles there. But you were still reeling in the pain of his absence, could still feel the shame radiating from him, and it dulled any chance of good feeling. 

“Stop, Eddie—” You grabbed his wrist. Eddie sighed sharply through his nose, stilling his hand. 

It was flooding in now, that hot tingling feeling he’d felt countless times under the fluorescents. How he’d fucked it all up, how he was making it even worse now. He could feel himself start to go soft, the condom becoming loose, sticky and uncomfortable. He drew back his hips to exit, but your knees locked around him.

“No, please—” The tears were close, right there. Stored from moments before in the height of your pleasure, just waiting behind your eyelids. You took his hand and tugged it gently toward you. “I just want you.”

There was a twinge in his chest that burst at your words, at how they wavered and threatened to crack. At how honest they were, how they felt to hear coming from you. Lead by your hand, he gave in—to gravity, to exhaustion, to a weight he’d carried for so long it seemed to be a part of him. Settling on top of you, resting his cheek against your sternum as heart thrummed steadily in his ear. The pain in your voice still echoed there, the thought that he’d caused it, unbearable. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

You shushed him, stroking over his temple, clearing the hairs that clung to his face. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Your lips found the crown of his head, pressing a long kiss there, inhaling the soft scent that filled you with an indescribable warmth. “I love you,” you whispered. “I love you.”

The words reverberated through your chest into his ear, softening the clench in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. Eddie took a shaky breath through his nose. “I love you so much,” he wavered thickly, “I just—I just want to show you—”

It nearly broke you; the pain behind his words, the sudden realization of where they came from. You shushed him again, thumb soothing over his cheek. “You have.”

A knot released in his chest, undone by your careful fingers, exiting as a shallow sob he’d been harboring for longer than these last few moments. For longer than he could remember. The weight of it shook you, but you still remained. Solid, tangible, real as he collapsed into you, a haven for his tired bones to rest. It was all ebbing now—the adrenaline pounding through his veins since the moment you got in his van, the heightened sensations across every inch of his body, the sudden rush of pleasure, crashing all at once. Softening everywhere. A numbness settled over his limbs, all doubts ushered away by your thumb.

And then it was quiet. Absent of even the hum of the heat through the vents. Engulfed in a protective darkness with nothing but the sound of your own steady breathing—slow and soothing. Chests rising and falling against one another, lulled by a rhythm only the two of you could hear. 

His hand found yours in the dark, trailing across your wrist, sliding up your palm to lace his fingers between yours. The bones of his knuckles filled the empty space with a comforting stretch. Just like he’d done a dozen times in the shadows, like he’d done a thousand times in your daydreams. You squeezed back tightly, and for a still, silent moment, there was no separation. No gap to close between what you had and what you wanted. 

It was good like this. Alone. Together. Stroking his temple, feeling the crinkle of his smile against your palm, the cadence of his breath as it slowed nearly to sleep. Drifting off to some place on the horizon where neither of you had been before. Who knows where it would take you, what perils awaited out over the edge, when the sun eventually rose, when the halls filled once more with the echos of a hundred voices watching. But for now, there was only the soothing sound of your breaths, the rhythmic thrum of your two tired hearts as you drifted there together. 

______

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

There will be a celebration hosted by the lovely @teddiemunson86 and @ladylilylost on their discord server next Sunday, Sept. 1st at 2pm EDT where I will be talking about the chapter and what the future has in store for our forbidden lovebirds! If you're interested in joining, the link to the server is here. I also frequently post snippets and memes in the discussion channels. Hope to see you there!

📝 MASTERLIST ⎮📖 AO3 ⎮☕️ KO-FI

[howling-goldendemon]

How I'm starting to believe in Greek gods

I just wanted to share my story, including some doubts because I'm not sure about some things. I have never been a really religious person, as growing up in a very religious family, i think even having some connection to Christianity when it comes to a town near where I live.

Anyways, as I was saying, I have never been that much about beliefs, always wondering about what else could be out there waiting for me.

After all, my family said that the most important part of being human is worshipping a greater deity, specially god; I decided to try to take that in mind while searching for a religion where I could feel kind of comfortable.

Despite the taboo that it is, i started with Satanism, my reason behind it being "I'm not comfortable in what surrounds me, maybe if I try the opposite...?".

I moved on to try atheism, it didn't feel right, something was missing.

Then I tried believing in Greek gods, this being the reason because of a famous musical based on The Odyssey.

I don't know why, but this one really felt like it called me, something in Greek gods drew my attention and respect.

I tried then making my first prayer, being it to Poseidon, I still don't know if I did it right or if I chose the wrong god to start, but my ask was for clear skies on the weekend in exchange of being able to make it rain as hard as he wanted on my 18th birthday, the reason for the ask was that there was going to be a camp; in the end, the camp was moved to next week, but it did rain in my birthday and the weekend was clear skies.

I am a little ashamed of this but I ended up asking again 2 times, this time to Zeus too, as the camp was moved to another date 3 times, this time i tried my best to not be disrespectful and I promised I'd try to make something in return.

The day of the camp, I made a quick prayer to Gaea, asking for a safe travel and general safety during said camp.

As soon as I got back to school, I got cherry incense, I am still new to this and today I lit up one of the incenses.

I was going to try Aztec gods, but I ended up feeling more comfortable in Greek mythology.

I am willing to make a tiny altar for Gaea, Poseidon and Zeus, As I feel like I still need to make a proper offering to all of them, I would've thought it was coincidence and I know it's not 100% true or reliable, but the weather forecast for those weekends I asked were written with a high probability of heavy rain.

It may have been coincidence, but I like to think it was a way to receive me with open arms in this religion.

Now for the questions:

Do I need to make separate altars for each god? I don't have much space, and I don't know what my family would thing of it if I made an altar they could see, I could fit one in my closet or a tiny table in my room.

What would I do with offerings? specifically food, I cannot leave it to rot, that feels kind of wrong, but eating or throwing it out feels too disrespectful, what is the common practice when it comes to food offerings?

Am I praying correctly? I tend to pray in this way: Treat the gods like I would treat a Teacher I respect a lot, with a lot of respect and trying to not ask for too much.

Is there a guide on what to pray to which god? I just wanna show respect by believing in every Greek god, regardless of if I ask for something or not, I wanna keep doing this.

Thank you so much for reading until the end.

[erinwantstowrite]

i feel like if you released a 24 hour + video of you talking about your plans for your original book i would sit and watch all of that with no breaks. so: would you be willing to share at least the bare bones of the plot you have now? or even some tropes that would be in it? or maybe random questions like how many main characters? how many povs? if it's sci-fi or fantasy? just stuff like that!

ahhhh!! i'd love to talk about them because they're constantly rotating in my brain!! i hope this doesn't get too long but we all know me, i can never stop yapping 😭

(okay this is present erin editing before posting and yeah this got long guess who called it. anyways there's art and stuff under the cut as well)

(Marked this as mature with violence only because there is an image below where I drew injuries/cuts on a character)

This book has been a thousand different books in all kinds of settings, plots, lessons, etc, and that's because I've had these characters since I was in middle school. At first I was so obsessed with them that I'd write and draw them all the time, to the point that my teachers were concerned I wasn't paying attention. I was seriously into magic and fantasy at the time because Harry Potter books were still the epitome of writing to my middle school brain. Ruby was a wizard with a bird theme that lived in the countryside and one day found out that her town was "alive" in a sense... But after I lost that sketchbook with all of the details (devastated to this day), and started venturing into other books series and shows, etc, I sort of forgot about the og story or what it was like. What remained was a love for the characters I had made over anything else about them, so I'd end up writing stories with a different theme each time, but the ocs being the same, just with their backgrounds shifted. (Around the time I was obsessed with VLD, Ruby was in a sci-fi plot set on a planet in another solar system.)

One of the most recent iterations was Ruby and the other characters essentially struggling to understand death, life, and everything in between. The story is called "Behind the Blue Glass" and I still really like that title lol. All of them had died on the same day, at the same time, just in various different ways, and then all of them came back to life in the same manner. They all developed different powers from the experience: Liam could float/manipulate gravity), August's body was essentially a phantom that could go through objects and disappear, Vin could possess people, Jean had an empathy link with the dead and could talk to and see them clearly, and Maya could figure out someone's cause of death/also tell when people were about to die. As for Ruby, she's the only one who can move freely between the land of the living and the land of the dead. It's different from Jean seeing the dead, as she's still in the land of the living.

The plot of that story was Ruby having dreams/visions of these other people she had never met before and knowing she needed to find them and set "something" right, but she didn't know what. She sets out to find them anyways, and they each join her on her quest to find everyone simply because they never got an answer to how they came back from the dead and find it weird that they all died on the same day and time. They solve deaths of ghosts they come across, meet people who are still grieving lost ones, have to lay some of the ghosts down to rest- all while figuring out why these shady people have started following them and trying to stop them from figuring out what happened to them. I even made some first draft titles (definitely, 10000% inspired by PJO because I was reading it at the time):

to top it all off, it's set in the 2010's I believe? Around that time. Just because I think more books should write about the time era

I have some (recentish) art of the characters:

first image: (Liam on the right, August on the left)

this is what Ruby looked like when I was first designing them for the story:

They're meant to look dead-ish but this art was SO long ago when I wasn't confident in my art so Ruby just looks like a wet rat or smth idk what is going on here

And here's Vin!! I don't hate this drawing of him that much, surprisingly, but this was also drawn a while ago

and this was some art i was planning at the time:

i think that's all of the art that i have for this story (at least on this computer. My old laptop might have more but it's been laid to rest)

to be honest, i'm still thinking about writing this story, but Ruby's name would be changed because at this point, this iteration of her character is VERY different from present day. She's two different characters at this point 💀 that's how you know I've had her for SO long because she looks so different from her original drawings.

The latest version of Ruby ended up in a story with completely different characters in the cast and a completely different setting (even if some of the characters were inspired by their og versions). It's called "The Clocktower's Chime"

It's very much inspired by those reincarnation manhwas. I like those stories but they all have the same plot over and over, and while I was more interested in the versions where the character is sent back in time to live their life again but with all the knowledge they had in the future, I always struggled with the aspect that the characters' mental age is far older than they are. It makes the dynamics a little weird, but they can be excused unless it's a romantic dynamic, I would think? I dunno, it was hard to get into the plots mostly because of that.

So I used Ruby as a placeholder OC and came up with a story where upon their death in the future, someone casts a spell or a god sends them back, and instead of having a mental older age, they get a journal with all of the details of their future. Ruby woke up one day and found a journal written by herself that detailed everything about her future up to the point of her death. It was more like a book, however, rather than a journal. It just looked like a journal because it was in her handwriting.

So Ruby gets this book, doesn't believe it at all, until she notices that there are way too many "coincidences" lining up with the events of the book. She starts believing it could be true, and then decides it must be when she finds out that a prominent family in the country she lives in is going to visit her hometown. In the book, they were there because they learned that Ruby was their daughter that had been kidnapped as a baby and believed dead. However, in the book, Ruby had spent her entire life living as a weapon instead of a daughter, and she died by their hands when she refused to kill a woman that is prophesized to end a war that would devastate both countries.

Ruby is, like, 12 at that point. So her kid brain is like "obviously I run away and go to school in a different country and tell everyone I have a different name and there's no way this could go wrong." Except before she can even do that, she runs into Julias Parlia, a Duke's son from the country that is supposed to be her enemy in the future. Ruby is like "shit this is THE worst adult to run into and I haven't even gotten to the running away part of my plan" and Julias ends up being the reason she doesn't even get to the train station. He's fucking hilarious by the way. He's got a well adjusted family with two loving parents and a bunch of little siblings and he basically picks Ruby up by the scruff of her neck and is like "I want this one she's insane."

This is Julias (kneeling on the ground to talk to Ruby) and Emelie (Julias' knight and childhood friend, she's so silly)

and this is the part where I share art from many months ago... when I posted my most recent art and said Ruby keeps getting buffer every time I draw her, I meant it 💀

Ruby and her love interest, Cecelia

This is Vekenti, a character that was also supposed to be a "villain" in the original timeline. Ruby goes looking for him to prevent his death as well, and Julias obviously is like "Omg another weird kid, how delightful!" Everyone thinks Vikenti and Ruby are related, but they are not. They're just raised as siblings in both timelines and have a lot of the same mannerisms

Julias' love interest (unnamed? I can't find her name anywhere) and him

REALLLY old drawings of what they looked like in the OG timeline (I desperately need to redesign these because I could do better now)

Julias and Ruby again

and that's all the art I have for this one (besides the other post of Ruby I posted today, this is the story that that version of Ruby belongs in. She's looks very different now!).

All of this has been in the back of my mind for a while, and I've been trying to figure out which story I would want to write first. Middle school Erin would love for me to finally write Behind the Blue Glass, but sometimes I find myself wanting to write a fantasy story like Clocktower's Chime a lot more

[deliciousangelfestival]

In another scenario, if both of them became parents, Bucky would be the one who was excited about everything and allowed their kids to do whatever they wanted. While Y/N shook her head and said, "Oh no, oh no."

Angel, I have an idea based on this 👆👆👆

The story set the same AU with The Gentleman 2024 or not, since I still don't know if Y/N ended up with Eddie or Bucky.

BUT....

If Bucky and Y/N have ended up together, in my brain they have three kids together.

And their kids are mischievous like their dad. Y/N is angry and want to give their kids a punishment. She turned to Bucky and said "Bucky, this is your turn to back me up."

Instead, Bucky said "Eh? What they did is pretty chill compared to what I did when I was a teenager." Their kids laugh when they heard that, while Y/N have another headache "Oh no."

Omooo... This is such a cute story, bestie.

It's not just you. Even for me, I still don't know what to decide Y/N ended with Duke Eddie or Mob! Bucky 😭 Should I make a poll?

Back to the story, the scenario is if Y/N ends up with Bucky and their children.

Mischief Makers

Characters: Mob!Bucky x Female!Reader

"I can't believe all three of you ended up in detention?" You were shocked when the school principal called you.

Your eldest daughter crossed her arms; when she did this, she looked just like her father. "I can't help it that they don't understand my fanfiction. I wrote 3,000 words, a lot more than my classmates who only wrote 1,000 words."

"Oh yeah? The story about post-apocalyptic zombies, and you insert yourself as the main character, and half of the story is about romance with the hero?" You retorted. You knew your eldest was creative, but still, bringing it to school? Not the right place.

"Hey, stories like this made a box office."

You sighed heavily, then turned to your son, the second child. "And you, do you really have to say to your teacher that he has smelly armpits in front of the class?"

Your son replied, "Everyone knows that this teacher has bad body odor. He was standing near my table. I've been holding my breath for 15 minutes!!! I couldn't stand it anymore. That's why I said that, so he would move."

"Ugh, my head." You massaged your temples.

Then, you addressed the last person, your youngest daughter. "And you, what did you do?"

Your youngest child laughed, showing no guilt. "I drew monkey butts on the board. Haha."

"Hahahaha." Finally, the other adult joined the conversation. It was your husband, Bucky.

You glared at him. "Bucky. You're supposed to back me up."

As always, Bucky would never be mad at his children. He said, "Eh? What they did is pretty chill compared to what I did when I was a teenager."

"Hihihi." Their kids giggled when they heard that, while you felt another headache coming on. "Oh no."

The kids thought they could get away with it since their father didn't give them a warning. So it was your turn, as always, to be the strict parent. "No Wi-Fi for a month for the three of you. I will change the password today."

"NO!!" Then all three of them turned to Bucky. "Dad..."

Bucky raised both of his arms. "I'm sorry, kids. Listen to your mother. And none of you have apologized yet."

"We're sorry."

Bucky nodded. "Good. Go back to your room and reflect on what you did."

The three kids lowered their heads and went back to their rooms with low spirits.

You were still angry until you felt a hand wrap around your waist. Bucky hugged you from behind and rested his head on your right shoulder, his way of trying to calm you down.

"This is all because of you. You spoiled them too much," you said.

Bucky chuckled. "Let them be mischievous for a while. I was the same too."

"Yes, it's because of me that you changed."

"That's right, my dear." Bucky kissed your cheek.

Extra Story:

If Y/N ended up with Eddie Horniman, their three kids wouldn't make any trouble. Instead, their kids became role model students at their school.

[ayufufu]

OnionThief x Rival!MC

Word Count: 4368

Summary:  In which OnionThief and his rival get paired up for a project.  But for the first time, he gets to see what it’s like for them behind the scenes of their bratty know-it-all personality (basically academic burnout).

Author’s Note:  Started sometime in 2020, finished April 5th, 2024.  I present the sassy, probably out-of-character, OnionThief and his little rival.  Trust, it’s been like 3 years since I’ve played this game.  Oh lord am I out of touch with this fandom.  It is buried within me right now.  But hey, finished writing.  I am proud of the beginning half, the ending might not be it though. 

“Eat shit and die.”

“Yes, fuck you.”  These whispers flew past surrounding peers, already used to overhearing this type of bickering between the pair.  It was never truly clear how it began.  They tested each other’s knowledge, butting heads every year since high school.  Y/N and Onionthief simply found each other insufferable, their hostility seemed to intensify when they found out they applied to the same college.  It was as though they were water and oil, never being able to mix well.  The professors chose to pay no mind since both were still excelling.  Their grades were incredibly high, scores screaming in pain at the height they were reaching, extra credit opportunities never wasted.

“You’re all dismissed, please remember to review pages 556 to 590 for next week.”  The class let out dim cheers, the sounds of paper rustling, bags zipping, and peers exchanging words filling the large room.  As Y/N finished packing their last item away, they rushed straight to the door.  Walking to the outside of campus, they made a mental to-do list.  Assignments were beginning to pile up, but Winter break was right there.  Couldn’t stop now.

“Move,” Onion’s voice rang out as he shoved his shoulder into theirs harshly, a scoff coming from them as they’re broken from their thoughts.

“I wasn’t aware the 15 feet of space around me was nonexistent,” Y/N spat.  Their eyes followed his back as he continued his fast pace without a word.  Unbelievable.  Turning to walk the other direction, the sounds of their peers filled their ears.  Silently restarting their to-do list, the sounds became a blur.  The walk to their apartment was a routine, passing the different trees and couples before reaching the bridge.  Rushing across, the sounds of another pair of footsteps flooded their ears.  

“So you’ve resorted to stalking me,” Onion sneered.  Y/N turned around, head flooded with annoyance.

“I live here, you’re aware of that.” “Right.”  He walked over to the bridge pulling a small bottle from his pocket.  Y/N watched curiously as he tipped it over the edge and shook it a bit.  Realizing he was feeding the fish, Y/N walked off, bag bouncing with each step.  The eyes following them were left unnoticed, the sounds of class echoing in their mind all the way to their desk.

“I mentioned at the beginning of the year that there will be one major partner assignment in this class, serving as our midterm final.”  Groans and whispers of cheers filled the room, peers feeling dreadful while others spotted friends across the room.  Y/N sighed, head resting in their arms.  Glad he’s at least sitting somewhere else.  

“Alright, settle down.  These partners will be assigned by your latest test scores.”  Right...  Y/N clicked their pen impatiently, feeling the metal between their fingers, more sounds of displeasure filling the room.  The teacher droned on about the details of the project, explaining how lower scores would be assigned tutors for their projects.

“Let’s start with the highest scores shall we?”  They sat up.

“Y/N and—” Clack.  The sound of the pen hitting the table drew the attention of a few surrounding classmates, but Y/N didn’t even take notice.

“You two don’t need a tutor so you’ll be able to view the project details online. Now for…”  He was their partner.  For once, a teacher decided to pair them up.  They sat through the rest of the class, every word flowing through their ears and out the other.  Nothing was staying put into their mind.  I just had to be paired with such an insufferable… Shaking their head, they heard the professor dismiss them.

“Well, I guess I’m ready to fail this assignment.” And there he is.  They began packing their stuff, shoving the items in the bag messily.

“Same here, you’ll just drag down my grade even if we did try.”

“Right, what was this worth again, 50%?”  Y/N stopped their aggressive packing at this.

“Where did you get that this was 50%?” “Read the details dumbass,” he passed his phone to them.  Their eyes skimmed over the details, the 50 percent and “due in 10 days” standing out from everything else.  The phone was plucked out of their hands as he smirked, tucking it away.  He left the room, Y/N trailing behind.  They couldn’t just skip the assignment, their hard-earned A+ would easily drop in just one month.  Onion tried his best not to notice the footsteps behind him, knowing it was them.  He held back chuckles as he wondered how long they’d follow him.

“Hey shallot-head,” Y/N called.  He hummed in acknowledgment, but he still didn’t change pace or look their way.  Y/N was starting to struggle to keep up the pace, always one step or two behind from walking next to him, not noticing the smirk he was hiding.  They finally huffed before grabbing the back of his shirt to stop him completely.  He halted at the sudden pressure, a smirk forming a look of surprise while Y/N rushed to face him.

“Listen shallot, I can’t afford to skip this assignment.”  He cocked an eyebrow at this.

“The Y/N cannot afford to skip this assignment?  I’m sure you can lose half of your grade, still pass, and I would be able to avoid your ridiculously low IQ.”  Their head felt hot at the sound of his ridiculing.

“I need to pass this assignment.  I can do the work, but you just need to revise some parts to look like it’s yours,”  Y/N pleaded.  He seemed to ponder the options, putting his chin between his fingers.

“No.”  He turned to leave. “Wait– I offer instant miso!”  His head perked up.

“Green onions too, plus I’ll throw in extra tofu.”  He grabbed Y/N’s wrist roughly before beginning to drag them to the apartment in a rush, Y/N struggling once more to keep up, relief washing their body.

“I need to stop here for a moment.”  He approached the bridge again, the same bottle as before in his hand.  Y/N watched him shake the bottle once more, fish crowding the area again.  He turned back to them before nodding and walking to the complex, Y/N tailing after.  Once they called the elevator, awkward silence surrounded them.  For the first time since they began their walk (run) back, tension swallowed them whole, arms and legs aching from arduous journeys across campus and poor posture in class.

Y/N stepped into the elevator first, clicking the third-floor button once Onion stepped in.  They side-eyed him, taking in his tense yet relaxed state.  Y/N willed themselves to relax their stiff body while the elevator doors spread open.

“Do you need anything from your room or are you good to go,” Y/N asked, adjusting the bag on their back.  

“I don’t need anything else.  I bring all my work necessities with me”  They nodded at his response before putting in their pin and unlocking the door.  They walked straight in, putting away their necessities, shoes by the door, and water bottle on the table.

“Right, um, you could set up in the kitchen while I make your miso?”  Onion nodded and began to set his stuff on the chair next to Y/N’s stuff while they began putting a pot of water on the stove.  As Onion began pulling out his laptop and notes, he stared at Y/N’s back while they shuffled around the kitchen grabbing things out of cabinets and drawers.  His brows furrowed in annoyance at the unwanted presence, punching his laptop code in with more pressure.

“Don’t you have a desk?”  Onion sighed at the environment.  

“I do, but it only fits me.  I didn’t plan on having anyone study at my apartment until now.”  The instant miso powder hit the boiling water, the aroma filling the room, the silence of their voices following.  Bubbling water and mouse clicks were the only things heard for a few more minutes, the atmosphere stiff.  Eventually, two bowls of miso, two laptops, two notebooks, and two comp sci students were positioned at the table.  

“So, let’s test the limits of your stupidity.” “...I literally have a higher score than you.”

“Ok, and?” Y/N leaned back in their chair.  They barely even started, the soup still steaming, but their bickering was starting up once more.

“I’m just saying, that B in algorithms seems to say something about you.”  Harshly sighing, Y/N tipped their head back to the ceiling, their eyes tracing the patterns in the material.

“If you don’t pay attention I will chug this miso and leave.”  They snapped their head towards him.  They sat up and positioned their arms to type before realizing they hadn’t even read all of the assignment details yet.  This was going to be a long month.

10 days.

“No dumbass, this is supposed to be–” “No it isn’t, what the hell?”

“Are you denying the truth? “I am denying what is clearly wrong.” “Look at my notes, it’s right!”  Y/N shoved their notes in Onion’s face.  Pushing his glasses further up his nose, his eyes scanned the text.  After a minute or so, he sighed.

“Your notes are wrong.”  Their eyes widened when Onion handed his own notes to them before rereading their notes with a confused expression.  Onion had wanted to work on homework before continuing the project to make sure their (mostly his) grades didn’t drop.  Upon looking at their notes from the day, their professor's words filled their brain again.  They couldn’t stop the disappointment from filling their face, a frown settling on their features.  Since they were so sure they were right, they didn’t think their understanding of the topic was off.  Onionthief observed their down face, an expression he seldom saw.

8 days.

“I couldn’t grab extra tofu last time I went out for groceries.”  Y/N set the bowls down carefully, taking their seat right after.  Onion didn’t budge, opting to continue typing away at his laptop.  At the lack of response, they cocked an eyebrow.  They thought he’d throw a fit, but surprisingly he stayed put.  Y/N sighed before opening up their work yet again, shoulders aching.  Onion stayed true to the deal, opting to revise the parts Y/N laid out for him while continuing his homework from other classes.  At the lack of help and the burden of other classes on their mind, Y/N could feel the shadows of burnout waiting to envelop them.  After this, they were prepared to let their bed swallow them whole.

6 days.

“Hey, this is still wrong.”  Y/N’s head jerked up from the part of the project they were currently typing out.  Onion observed them as they rapidly scrolled to where he was viewing.  It was an entry from the beginning of the project.  A part that affected the rest of the work.  Deeply sighing, the monotone voice in their head began reading again.  Despite rereading it constantly, nothing was sticking.  It was as though the words didn’t exist.  At the lack of response from Y/N after a good few minutes, Onion huffed before highlighting the mistake in the text.

“Oh.”  It was all they could let out at the moment.  Despite the sentence highlighted, the information wasn’t processed in their head.  Their face scrunched up at the hotness filling their head.  The sight made an unfamiliar feeling rise in Onion.  He breathed out harshly before deleting the sentence, correcting it himself.  If it wasn’t for the silence in the kitchen, he doubted he’d ever hear the quiet ‘thanks’ they let out.  He froze at the appreciation, the sound of it unfamiliar from them.  The hell do they mean ‘thanks’?

5 days.

The project was still unfinished, the amount of work left taunting Y/N as they were left staring at the blank screen yet again.  The homework had already seemed to have drained them, but they refused to call it a night yet.  Their miso bowl was cold, the ingredients settling to the bottom.  Onion had already finished his homework and revised the parts of the project he was given.  Now, he seemed to be collecting data on some fantasy web novel.  Rubbing their temple, Y/N shut their laptop despite having never even opened the project yet.  Their brain was on overdrive, the workload invading their mind and trying to push them to work.  Despite their efforts, Y/N just couldn’t bring themself to even pretend they could work, their gaze burning holes in the back of Onion’s laptop.

“Are you finally done with the project,” Onion blurted out, eyes not leaving his screen.  No answer.  Glancing over the top of his laptop, his eyes were met with Y/N’s drained demeanor.  As his gaze wandered over their face, it soon traveled to the untouched bowl on the side.  Adjusting his glasses, he shut down his laptop after saving his work, the sudden movement making Y/N jump.  He leaned forward, chin resting against the back of his hands.

“Do you need help?” “Why the fuck are you asking like that–” “I’m just asking.” “Yes, but what’s with that pose, you look dramatic.”  Onion’s confused face became deadpan at the comment.  He opened his mouth to let out a snarky remark before Y/N got up abruptly.  He watched as they trudged over to their room, the door shutting softly behind them as a muffled thud was heard.

3 days.

Y/N hasn’t emerged from their room since yesterday, the silence in class left everyone dumbfounded as Onion continued on with his day-to-day classes in silence.  Yet as the day came to an end, he found himself in front of the same door he’s gone to for the past 19 days.  What do I even say?  Why am I here? They didn’t say they’d work on the project today.  His hand raised for the buzzer.  

“Coming…”  Dull. A very dull voice.  “Come on in, miso’s in the pot.  I’ll be in my room laying down, we can just do it tomorrow or something.”

“But that would put us–”

“Behind schedule I know, shut up.  Please.”  He frowned at their small pleading.  I don’t like that they have to plead.  “If you want to you can work on it yourself…”

“But that wasn’t-”

“A part of the deal I know, it’s just a suggestion.  Take it or leave it, miso’s still yours.”

“Oh.. okay then.”  As they left, Onion felt bitter guilt rising in him.  He looked at the miso and sighed before pulling out his laptop and getting to work.  Might as well as payment for the miso.  He swiftly got to work as Y/N stayed silent in their room.

2 days.

Onion finished the last of his typing, the kitchen was oddly silent as there was no miso being cooked and no Y/N to bother him.  Y/N just let Onion in, apologizing for the lack of miso or food, and tried to turn him away, but Onion persisted that it didn’t matter.  They let Onion do what he wanted as they did the same as they did before, retreating back to their room in silence.  Yet Onion completed the project yesterday.  It was a minor error that needed to be corrected, one colon needed to make the code work.  When he found the error, all he could do was chuckle a bit before staring at Y/N’s room.  

“Why can’t I just leave,” Onion whispered to himself as he stared at his laptop in frustration.

“No one said you can’t,” Y/N muttered, walking over to the fridge to get water.

“I know,” Onion spat. “I don’t know shallot, doesn’t seem like it,” Y/N spoke in a flat sing-song tone.

“Could you just, shut up already, damn,” he spat.  Y/N carried no response.  They stood in place, the chill of the open fridge numb to their body as they stared into the light illuminating the numerous food products inside.  “Y/N…?”  They closed the fridge as if on autopilot and made their way back into their room, their heart weighing heavy as an ache formed in their chest, their cheeks damp.  Damn it.

24 hours.

No knock today.  The miso sat on the stove for 3 hours, cold, and untouched.  Y/N waited hours, even after they poured the miso down the drain.  Part of them laughed at themselves for waiting, yet the other part made them ache.  Of course, he got tired of me like everyone else.  The silence of their apartment bothered them, the lights and blinds all dimmed.  They stared at the freshly bought miso packets, the weight of their assignments and lectures missing pushed on their heart and crushed it as their tears fell.

22 hours.

“Oh,” was all Y/N could muster when they received an email from Onion telling them to get on the link to the project presentation.  Not a single “sorry” or “Are you okay” was typed out.  They grabbed their laptop and moved it from their bed to their desk as they prepared for another night in bed alone again.  Their assignments could wait just a bit longer.

21 hours, 3AM.

Three knocks.  

“Hey, sorry I was finishing up the work in the library.”  Oh?  Y/N could smell the bullshit coming from him.

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry,” was all they could muster in response.

“Okay, here I’ll make miso.  I don’t smell miso, so I guess it’s safe to assume you haven’t been making any.  I’m sorry for ghosting,” Onion gave a sheepish smile.  What the hell do you mean sorry?  Their chest aches even more at the sight of his small smile.

They talked for a while on the couch about the assignments Y/N had been missing while the TV ran some background noise for them.  Turns out Onion and Y/N were excused from some extra tutoring that other students were given in the class, so it wasn’t too bad.  Y/N still had some work to do, but Onion mentioned how he finished the assignment way before, hence the email to check on the file.  Y/N breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why don’t I make us some miso soup for once,” Onion asked.  Y/N raised a brow at this in mocking offense.

“You, my guest, cooking?  Hell no.”  Onion scoffed.

“Just rest.”

“No I’ll make it–”

“Literally shut the fuck up and go.”

“Fine.”  Y/N pushed themselves off of the couch and semi-stopped over to their bed before plopping on it dramatically.  Onion walked in to make sure they were actually in bed before grabbing an extra blanket that sat on their chair and layering it on them.  Y/N side-eyed his every move the entire time as he did.  Their heart had a warm ache this time while Onion shut the door.

“Where the fuck do they put the pots.”  Now that Onion was tasked with “taking care” of Y/N, he realized he had no idea where anything was.  He sighed before going through each cabinet one by one.  Y/N heard the cabinets opening and closing before smiling softly to themselves.  Wait, what.

The weight lifted from their shoulder.  The heaviness of the world had gone.  They took a deep breath, sinking back into the soft blankets once more.

20 hours, 4AM.

“Damn this is good, what kind of crack did you put,” Y/N enthused.

“Just some extra ingredients I brought,” Onion replied.  Y/N froze.  “I didn’t fucking poison it dumbass.”

“Well how am I supposed to know, hm?”  Y/N spat.

“We’re eating food… from the same pot.”

“Oh yeah huh.”  Y/N hastily resumed their eating as Onion shook his head.  Y/N pondered as they ate.  “Hey… you’ve been acting different lately.  You’re less…”

“Less what?”

“Less annoying,” Y/N deadpanned.

“...thanks?”

“You’re more… enjoyable to be around I guess.”  Onion felt his face go a bit warm, having never heard those from their voice.  He stared down at his bowl as he felt it go to his ears.  “Woah,” he heard Y/N say.  “You’re red as fuck.”

“Yeah, wonder who’s fault that is,” Onion retorted.  Y/N chuckled at that as they stood up to grab more soup.  The TV was all that filled the room as Onion felt his brain restarting.  Rain began to patter against the windows.  “I guess you’re not that annoying too, enjoyable, even…”  Y/N froze up too, almost dropping the soup filled ladle.  They quickly shook their head as they put the bowl back on the table, mimicking what Onion had just done.  Shyness is cute on them…?  Onion was considering things immensely now.

With the change in attitude from his supposed academic rival, his emotions have been askew these past days.  The lack of brattiness left a hole.  Something, such as a shift in the force, had changed his whole routine entirely.

“Fuck off,” Y/N spat.

“Nah.”

“Whore.”

“Eat shit and die,” Onion smirked.

“That’s my fucking line,” Y/N gasped dramatically at their own words being used against them.

“Oh whatever,” Onion chuckled fondly.

19 hours, 5AM.

The two sat in Y/N’s living room now as they chatted and argued about anything they could find.  During Onion’s dramatic listing of every time he’s won against Y/N, he noticed them staring long and hard at their bedroom door.

“Earth to dumbass, what’s up?”

“I should get a start on some of my other assignments.  So close to finishing yet...” Y/N let out a harsh sigh.  “You probably want to head back to yours anyways.”  Onion sat upright at this.  “See, like a fucking dog–”

“No.”  Y/N raised an eyebrow?

“Fuck you mean, no?”  Onion himself didn’t even know what he meant.

“No as in… I’m not going home?”

“Suit yourself.”  Y/N got up and went to their bedroom, leaving Onion dumbfounded on the couch.

No?  What am I even going to do here…  He took a deep breath before walking over to Y/N’s bedroom.  They were already at work on their laptop.

“Hey, I’m gonna go,” Onion muttered.

“Figured, I’ll see you out then.”  Y/N led the way to the door while Onion trudged along behind them with his work bag.  

“Are you actually showing up tomorrow,” Onion snickered.  His face turned to an unreadable expression the second he noticed Y/N look away silently with a stone face as they pondered it.

“Nah, fuck that,” Y/N chuckled dryly.  An idea popped into Onion’s mind.

“Burned out?”

“What?”  Y/N knew what he was talking about of course, but the fact that Onion even questioned it felt out of character for him.  “So what if I am,” Y/N snapped.

“Well… you know that’s not healthy…”  Onion started.

“Yes, but it got everything done so I don’t see why—”

“Because you worried me.”  Y/N’s eyes widened.

“I worried you?”  

“Yes.”  By now the both of them were staring at each other in the entrance to Y/N’s apartment, neither of them moving and the silence filled with their heavy breaths.  Onion stepped forth and held out both of his hands.  Y/N gave a sharp look at him as he gestured towards them, keeping them outstretched.  Y/N hesitantly put their hands in his.

“You can’t just say that…” 

“I can’t?”  They dropped his hands.

“No, it.. It’s confusing for me.”  Onion leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket.

“It’s confusing for me too, you know,” Onion whispers, averting his gaze to the ground.  Perhaps if he stared hard enough, the wall and him would combine as one and he’d be able to leave.  Taking care of his little siblings was one thing, comforting someone his age was another.  There was a reason he resorted to talking to his friends online.

“Hey…”  Y/N stepped forward, their hand twitching.  “What’s on your mind, if you don’t mind my asking?”  A faint smile was painted on his face.  After all this, they’re still so kind.

“I.. don’t mind per say.”  His bag weighed heavily on his shoulder, pulling his heart to the ground in ache.  “I’m just not sure I know how exactly to say,” he sighed.  A gentle finger laced with one of his own as Y/N hooked them together.  Looking up in confusion, they dragged him over to the sofa.  

“Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”

After a couple hours, the two had made up that night, and with help from Y/N’s visitor and a sleepover numerous late assignments were turned in.  Now, it’s been a whole week since that night.

“Hey, you know you don’t have to keep coming over,” Y/N laughed as they stirred the miso in the pot as normal.  This routine came back immediately.  Onion coming over to Y/N’s, the smell of miso soup filling the apartment after settling down for a few minutes.  A chat about interests along with plenty of time for assignments.

“Yeah well, you make my day plenty more interesting, ‘you know,’” Onion mocked.  Feigning offense, the miso soup pot was set in the middle of the counter with a cork mat underneath.  As Onion grabbed himself a portion, Y/N strolled over to the TV and turned it on for background noise.  

“Yeah yeah, oh how I must brighten your oh so, dark, dreadful, drowsy days.”  Laughter filled the apartment, almost drowning out the TV noise.

“...festival lasts for a few days, but, due to fortunate circumstances, will be held during local schools' vacation days.”  The TV listed the dates as the two college students looked at each other.  “Not to mention, the Winter Festival is known for the competitive nature that it brings to it’s attendees with the plethora of games, contests, and more, only here at…”  

“That’s our Winter break dates huh…” Onion smirked. 

Y/N cleared their throat.  “Would you care to join me to this, uh, ‘friendly’ festival?”

“Oh,” Onion leaned forward.  “It’s on.”

[mx-julien]

weird little guy Jay was a little too bright and clever and inventive as a kid, for most people. Ed and Edna loved it, of course, but other kids at his school and other adults he talked to weren't sure what to do with him. from his personality in the pilot, it seems like he's not used to others liking him

it's a common issue for any kid (especially ND kids) with a strong sustained interest in something. using my credentials *gestures to childhood* I will hypothesize what Jay's social life growing up might've looked like:

a curly little mop of auburn hair ran home from the bus stop, waving a messy technical drawing and yelling. Ed lifted up his welding hood, "what's goin' on, Jay?"

"Dad! Dad! I know how to- how to make-" Jay plopped down next to his dad, sending a little puff of dirt into the air, "I know how to make it go smooth! we use ball bearings!"

"kiddo you're exactly right- but first you gotta drop your backpack by the house and tell your Mom about school," Ed went to pull his hood down," and I'm nearly done with this, okay? we can get started right after"

"make sure you look at these," Jay carefully flattened his wide ruled notebook paper with hastily done technical drawings, using some nearby scrap to hold each corner down, "I explained everything here," pointing to a mass of scribbles, "okay?" peering up at his Dad, Jay's curls obstructed more of his vision.

"I promise, kiddo," Ed patted his son's fluffy head, "you worked real hard on them."

beaming, Jay slung his backpack on and ran back to the house bent down partway with both arms extended behind him. kids, Ed shook his head with a smile, always finding ways to do new silly things

~*~

excited shouts were a regular occurrence at the Walker home, Jay frequently came back from school with new insights and ideas to tell them. since his latest project was with Ed, Edna got to talk to Jay about everything else. they switched off so that one of them got to spend hours with their son while the other took care of most of the business and cleaning.

speaking of her son, the trailer door rattled before flinging open, "Mom!" Jay ran over to give her a hug at the kitchen sink, where she was doing dishes.

"hi dear, how was school today?"

"good. I drew for me and dad's project and we did some more multiplying and I'm really good at it" he rattled off more activities as he pulled out his lunchbox and homework for that day.

everything he talked about involved teachers and classwork. Jay only mentioned other kids when they commented on his drawings or played with him at recess, which was not as common as they would've liked. when she and Ed last met with his teacher, she remarked on how bright Jay was and that he loved speaking to all of his teachers- even at recess and during lunch.

he had friends, but most of them didn't talk to him as much at school as they did when they came over. she could tell Jay was trying very hard to not take it personally, but he was just a child.

it wasn't malicious, of course, the other kids weren't trying to be cruel- they wanted to have a lot of friends and Jay wasn't joining the other kids at recess; he found sticks and things to make little cars and catapults. no one could keep up with him and he never cared to race the cars or use the catapults to hit things. he just wanted to make them better and better.

he is so similar her and Ed were as children: bit with the invention bug and always pushing towards making everything better than it was before. except Jay didn't have a close friend to share that with. he asked her once, in between sobs, why everyone else had a best friend except him. it broke her heart, knowing that Jay felt that everyone was friendly with him, but not friends with him.

"Mom, can you help me with math tonight? I need to practice my multiplication tables up to 12"

Jay's request pulled her back to the present. taking a beat, she made sure he wouldn't be able to read the sadness she felt, "of course, dear, I'd love to," smiling, she ruffled his curls and glanced at the kitchen table. all his homework was in a neat stack, he'd emptied out what was left in his lunchbox, and set the tupperware onto the countertop. her son was bouncing up and down on his toes, waiting for her permission to run outside.

Edna bent down, taking Jay's head in her hands and placing a light kiss on his forehead, "good job, dear, and thank you for unpacking everything. make sure you take a glass of water out for your father and come in once the sun goes down, okay?"

"okay!" making a mad dash for the door, Jay suddenly diverted to grab the glass, and then started a more careful walk over to Ed, valiantly trying to not spill a drop.

their precious son would find his people, she was sure of it. and in the meantime, she and Ed would be here for him.

[specialagentlokitty]

Wednesday x reader - just you, me, and the parasite

Could you do wenclair x venom reader were they don’t know what’s the reader is and they’re both trying to find what they’re are but going through this they both fall in love with the It’s cool that you don’t know to right the pair with the venom reader you could just do one of them if you feel like it, thank you for telling me instead of not just saying anything about it - Anon💜

Looking at the chicken walking across your dorm, you turned to the to the black mass of goo floating next to you and rose a brow.

“Stop bringing him back in!”

“Bob is friend!” Venom grumbled.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed him away as you went to go grab the chickens but he quickly took control of your arms.

“Venom!”

“No take friend!”

“Let me go you little bitch!”

“Never!”

You tried to regain control of your arms but you couldn’t, venom grinned happily, grabbing a pen he started to scribble in your homework.

“Dude!”

“I do good.”

You smiled a little and rolling your eyes, looking at the little pictures he had drew as answers and you nodded your head to him.

“You did great buddy.”

He grinned, setting the pen down as he pulled out the extra sheets the teachers had given you.

They were used to this, venom sometimes liked to help you, he enjoyed doing things thinking he was helping you which is something you knew he liked doing.

Yes, he still tried to bite peoples heads off but that was just who he was.

“Someone is coming.” He growled.

He quickly retreated and hid himself away from everyone and just a second later there was a knock at your door.

Walking over, you opened it and smiled at Wednesday.

You knew she’d be trying to figure out what you were for a while, but she still had yet to guess.

“I need you to come with me tonight.”

“What? Why?”

You let her into your room and went back to carrying on with trying to figure out what it is your homework exactly wanted from you.

“Enid has a date.”

You smiled a little.

“About damn time those two idiots got together. Yeah I can come with you, when we leaving?”

“Now.”

Wednesday grabbed your bag and tossed it over to you which you barely just caught.

Standing up, you looked at her in absolute confusion as you dangled the empty bag in your hands.

“I know you sneak you half the town, I know you’ve got things hidden away.”

“Damn nothings sacred…”

Heading to your bed, you pushed it aside and knelt down, prying open a few floorboards, you started to gather the supplies you had hidden under there.

You put everything on the ground and put everything back the way it was, gesturing for the gothic girl to come over which she did.

“Do you need everything?”

“I’ll come to you when I need to hide a body.”

You smirked a little and let her take some things from the pile, some torches, batteries, a small dagger, some hand warmers, a face mask and she held up a few bundles of herbs.

“Clever, with its overwhelming smells lavender and lemon will hide anything.”

“Exactly, add a bit of whatever else you find out there and it blends into the perfect smell of whatever’s around you meaning you can hide in seconds.”

She nodded her head and stuffed those into her bag.

Then you grabbed the rest, stuffing it into your bag.

“Is this such a good idea?”

“You might get to eat someone.”

“This is a good idea.”

You smirked at the voice in your head, you always knew how to win him over. You weren’t stupid, you knew what Venom liked and didn’t like, and what could convince him to do things.

You saw Wednesday heading for your door and you quickly stopped her.

“We’ll get spotted immediately. I’m at the back of the school, here follow me.”

Leaving your bag on the windowsill, you pulled at the vines a little and nodded your head.

You looked behind you to see Wednesday still coming over so you decided to act fast.

“Venom feet…”

The alien didn’t need to be told twice, as you jumped he became your legs, helping you land safely before retreating again.

“How do I get down?”

You pointed to the vines.

Wednesday tossed the bags down to you before she scaled down and you helped her jumped down the rest of the way.

Once she was steady, you let go and handed her her bag.

“Tell anyone and I bury you alive.”

“Secrets safe. Lead the way.”

You let her lead you through the forest, both of you slowly looking around trying to make sure that you were safe and no one was following you.

“Wait, get back!”

Wednesday pulled you down behind some bushes and you looked to her.

She raised a finger to her lips, telling you to be quiet and gestured to listen.

Nodding, you titled your head a little.

“Venom, what can you hear?”

Out of the pair of you he would have the best chance of hearing whatever was going on, and he’d be able to tell you everything that was being said.

He repeated everything, from animals, birds, to some police officers not far off.

You tapped Wednesday on the shoulder.

“Police…” you whispered.

“You can tell they’re police?”

You nodded.

“Tell me what they’re saying.” She demanded quietly.

So while venom told you, you told her, and you both had to stay there until nearly an hour when the officers left and you both went to investigate but there was no trace of them.

“Nothings happened recently, why would they be here?” You asked.

Venom took control of your legs, taking you over to somewhere and he crouched down so you could see.

“This.”

You reached out and picked it up, sleeves covering your hands.

You stood up and walked back over to Wednesday showing her what it was.

“A bit of someone’s shirt?” You asked.

Wednesday frowned even more as she looked at it, nodding her head.

Wednesday looked at you as you looked around before staring off into space, it was something she noticed quite a bit.

It was almost as if you retreated into your own head, like someone was still there moving your body and such but you weren’t there.

She noticed the way you were staring off into the distance, and the way your fingers flexed at your side.

“Run!”

You grabbed her hand, and without giving her much of a choice you dragged her after you.

“What?! Let go!”

Wednesday snatched her hand back but she carried on running.

Whatever it was you couldn’t out run it, because before you knew it you were spinning around, grabbing Wednesday by her hands, you tossed her aside just to get thrown back, claws raking across your skin.

“Swap!” Venom yelled.

He quickly took charge, your body changing, growing taller, reflective black goo surrounding your body, and venom smirked, snapping his jaws a couple of time.

The charged forward, kicking the monster back and into a tree.

“Tag!” He sneered.

Wednesday could only hide as you, if she could even call it that, did everything to stop the creature from getting closer to her.

Her eyes were glued to what used to be you, and she watched as the monster finally ran away, realising this wasn’t a fight it could win, and Wednesday stood up.

“What the hell are you?” She asked.

There was no emotion to her voice as you turned around.

Venom released half of your face so you could look at her.

“We are venom.” You both said.

Venom let your face go fully, popping up as a little head on your shoulder and you looked around, gesturing for Wednesday to grab the bags.

“I’ll I’ll explain when we’re back at the school but we need to go.”

Wednesday accepted this and tossed the bags up to you and you held them, still using venom as a suit of armour.

Even as you got to the school his still held a protective defence around you.

You tossed the bags through your window and held your hands clasped together, giving Wednesday a boost through the window before venom easily lifted the pair of you up.

You closed the windows and sat on the bed, and the creature popped his head out again, travelling around the room.

Wednesday watched him for a minute before she turned to you.

“Why’re you still like that if we’re back?”

“If he takes it away I’m going to bleed out, venom doesn’t take injuries like we do, and if I get hurt he can heal it, but these are pretty deep do they’re going to take a while.”

“You’d be dead without me.”

“I’d be free without you little bitch, stop trying to cook!”

Wednesday watched as the pair of you bickered back and forth like siblings would.

She was completely fascinated, and as much as she hated to admit to, and would pour bleach down her throat before ever telling anyone, it was what made her fall in love with you a little more

[dark-elf-writes]

Master of death Harry at UA who accidentally summons Oboro’s ghost and doesn’t get why Shota and Hizashi are crying but doesn’t say anything as they cry

I read this as MoD Harry as a student doing this which makes this funnier and also more heartbreaking.

Like Harry leaving after the battle and needing to do something different, something that doesn’t involve a castle of ghosts and the memory of blood on his hands and screams in his ears, he ends up, through a letter sent to him at exactly the right moment courtesy of Nezu (and how he managed to get a letter delivered to an unplayable address Harry isn’t sure he wants to know), as the oldest member of 1-A.

He doesn’t really know what to claim as a quirk because his magic is fucked and telling people is illegal but then he summons a ghost (the previous tenant of his apartment who had a heart attack and Merlin he is going to have words with his realtor) literally the night before and decides “Necromancer” is close enough. Besides the dead flock to him now (had they always?) whether he wants them to or not, it’s only fair that he gets something out of it other than a terrible sleep schedule and the world’s first anti-ghost ward outside his bathroom.

And UA has no shortage of ghosts. Students, alumni, and former teachers alike follow Harry’s every step from the moment he enters the gates a day before everyone else (for a meeting with his new teachers to “see where he places due to his unique circumstances” which sounded like kind way to say “we know you have a year four education in non magical subjects”) but one in particular shoos the others away with a smile and whisper of… something herding them off. He doesn’t fully manifest, invisible to everyone but Harry, as he follows his steps.

“Hey, kid, you’re the transfer right?”

If Harry was less used to ghosts he would be a little offended about being called “kid” by someone who looked the same age as him, but Ghosts were frozen as how they were when they died. For better or worse.

At least when around Harry they didn’t show their death wounds. Instead appearing whole and unblemished.

The meeting room was full when Harry entered, the ghost at his shoulder, and he fought the urge to check for exits. He didn’t need a window to get away with his magic, didn’t think any of the people here were strong enough to stop him if he wanted to leave, quirks or no, not since he had collected the hallows and everything changed.

“Er, hello.”

Well, maybe not everything changed.

Several of the teachers smile, one with the most ridiculous hairstyle he has ever seen beaming particularly brightly, but it was Nezu that drew his eye.

Nezu who smiled at him and gestured to where a steaming cup of tea waited at the empty space on the table. “Potter-kun. How lovely it is to meet you in person.”

Harry had barely made it to table when he felt the familiar yank of his power slipping the leash — less common now but always at the worst moments — and a moment later the ghost still following him gasped as color flooded him.

Huh. His hair was blue. Teddy would like that.

The blond teacher stood so quickly their chair flipped behind them followed by two others wide eyed and disbelieving as they stared at the ghost. The ghost who watched them with eyes just as wide, wiggling his fingers and gasping when their eyes followed the movement.

“You can see me?!”

Harry froze, not daring to breathe. Fuck this was bad, but the question was how bad.

Then one of the teachers, the woman who Harry was very careful to not look below her shoulders, sobbed.

Right… this was… not a great way to start a new school. “Traumatize your professors” was usually a term four activity for him not before school had officially started. Still it couldn’t hurt to let them talk for a while. He could always send the ghost away if things went south… probably… maybe… eventually.

Harry sank into his seat and drained his tea in one long swallow. This was going to be along day.

[samgirl98]

Mending a Family 26/?

Prev | Next

The first back-to-school meeting happened a month after school started. Jason decided to attend. He wanted to be on top of Danny’s education and ensure everything went smoothly. Parents were encouraged to bring in snacks for the kids.

Jason made chocolate chip cookies. He even made gluten and nut-free ones in case any of the kiddos were allergic.

He entered the school with the cookies and sat them on a table, making sure the labels were correct. Danny ran off to find his friends. Jason smiled. He was glad his son had people to talk to.

Jason turned around and came face-to-face with a blond woman. She was in her mid-thirties and wore a prim suit. She wore a pearl necklace. Three more women dressed similarly were behind her. She looked Jason up and down. He had worn his best pair of jeans, a clean T-shirt, and a leather jacket.

“Hello, my name is Avril Dubois. I’m the president of the PTA. I’ve never seen you here before, are you lost?”

Jason gritted his teeth at her question while she and her cronies laughed.

“No, my name is Jason Nightingale. I’m Danny Nightingale’s father. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said while putting out his hand. Avril ignored the hand and gave a look of distaste at it. So what if he still had grease under his nails? Her ignoring the handshake was rude.

“Right, I’ve heard about Danny from my little girl. Where’s his mother,” she asked while looking around. Wow, nosy much?

“She died while giving birth to him. It’s just me, Danny, my sister, and my niece.”

“That poor boy doesn’t know the touch of a mother’s love. It must be hard for you, especially since you’re so…young,” she sneered at the word young.

Judgmental to boot, she was the whole package.

“Don’t worry, I give my son enough love for two people.”

“Still, being a single must be tough. Well, I’ll talk to you later. Or maybe not. Ta-ta.”

Jason was glad to see the women leave.

He looked for Danny and saw him talking to a group of kids. Jason smiled once more, feeling how happy Danny was, which made Jason feel so much better about his decision to send him to school.

“Say goodbye for now, Danny. The assembly is about to start, then we can go to your classroom, and you can show me around.”

“Okay, daddy. Bye guys, see you later.”

Jason sat through the meeting assembly. It was a bit boring, but he was glad to see how the school operated. Danny was busy playing with a 6x6 Rubik’s cube. After the assembly, Jason went to Danny’s classroom, where he officially met the teacher.

Mrs. Duma was a friendly, middle-aged teacher who had been teaching for seventeen years. She spoke about how well-behaved and smart Danny was. His best subject was math, and Mrs. Duma had to print 12th-grade-level worksheets to keep him entertained. Well, that made sense.

 Jason couldn’t help but preen at the compliments Danny got.

Then Avril Dubois came up.

“Mrs. Duma, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Mrs. Dubois, what a pleasure to have you as a parent to one of my students again,” Mrs. Duma said through clenched teeth. Aw, it wasn’t just Jason who didn’t like the woman.”

“Excuse me,” Jason left the two women and looked for his little boy. He was showing a little blonde girl with glasses his Rubik's cube.

“Daddy, this is my friend, Sarah.”

“Hello, Sarah, I’m Danny’s dad, Jason.”

“Hi,” the little girl said shyly.

“Wanna see our drawings, daddy?”

Danny showed Jason his paintings. They were good. Then he showed them the models he had built. He knew his little boy was talented with his hands, but some of the things he had built looked very advanced. Hmm, maybe Jason should invest in buying Danny more things to build.

Seeing the models, he knew Danny would love working on the car with him.

“Mommy, look what I drew,” Jason looked up to see Sarah talking to Avril. The little girl was being ignored by her mom as she talked to a group of moms. Now that Jason paid attention, the little girl looked like a miniature version of Avril. The poor girl was shooed away from her mom without getting any acknowledgment.

His heart went out to her.

Danny went to Sarah, “Is everything okay,” he asked.

“Yeah,” the little girl answered, “mommy is just busy.”

“Can I see,” Jason asked. The little girl brightened at having an adult’s attention. It was a good painting.

“Wow, kiddo, that looks great!”

The little girl smiled, showing her missing teeth.

“Sarah, what have I told you about speaking to strangers?”

Avril took her little girl’s hand, ignoring the squeak of surprise she gave.

“Listen, I don’t know what your game is or how you were able to put your child in this school, but I would appreciate it if you don’t speak to my child.”

“Lady, Danny is Sarah’s friend. He was introducing me to her. Maybe if you paid more attention to your child, she wouldn’t be talking to strangers.”

The woman honest to God clutched her pearls, “How dare you? Come, Sarah.”

“Bye, Danny,” the little girl said while being dragged along.

“Is everything okay, daddy?”

“Yeah, ignore her. She’s a b—not a nice person.”

Thankfully, the rest of the parents weren’t like Avril and her little clique. They all seemed to welcome Jason.

At the end of the meeting, Jason went to sign up for the PTA.

“Are you sure you want to do this,” the woman scoffed, “We meet every two weeks. I’m sure you’re busy doing other things. We also engage with the school and teachers. Fundraisers, school activities, things like that.”

Jason smiled at the woman as he signed his name, “When’s the first meeting?”

Jason had a new nemesis. Her name? Avril Dubois.

Someone suggested that Jason has a PTA-style rivalry, but I cannot for the life of me find the comment to give the credit. So, to whoever suggested this, thank you! Anyway, now that we have Avril, does anyone want to see anything between the rivalry between the two?

@itsberrydreemurstuff @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @skulld3mort-1fan @theauthorandtheartist @emergentpanda-blog @jaggedheart11 @fisticuffsatapplebees @booberrylizard @fantasticbluebirdfan @thegatorsgooseoose @cyrwrites @kjoboo91 @crystallicedart @amaramizuki666 @spekulatiusmuffin @meira-3919 @kilasmess @bubblemixer @lexdamo @wonderland-daisy @mj-arts-n-stuff @amyheart19 @dolfay @the-church-grimm @undead-essence @aph-mable @lizisipancardo @purrloin77 @writer-extraodinaire @charlietheepic7 @sinfulloccultist @nootherusernameworked @coruscateselene @chaoticchange @itsberrydreemurstuff @gmkelz11 @feral-bunny31 @paroovian @thatonegaybitch68 @d4ydr34min9 @overtherose @fandomwandererer @vipower001 @thordottir45 @blackrabbitt3t @rosecinnamonbun @bianca-hooks123 @epilepticnerd @dat1angel @consouling @flamingenchiladadragon @all-mights-asscheeks @ender-reader @fuyu-bitch @ravenswife

[themummersfolly]

Nonverbal Art

alt. title: Art Nerd's Origin Story

Anyone else ever wonder why Thrawn's interest in art focuses so heavily on sussing out the backstory of the artist? Yeah.

I have no idea how pediatric therapy works in real life.

-----

Vurawn doesn’t need a doctor to tell him he’s different.

There’s the whole talking thing, for example. Vurawn doesn’t remember learning to talk, even though he remembers Vurika and Mom says he didn’t start talking until after that. A lot of people still think he can’t talk, apparently, because he doesn’t do it very often. He’s not sure what the point is. He understands just fine, and besides, half the time when he does talk people get mad or start acting funny.

A lot of grownups think that not talking means he doesn’t hear either; even Mom and Dad forget sometimes. He overhears them talking about him. For a long time Mom thought he was stupid. It seemed to make her happy, for some reason. He doesn’t feel stupid; but then, he’s not sure if stupid and smart are things you can feel like. Vurika was smart, and they took her away and Mom was sad. Maybe if he’s stupid, he’ll get to stay and make Mom happy.

The army man said he was smart, when he gave everybody that test-thingy at school. But then he got into a fight with Teni the next day and afterward everybody said he was stupid. At least until the teacher made them stop.

No, he doesn’t need a doctor to tell him he’s weird, but here he is anyway.

He kicks his feet back and forth under the chair while he waits and thinks about the marker set Dad said he’ll get if he’s good for the doctor. He hopes there’s lots of orange markers. Orange is his favorite color right now. At school, there are fourteen different kinds of orange marker in the marker bin; he knows because he counted. First he lined them all up in order, then he put them in groups of markers from the same set and lined those up in order. Or he tried to, before the teacher yelled at him for hogging the orange markers.

He hopes he can be good enough to get the markers. Even when he tries to be good, he always does something wrong without meaning to.

“Kivu’raw’nuru?”

That’s his name. He hops out of his seat and follows Mom into the back office.

He likes going to this doctor, honestly. She never gives him shots or gets mad when he does the thing with his hands to feel better. There are toys, and neat pictures to look at, and lots and lots of markers.

He wanders around the room, looking at the toys while Mom talks to the doctor.

“-test scores are high, but the teacher says he’s behind in his social development. He rarely talks, he never looks me in the eyes-”

Dad thinks Mom wants there to be something wrong with him, at least he said so last night. Vurawn doesn’t know why everyone wants him to look at their eyes; it makes him as uncomfortable as when he has to not fidget.

The grownups finish talking and the doctor comes over to where he is.

“Good morning, Vurawn.”

It takes him a moment, but he remembers there’s something he’s supposed to do when people greet him.

“Hi.”

The doctor asks him questions; he’s supposed to answer with his big kid words, and he does. The doctor is happy, he’s doing it right. Maybe he will get that marker set.

“Vurawn, I’d like you to draw your family for me. Will you do that now, please?”

He’s not sure why she needs him to do that, but then he’s not sure why she asked all those questions, either. He does like to color, though.

It doesn’t take him long to draw everyone who’s important to him. When he’s done, the doctor sits down next to him.

“Tell me about your picture. Who’s that?” She points at the picture that is pretty obviously Mom. One by one, she points to each figure he drew and asks about it. Mom. Dad. Himself. The neighbor’s tooka. Vurika. He doesn’t know why she wants him to talk about them; most of the time when he talks about things he likes, people act like he’s doing something wrong and he doesn't know why. But the doctor lets him talk, so he does. It feels good to talk about things he likes.

When he’s told her all about his drawing, she picks it up and takes it over to Mom. He listens to them talk, and with no one to tell him not to, dumps out the markers and begins sorting them.

“-normal cognitive development for a child his age. But I think part of the issue is he misses his sister.”

That gets Vurawn’s attention. He’s not supposed to talk about Vurika; whenever he does, Mom gets sad and all the other grownups tell him he should be happy she gets to serve the Ascendancy. The doctor keeps talking.

“You see how much detail he put into her portrait; he clearly still remembers her, and remembers her well. Even as young as he was, her removal had a profound effect on him. That might be why he’s having difficulty adjusting socially.”

She can tell all that from his drawing?

“And here- this is your neighbor’s pet. She turns up in a number of drawings he’s done for me, so she’s clearly an important figure in his life. He may benefit from a therapy animal. If you can’t have one where you live, there are programs you can sign him up for-”

Every time he talks about Flower the Tooka, people look at him like he’s crazy! But the doctor had looked at his picture and understood immediately. Is that the secret? Can he really get people to understand him by drawing pictures for them?

And if it works that way, maybe it works the other way around, too. Maybe if he looks at pictures other people draw, they’ll seem less weird. Maybe the world makes sense if you draw it.

It’s like he’s spent his whole life in a dark, scary hallway, and suddenly, someone in a room nearby turns on a light. He decides to move toward it.

“Mom, I’d like you to draw a picture for me. Will you do that for me now, please?”

He’s been good all day, not just at the doctor. When Dad comes home, he has the marker set in hand, and the first thing Vurawn does is take it over to Mom.

She looks surprised, and he’s not sure she’ll go along with it. But then she takes the markers and flimsi and starts drawing. To keep himself busy, Vurawn picks up the pieces of the gadget she was working on and starts arranging them in order. They’re all very different, and it’s hard to figure out what order they should go in. Vurawn likes puzzles like this.

He’s just figured out where the big shiny piece should go when Mom slaps a marker down hard, puts her face into her hands, and starts shaking. Vurawn jumps. At first he thinks she’s mad at him for playing with her project. Then he sees that she’s crying.

“I’m sorry, Vurawn- it’s ok. I just can’t. You’re ok.” She doesn’t look up from her hands. Vurawn stands on his chair to look across the table at what she’s drawn.

It’s a grownup kind of drawing, much more complicated than his sensible stick figures. The face that stares out from the page is that of a little girl, about his age. It’s unfinished; Mom put the marker down before she colored it in.

“I’m sorry I got upset, Vurawn, I don’t know why I did that.” Mom wipes her eyes. Vurawn is still looking at the picture.

“It’s cause you miss Vurika.”

Mom freezes. He’s not sure if that means she understands, so he tries again.

“You’re sad cause Vurika had to go away. You’re scared that I might have to go away, too. But if I’m stupid, I get to stay with you, cause stupid people don’t have to serve the Ascen’a’cy.” He frowns at the tabletop, choosing his next words. “I can be stupid for you, Mom.”

He expects her to be happy at the offer, but instead she starts crying even harder. Vurawn feels the panic start to well up in his chest. He’s done something wrong again. Mom is upset, and Dad will be mad, and he doesn’t know how to fix it because he doesn’t even know what he did wrong-

Mom leans over and scoops him up in a hug.

“You’re not stupid, you’re a brilliant, brilliant little boy. I love you so much!” Her tears are getting his shirt wet, and now they’re both crying. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re stupid! I just- I just want what’s best for you, even if you have to go away. My brilliant little boy!” She takes his face in her hands and makes him look at her. “If they chose you- I need you to remember. I love you so much, I’m so proud of you, and I don’t want you to ever look back.”

Vurawn doesn’t understand, but he nods his head because Mom needs him to. Then he leans into her shoulder and cries.

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

Shovel talk

It was rather obvious that your child attracted weirdos. It was sadly a truth you had come to terms with. Iruma just had that magnetic charisma that drew people to him.

Now, just because you had come to terms with it did not mean you were turning a blind eye. Hell no! The netherworld was full of too many psycho's.

And while you couldn't constantly monitor your child 24/7. Despite some demons' attempts, **cough** Sullivan, Opera, Alice and Clara.**cough** You at least knew he needed to make his own choices without pressure.

Although...that didn't stop you from weeding out those with questionable intentions. That was a rather nice way of putting it. All things considered.

It was so cute how many students got frightened. All it took was a few well placed words. They'd run away crying after that.

But for the more persistent bunch.... it took more. More than just words. Actions were also necessary at that point.

So you may have asked for a little assistance from Balam. Nothing physical! You would never ask him to harm a student!

But his vines were certainly helpful in keeping them in place. After all, you'd rather not wrestle and chat at the same time. His bloodline ability was also useful.

Because it assured the young demons in question that you weren't a liar. That everything you said you'd do would happen. Not threats, promises.

So this is where you found yourself on a lazy Thursday afternoon. Classes had just ended, and no one was nearby to hear the conversation. You stared at the stubborn imp bound to the chair across from you.

"Balam." "Yes?" The nervous teacher stood behind you. Not that the student mood tell his teacher was nervous. It was just another intimidation tactic you utilized.

"Please be my lie detector for this conversation." The professor nods. The student straightened up. Obviously, thinking they were about to be interrogated.

How quaint, you really didn't give two shits about the brat on the chair. The less you knew about the creep, the better in your opinion. "Opera's cooking is the best." "Truth." "I'm really eight feet tall." "Lie."

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs. "Perfect! Now that we've established that Balam-Sensei's magic is working, let's get started."

"I am not pleased with your behavior towards my son." Your words flat and to the point. "Truth," Balam says quietly behind you.

"What makes you think you have the right to stalk him and his friends? Or to try and drop random gifts in his locker?" You hold up a bag with questionable sweets.

"I... i..." They stutter. "Did you put a love potion in these? Yes or no?" You asked firmly. "N-no i-" "Lies," Balam rumbled.

His eyes narrowed, and he gripped the back of your chair. You could tell he was upset. Not that you could blame him.

Love potions on school property were made under careful supervision. Even then it wouldn't cause more than puppy love. This, however... was stronger.

"I'm not going to waste my breath asking where you got this. I'm sure the other teachers will be happy to squeeze the information out of you. " The gargoyle looms behind you a dark look on his face.

The student trembles as the vines tighten around him. "My concern is that you tried to use this on my precious baby." You toss the bag up, allowing Balam to collect it as evidence.

They pale drastically as you raise your gaze to meet theirs. "That doesn't settle well with me, you see." Your tone sends shivers down your listeners' spine.

"See, I was going to go easy on you for the stalking, Iruma has too many of those to count at this point." You sigh. "But you had to be stupid and want more."

You lean forward, keeping eye contact. "Do you know what I do to little imps like you?" You ask lowly. They frantically shake their head.

You hold up your hand, and Balam drops a tool into your palm. You hold it out in front of you. Allowing them to see. A large shovel.

"I cover them in honey and bury them in Anthills. I leave their heads above the surface so that I can hear their screams." You trace the shovel idly with one finger. "Truth." Balam stated.

The student was a crying and sobbing mess. Truthfully, you had only had to follow through with your words once. Once was enough truth that all others who heard were terrified.

"But seeing as you've gone against school policy, your teachers are in charge of your punishment." You could see them tremble, unsure of which was worse. You can't help the small smirk.

"I'm sure Kalego-Sensei would love to hear your disregard for the school's strict rules on love potions. And Dali-Sensei, oh! And we certainly can't forget about Marbas-Sensei!"

The sugary sweet tone you used as Balam starts to drag the student away. It's more terrifying than the icy tone from before. It was one that screamed. "You're screwed!"

But that's to be expected. You loved Iruma to bits. Anyone interested in him had to go through you first. It would be over your rotting corpse before anyone with ill intention touched him.

Speaking of which. You lift up your shovel, blocking the spear about to impale you. "Too slow." Some demons just took words too literally.

[livewireprojects]

Old Sonic sketches(Plus extras)

Found some old sketches I had on DA & wanted to show them. Some sketches have the date I scanned them in the corner of the image because the date changes if I edit them & I had to edit them cause they're all bmp files along with needing editing to be darkened. It's there to show how old they are & cause I found it interesting, if the image doesn't have the date I'll list mention a date that's mentioned in the DA post or something related. Not all the images are in order of date.

The image on the left was posted November 8, 2012 while the one on the right is from August 27, 2013

These were some wedding sketches I drew with the one on the right being a pic I made for a teacher I had in high school.(Graduated 2014) The pic on the left was a Sonadow & Silvaze wedding with Tails catching Sonic's bouquet while Cosmo(who was revived at some point) giggles.(tfw When you might end up marrying next thanks to a moment at your older brother's wedding & your girlfriend knows too)

Shadow & Sonic's rings(on the wrist) was inspired by a comic by Segamew on DA were Shadow used one of his inhibitor rings to propose to Sonic.(Fun fact at the time I didn't know what his rings did past the fact Shadow wore them, I only learned about the reason recently) I use a different idea for mobian wedding items now.

I find it semi funny(semi cause it looks cringy) that when I posted this to DA I was like "I'm using Shadonic instead of Sonadow so fuck you" to be honest this came from past Naruto shipping were ship names go by who is tops. I've gotten over it by now but if I'm not using ship names I still put the top first.

This was drawn in 2015

The top images are Monoko from Yume Nikki & Sonic as nightmarens from the NiGHTS series. I might redraw/redesign these one day but dunno. The little mini doodles between them are an old design for my self-insert Sonicsona & Monoko next to me. I don't know the context for them.

At the bottom is Reala(nightmaren this time instead of my OC Reala the hedgehog), Jackle & my nightmaren OC Halldis dressed up. Next to them is Pinkie Pie semi Rayman style.(By that I mean floaty limbs)

The one on the left is cropped cause you don't really need to see my old Raymesis/Dark Rayman(Who is turned over a new leaf, also thought they were the same person back then) x Rayman stuff. Funny enough two images were edited into this from the cropped side cause they're semi related.

Left image:(Added in mini pics at the bottom of list)

Left to right, top of page to bottom of page

Rayman Sonic that I didn't put much effort in past hair & outfit

Rayman as a seedrian, this was made before learning that male seedrian look very different from the girls. He's a plum plant from the Rayman series.

Normal Rayman waving

Rayman!Sonic sitting down

An attempt to draw mini Rayman & Rayman!Sonic flying using their hair. Rayman obviously with helicoptor bangs, Sonic flapping like he's a bat/bird.

Right image:

Left to right, top page then middle page then bottom page

Older Rayman with kids

Rayman!Shadow & Rayman!Sonic, these are their old designs with Shadow's being inspired by Kanda from D.Grayman's hair & mitarashiarts's past design for gijinka Shadow. I guess I gave him Raymesis style eyes given how I drew them.

Rayman!Sonic in a Rayman version of Sonic after being blinded by Eggman(context my version of Sonic at some point in the future was blinded by Eggman)

Rayman!Sonic wandering around & hiding that he's Sonic & injured

A scene of old design Shadow finding Sonic after he was heavily injured & almost drowned in Rayman style

Random doodle of Sonic in a random art style

An old prototype design idea for revived Cosmo, two versions of her as a plant based deer. I ended up going with a plant based chipmunk in the end.(With help from a friend when I mentioned some suggestions)

I don't fully remember the context behind the pic on the left I just know it was a scrapped idea. I think the idea was Silver visiting the past as a kid & helping Sonic after the reboot or after the reboot in Sonic 06 he was born in the past & made friends with Sonic.(The middle pic is meant to be them before the re-boot) I'm guessing this was before the paper towel comic I made.

The right image is meant to be Sonic walking with his siblings as they unknowingly pass by the spirit of Tikal with a bunch of Chao(plus Sonadow chao) & Chip. Sonic notices him & Chip waves to his future friend. From what I understand the idea is Chip some how got a chance to see Sonic in the past after the events of Sonic Unleashed.(Likely way on DA I named this "Meeting again before I knew you") No idea how Sonic can see them without his glasses on since Underground Sonic is blind without them. According to DA this image didn't need much fixing up.

Here's a pic I drew on one of my folders for school(2011 was my first year of high school)

I had to grayscale this because the folder is yellow & it'd look stupid

Left to right

-Sonic as a young child with his adopted dad after they decided to go frog hunting for the first time

-The idea behind this was Sonic returning to where he grew up before going to live with Uncle Chuck after helping his siblings & mom rebuild the kingdom after defeating Robotnik. I think the idea was that Sonic still met/took in Tails at some point cause there was an idea of Tails bringing Amy, Shadow & the others to meet his older brother.

Version 1 was meant to be Sonic having become more like he use to be before the trauma of losing his adopted parents & losing his confidence thanks to bullying(for being different) & the stress of the war. He's happily being Sonic in the woods he was raised in. Version 2 is just Sonic as I depicted him at the end of Sonic Underground were he has gained confidence but is still slightly timid & very sweet.(No idea why it says "Southern bell-ish" I'm guessing this was the only description I could think of)

-Sonic dressed in his adopted mom's outfit

-Sonic before losing his adopted parents & being taken in by his uncle. Sonic was a happy & energetic, he loves exploring the woods & learning to play music. He's a kid that hasn't fully learned that the world is full of things to fear despite knowing the dangers of going too close to areas everyone knows is Robotnik's territory.(I guess think of Robin from the game The Path were she didn't realize it's dangerous to fall out of a shopping cart nor jump on a werewolf)

The poor kid is in for many horrors when he made the poor choice of hunting for frogs near one of Robotnik's bases.

Posted to DA May 28, 2014

Classic Rayman as a puffball, Sonic as a puffball & anime Kirby as whatever Rayman is

Posted to DA June 24, 2019

Why I can't draw Sonic's eyes like they're meant to look

Adding another pic last minute, this is an old sketch dump of Sonic & his siblings from my old Sonic stuff that went on to lead to my Lost Prince AU

Left to right

Top:

The sight Uncle Chuck saw when he got home. Thanks to having enough of the bullying while struggling to deal with losing his adopted parents Sonic chopped his hair/quills off to look more normal.

Sonia fixing Sonic's hair while Manic finds it funny she used a bowl to cut Sonic's hair

Sonic meeting his siblings for the first time as they hide somewhere after managing to run into each other. Moments later they're told what they're meant to be doing.

Middle:

Sonic amazed, I think this was inspired by Ojamajo Doremi/Magical Doremi some how

Old design modern Sonic holding plushies I use to give him when he was a kid, lion & lamb plushies, I don't remember the context I think this was when he was living with his dad

Sonic laying on the ground with the plush dolls

Another old design modern Sonic

Bottom:

The triplets managing to sleep in a proper bed after some traveling

[milarqui]

Scarlet Lady: The Mime

Directory | Zombizou

“So, there's only a little I know for sure, like Chat's feather allergy,” Marinette said, listening to Pollen's humming as they took care of their plants (feeling happy she had managed to pick that toy watering can and make it so Pollen could use it). “I can't be certain he's blonde with green eyes. I know Scarlet Lady is obsessed with her hair though.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I can tick off anyone who's been Akumatized for both–”

BAM!

“Hey, who you talking to?!”

“WAH!”

She had been so concentrated on her conversation that she hadn't heard Alya coming up the stairs – and now she had to come up with an excuse. At least, she knew that Pollen had managed to hide away in time.

She looked around, and saw her salvation.

“Uh, to Jacques!” she replied, pointing at the pigeon that was standing near the trapdoor. “Say hi Jacques!”

“Huh?”

… was the pigeon preening?

Talk about luck.

Now, time to talk about this surprise.

“I thought you'd come with Mylène for your dresses–”

“Nevermind that, look at this!” Alya interrupted, pulling her cellphone out of the pocket and starting a video.

It was the family they helped a couple of days before, after the mother ended up getting Akumatized because of problems with at work.

“Thank you, Marigold, Chat Noir,” she heard the mother say as her past self shook both her and her husband's hands.

“It's what we do!” she heard herself reply. Then the video switched to... Scarlet Lady.

“Scarlet Lady, a word, please!” one of the journalists asked, and she took note of Scarlet's face.

“Ew, you work for that cheap magazine, get away from me!” Scarlet replied. Par for the course.

But Alya was expecting an answer... and she didn't know what to say.

“O-oh, cool video, Alya,” she awkwardly replied, and Alya rolled her eyes.

“Ughhh, you don't get it!”

“No, I sure don't.” What was she missing here?

“Girl, this is important evidence for my Scarlet Lady exposé!” Alya proclaimed. “The real heroes helping civilians while Scarlet Lady barks at people?!”

Yeah, par for the course. But something was wrong.

“I thought you were exposing Hawkmoth,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Hey, I can multitask!” Alya replied. “Don't forget, I run the Ladyblog, the school blog, your fashion blog, the blog about Markov–!”

She snapped her fingers, as if she had just remembered something.

“Wait right there, I gotta make a post real quick!”

Marinette wondered if they should have an intervention with Alya. Pollen came out from behind her.

“Well, I guess this video's important to her,” she said, as Pollen looked with curiosity.

“May I see, My Queen?”

“Sure–” she said as she moved to restart the video – but then the wind blew too hard, throwing her hair over her eyes and a few leaves as well.

“UGH!”

“PLEH!”

She had touched the phone with her eyes closed, but maybe –

“Video deleted.”

She looked down at the cellphone in horror. This couldn't get–

“Marinette! Your guests are here!”

Correction, this could get worse.

As she put the cellphone on the table, and looked into the horizon, she drew a conclusion.

“WELP, I'M DEAD.”

She... she had to go down. Face her doom.

…

Or maybe she could fix it...

----

She picked up the hat she had been working on, and turned to M. Haprèle, who had come with his daughter.

“What's the show called, M. Haprèle?” she asked, curious.

“It's–” the teacher started, but Mylène interrupted, eager to share.

“The Extraordinary Adventures of the Mime! Headlining the most talented actor and mime, my Dad!”

“Wow!” she replied. It really sounded impressive! She remembered the object in her hands and handed it over. “Here's your hat, M. Haprèle! I fixed the tear and added the pocket you asked for.”

“Merci, Marinette! I owe you one,” the man said, picking a photo of Mylène from his pocket and sliding it into the hat. “Thanks to you, I'll always have my lucky charm on me.”

“Aw, papa~” Mylène cooed, but the moment was interrupted by M. Haprèle's cellphone.

“Hello–?”

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

Wow, those were some lungs.

“Picking up my hat, I'm leaving right –”

“I NEED YOU HERE!”

“Y-Yes, Ma'am!”

----

Sarah hung up, huffing.

“So, what's the excuse this time?” she heard Chris ask from behind.

“Apparently, picking up his hat. Fred's an amazing actor, but he always has excuses for–”

“Being late? Sleeping in rehearsal? Missing parts of his costume?” Chris fired.

She sighed.

“Look, just be ready to take his place if he's a no-show, okay?” she said, and Chris nodded.

“Heheheh!”

She rolled her eyes in irritation.

“I can hear you, Chris,” she growled.

----

She was finally putting the last touches on Mylène's dress when Alya came up to them.

“Ah, I gotta go. I promised my mom I'd do some chores before the show,” she explained.

“Ah, wait!” Marinette said, rushing forward. “You, uh, didn't close your bag properly, silly!”

“Ah, whoops!” Alya replied, picking the other back she'd brought and zipping it up. “Thanks, M!”

“See ya tonight!” she sent back, and as soon as Alya was out, she pulled the phone from behind her back.

“Phew,” she whistled, happy that she'd have the chance to fix things.

Wait, wasn't she forgetting something?

“Marineeeeette.”

Oh, right.

Mylène.

Why couldn't things go right for once?

“You can't steal people's phones–” Mylène said, but she broke down.

“I know, I know that! But if I can't recover that video, Alya's gonna kill me!”

“She's not–” Mylène attempted to interrupt, but Marinette was on her catastrophe spiral and there was no way to stop her now.

“And then she won't be my friend anymore, and then the rest of you won't be my friend because no one was my friend before Alya came and drove Chloé away–”

Mylène felt shocked. In all her time as Marinette's classmate, she'd never realized how badly the girl had taken everything. Chloé had always been there as a looming presence, because for some reason she hated Marinette... and now she feared that she would lose them.

There was so much they had to do to make it up to her!

“And then I'll have to move to China to live with my great uncle to make friends who don't know what a loser I am–”

“Marinette!” She had to interrupt this nonsense! So she grabbed her hands off her face and smiled at her. “Let's ask Alix if Max taught her how to recover videos, before we start leaving the country.”

----

The Eiffel Tower was finally in sight (not that that meant much) when his phone rang again. Figuring it would be Sarah trying to make him come faster, he picked up.

“Hey, Sarah, I'm almost–”

“Actually it's Chris. The meeting spot changed to in front of the Louvre Pyramid.”

That was strange. Why such a sudden change?

“I mean, I'm almost at the Eiffel Tower, to be honest, I could just meet you–”

“Nope, no, gotta be the Louvre, see you soon!” Chris rushed, and hung up.

That was certainly strange. But, well, Chris was there, so it was probably right.

----

“Hey babes, did I leave my phone at your place?” Alya asked. “I can't find it anywhere.”

“O-Oh, yeah, it's right here on the kitchen counter, look at that!” Marinette answered.

She sighed, thankful.

“Cool, can you bring it to the show tonight?” she requested... and then she heard something weird. “Kinda sounds like you're on a bus.”

“Sure, no problem, see you later, byeeee!”

And Marinette hung up.

That was strange.

If she was in bus, why was she saying the phone was on the counter?

----

Sarah groaned as she watched the clock and no sign of her star actor.

“We can't wait anymore. Chris, you're up and Fred is out,” she told the understudy, who jumped off the bus where he had been relaxing.

“You can count on me!” Chris replied as he prepared. Sarah would have preferred Fred, because he was very good at what he did, but–

RING!

As she checked her cellphone, she realized she had spoken of the devil, for he was calling.

“Sarah? Where are you?”

“We left because you were late again!”

“Huh? But I'm at the new meeting spot!” Fred asked, confused. But Sarah wasn't going to cut him any slack.

“What new meeting spot?! I'm sick of your flakiness! Just–!” Sarah took a deep breath before she'd say something she'd regret. “Look, Chris is playing tonight, okay?! At least he's reliable!”

And she hung up before Fred could reply.

----

“Hmm, today's going to be a good day, I can tell,” Hawkmoth said as he released his Akuma.

This one seemed to be powerful.

----

As they reached the Louvre, Marinette was finally starting to calm down from her previous spiral, and Mylène was suggesting alternatives in case they couldn't find Alix or she just didn't have the skills they needed.

“We can also try a computer store–”

“Wait, what is that?!” Marinette suddenly said, pointing at a mime nearby – one that resembled M. Haprèle too much...

… and who was looking at the screens hanging from the outside of the Louvre, now showing the show that M. Haprèle should be in right now. And who made a motion as if cutting the air with a knife, and even though he carried nothing, Marinette actually heard the SHINK!

And then, all the screens shut off as multiple deep cuts crisscrossed it, and the pieces dropped to the ground, causing a great racket.

“AH!” a man shouted, shocked by the disaster.

Mylène was of another mind, though, for she had recognized the Akuma.

“PAPA?!”

It made her feel bad for having to ditch her friend but... if she wanted to stop this Akuma fast, it was the only option.

----

As the car made its way home, Adrien looked out of the window, completely disinterested in the stuff Nathalie was saying.

“Your father won't be joining you, Adrien,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“To the surprise of no one,” he added, sarcastically, before the Gorilla jumped and stepped on the brake with a screech.

“Hurry! Run to safety! I'll cover you!”

Marigold? He quickly rolled down the window on his side, and saw her there, windmilling her spinning top to act as a shield against what seemed to be the latest Akuma. He grinned: she was a great hero, indeed!

But then they crossed their gaze, and as he looked into her blue eyes, he remembered that thing.

That there was a high chance that this was Marinette.

----

They crossed their gaze, and as she looked into his green eyes, she remembered that thing.

That there was a high chance that this was Chat Noir.

----

So, as Marigold leaned down, so close that they could have kissed if they were just a bit closer, top rope still winding around, they shared an electrifying greeting.

“Hey~♥”

----

Mylène quickly approached the Akuma, worried, as he kept 'shooting rocks' with a 'slingshot' at cars passing by. She had to do something! Make him... stop being an Akuma.

“Papa, stop!” she cried out, catching the Akuma's attention. “Talk to me! What happened?!”

The Akuma turned to her... and smiled. He reached out with a hand and gently patted her in the head, but said nothing. Either he was committed to being a mime, or he just couldn't (the same way she had been unable to speak).

“Ah–!”

While it was nice to know that her father was still in there, it wasn't enough – she needed Chat Noir and Marigold!

----

“Starting the party without me, Honey Bee?”

Marigold turned and smiled at her partner. He must have been nearby, it hadn't taken him much longer than her to reach the place.

Then again, Adrien had been just there a minute ago or so...

“Hardly!” she replied.

“Let's see what he's got!” Chat Noir declared, and charged at the Akuma... only to be WHACK!ed in the face by something invisible as the Akuma waved a hand. “OW–!”

Marigold grimaced.

“Yeah, you won't be 'seeing' much of anything.”

----

Since the Akuma wasn't causing too much damage (and little to none to people), the two retreated to plan something out, since now they had to find a way to counter his ability to 'use' any tool or weapon out of thin air. However, with only the two of them, it would probably not be enough.

“Marigold, Chat Noir! Please, save my dad!”

“Mylène!” Chat Noir said as their classmate found them. Mylène quickly began to explain what she thought.

“When he left, his producer was upset, so something must've happened with his acting troupe, 'cuz he was otherwise happy.”

“Of course we'll save your dad, Mylène!” Marigold said, having had an idea of what to do.

“That's kind of our whole deal,” Chat Noir followed, knowing that his partner had come up with a plan.

“Now,” Marigold said, pointing with her right hand, “go hide in that alley and don't move for at least 10 minutes.”

Mylène blinked.

“O... kay?”

----

As soon as Mylène did as bid (even if she was quite confused as to why), Chat Noir pulled Marigold close to him, while she put an arm over his shoulders.

“Let's talk strategy, ma belle,” he said, putting his baton in vertical position.

Marigold let out a snort.

“Sure,” she replied, and Chat Noir extended his baton, going so far up that they were over the nearby buildings, with a good sighting of enough of the city, including the Champ de Mars and its iconic tower at one end of it.

“Our silent friend isn't very noticeable city wide,” Chat Noir began, as he held onto the baton with a hand and his feet, while Marigold hugged him to avoid falling, “so I don't bet on Scar showing up without a show.”

“Luckily, we can get all the help we need,” Marigold continued. “And it's clear Mylène adores her dad, so I'll get her some 'jewelry' while you protect the troupe bus... there!”

At the Eiffel Tower. Of course.

And Chat Noir grinned.

“Sounds like a plan!” he exclaimed, and began to lean with his baton in that direction – forgetting he was carrying a passenger.

“Wait, Chat, DON'T–!”

One that wasn't happy about him forgetting that.

----

Getting to Master Fu's parlor and back was easy, particularly with all the parkour she had learned to do in the course of the past months, and within ten minutes she was in the alley she had sent Mylène into.

“Oh good, you're still here,” she said as she used her top to descend from the roof.

“Marigold!” Mylène exclaimed, shocked at the unexpected appearance of the heroine.

“Mylène, do you want to help us save your dad?”

Mylène looked down for a moment.

“... Akumas have always scared me, ever since the beginning, but...” she looked up, and now Marigold saw that there was a fire in her eyes that hadn't been there before. “My Dad is more important than being scared!”

Marigold smiled.

“I knew you were brave, Mylène Haprèle,” she replied, pulling out the reason for her visit to Master Fu. “Which is why I'm giving you the Dog Miraculous of Adoration, which you will use for the greater good!”

Mylène's jaw dropped in shock, and as she shook her head she gingerly picked the jewelry box up and opened it.

“Woohoo, new holder!” the Dog Kwami cheered as she came out and looked upon Mylène. “Hi, I'm Barkk! This'll be so much fun!”

“Wah!” Mylène shouted, shocked once more.

“Whoa, hey, no 'fraidy cats here!” Barkk encouraged her, flying closer. “We're strong guard dogs that protect the pack!”

Mylène clenched her fists. The Kwami was right, this wasn't the time to be afraid!

“R–Right.”

“It'll be okay 'cuz I'll be with you the whole time!” Barkk continued, as she put on the collar that came in the box. “Now let's play ball!”

“Barkk, ON THE HUNT!”

----

The Mime was quite the good fighter even though he didn't have a weapon – or, rather, maybe it was because he didn't have a weapon: since the Akuma didn't have to deal with the weight, he could move faster, which was always a factor in a fight.

“Hngh! HAH!” he growled as he deflected several attacks made with what appeared to be an invisible sword.

“Back up is here, Chat Noir!” he heard a voice, and as he risked a look behind, she saw a short, blond girl with two large ponytails, a mask and nose with a distinctive pattern, and colors that made him think of her like a cute pet.

“Ah~! And you are...?”

“Call me Ultimutt!” the girl declared, smiling.

“Where's Marigold?” he asked, as he deflected yet another attack.

“Trying to stop the bus.”

----

“Sooo, M. Haprèle is targeting you, but we got this,” the heroine explained, and Sarah looked shocked.

“THAT'S FRED?!”

Chris looked outside, feeling a spark of shame: he knew too well what had caused this – just as the Akuma attacking the bus got smacked precisely against the window he was looking out of, and he got to see the evidence first-hand.

“Fred...?”

----

Outside the bus, Ultimutt had grabbed her Akumatized father's hand to keep him from falling off the bus. But then, he tried to attack her with something that sounded pointy, given the sound it made when it hit the bus metallic structure.

“AH!”

And, in the shock, she let go of the Akuma's hand, and he slipped off, hitting the ground and rolling around like a ragdoll.

“Sorry Papa,” she whispered.

But the Akuma recovered quickly and used his 'slingshot' again, hitting the bus on the side and causing it to careen out of control.

“Ahh!” the people in the bus yelled. Fortunately, Detective Chat Noir was on the case, and he quickly solved it by jumping to the front of the bus and extending his baton until it was large enough to get caught between two lamp posts, helping the bus driver to stop the vehicle.

Ultimutt quickly joined Chat Noir, as the Akuma began to swing something that, going by the move he was making, was probably some kind of large hammer.

“Here he comes!” Chat Noir warned, hoping Marigold would get everyone out of the bus quickly.

“I have an idea!” Ultimutt supplied. “A pretty out there one.”

Even though he had still been Akumatized, this was still her Papa – he had petted her earlier, after all! – and she knew him very well. Enough, that she knew there was one thing he'd be unable to resist.

She stepped in front of him and mimed a whistle while stopping him with the other hand.

The Akuma was shocked.

“Mime Off!” she challenged. She stepped back, and acted as if she was leaning on a counter and yawning, waiting for the shopping assistant to ring her up.

The Akuma smiled and answered by dribbling with a 'basketball' as Ultimutt swung a 'bat'.

Then Ultimutt winded up a 'baseball' and 'tossed' it at the Akuma–

“Oops!” she 'apologized' – she had 'accidentally' picked her ball weapon and had hit the Akuma's hat in the process!

With the Akuma aware that he'd been tricked, he went back into fighting, and Marigold was now the one facing him, in order to get the time they needed to finish the job.

“That does it for the set dressing,” Chat Noir said, as Ultimutt held her ball.

“Now we just need our prima donna for the curtain call.”

Chat Noir gave a dark grin as he summoned energy into his hand.

“Oh, I know how to get her attention.”

----

Lying under the sun, with a nice cup of refreshing juice in hand, and not a care in the world, was one of the best things in the world, and of course, given the nice weather today, she was indulging into it.

She thought she heard that mangy cat yowl something stupid, but it was probably just her mind.

Then she heard metal shrieking, and she turned to see that the Eiffel Tower was starting to slide off and falling.

“Ugh, this again? TIKKIIIII!”

----

Just as Scar landed, he knew the pain in the ass was angry about something. Did they just interrupt her busy schedule of doing nothing at all?

“What are you losers doing?! You ruined my relaxation time!” she shrieked, confirming his suspicions.

“Nice to see you too Scar. That's your cue, Ultimutt!” he shouted, and the new partner extended her hand.

“Fetch!”

And the Akuma's hat appeared on her hand without a warning.

And just as the Akuma realized it, there was Marigold with her stinger ready to hit.

“Venom.”

----

Somehow, Alya had managed to reach the Tower by the time the fight ended, and as Fred Haprèle recovered from his foray into Akumatization, she already had her camera filming everything.

“W–Where am I?” M. Haprèle asked, confused, as the ladybugs restored the statu quo.

“WOW, a new hero!” Alya exclaimed as she filmed Ultimutt giving M. Haprèle his hat back.

“It's okay now,” she gently said, ignoring Alya... well... hounding her.

“Do you two mind being interviewed for the Ladyblog?” she asked.

“FRED!”

M. Haprèle stood up as Chris arrived, clearly distressed and apologetic as he scratched the back of his head.

“This was all my fault,” he said. “I wanted to perform so badly that I lied about the meeting change. I'm so sorry.”

M. Haprèle didn't say anything – he just grasped Chris's hand, telling him it was all alright.

“Wow... what a forgiving guy!” Alya exclaimed, while Ultimutt smiled.

This was her Papa, alright!

----

As he took her hand for a dance turn, Chat Noir winked at her.

“You know, we could go to the show tonight, together.”

“O–ho? Are you saying you have tickets already, Chaton?” Marigold flirtatiously said, as his face turned into a shocked one. “If you're trying to figure out what I think you're trying to figure out... then I'm going to try to figure it out too. If you think you can.”

Chat Noir drew her closer, and gave her his best challenging smile.

“Then the race is on.”

----

Ultimutt came back to them so they could share their usual “Bien Joué!” fistbump, and as they did, Scarlet chose to ruin the mood.

“Where'd you get the poodle?”

“The same place I get every hero to pick up your slack,” she fired back. “From the distant land of None-Ya Business.”

----

Mylène ended her transformation, and Barkk popped out from the collar, just as she put it back into the box.

“Yay, that was fun!” the Kwami cheered up, while Mylène gave the box to Marigold. “Mylène is such a good dog!”

The girl picked up the Kwami and pulled her closer, so they could smoosh their faces against each other.

“Aw, you're a good dog!”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

Marigold giggled at the sight.

“I don't know about being a good dog, but being a good actress certainly gave her a good sense of timing.”

Mylène looked at her in confusion.

“How'd you know I'm an actress?”

…

“WHOOP, THAT'S MY TIMER, TIME TO GO BARKK!” she quickly said, before she ended up messing up even more.

----

Mylène was all done telling them everything that happened with the heroes, when she was struck by an idea.

“Hey, we should go to the water park with the girls!” she suggested, and Marinette nodded.

“Sure!”

“Hey, Adrien!” Alya exclaimed, and Marinette turned to look at him. He was wearing a sleeveless green shirt that fit him quite nicely, along with jeans and a pendant that looked like a plane.

“Hey! I didn't know you were coming!” he greeted back, looking at them... and resting his eyes on her a bit more? “You all look great!”

“... you too,” she answered. However, while it was true he did look good, she had something else in mind.

Was this yet another clue that her friend was her Chat Noir?

Sadly, as she looked over at him, she didn't notice someone else was looking over at her – and with some very different ideas in mind...

----

The show was as good as expected, and they all had great fun with it, as they acknowledged as they left the scenario. As the group began to split to return to their homes, Alya remembered one thing.

“Oh, right, did you bring my phone–”

“I'm so sorry!” Marinette exclaimed, bowing. “I accidentally deleted your video and swiped your phone to save it but then the Akuma happened!”

Alya blinked a bit as she tried to decipher Marinette's motor-mouthed explanation, but then she realized what had happened.

“... girl, all my videos are automatically uploaded to my cloud, you didn't delete anything.”

“Huh?!” Marinette mumbled, shocked, and Alya shook her head at her friend once more doing her catastrophe spiraling. “Sooo, you're not mad?”

“I'm only upset you didn't tell me sooner and let yourself get sick with worry over nothing,” she replied, fondly exasperated with her best friend.

“Phew,” Marinette sighed. “Guess that means you don't need your surprise.”

“SURPRISE?!”

----

Marinette told her to wait for a while at the entrance hall of the theater while she made a call, and Alya was shaking as she pondered what her friend was planning. What kind of surprise had she intended to use to compensate her?

“Hello, Alya.”

She looked up, and saw a familiar figure walking down the large stairs in front of her.

“I believe I promised you an interview,” Marigold continued, smiling.

“No freaking way, for real?!” Alya exclaimed. If her bestie were here, she would have hugged the daylights out of her. “Marinette is the actual best! This is the best day ever!”

Jumping in excitement, she moved to the couches nearby and sat in one, and waited for Marigold to sit in the other one before she began her interview, cellphone in hand already filming everything.

“Okay, so, let's start with the new look! It came with a new power?”

“That's right,” Marigold answered. “I can't cleanse Akumas, but what it can do–”

----

Gorizilla

----

That's 209,906 words formed by 1132344 characters in 525 pages!

@zoe-oneesama Your story may be about to end, but this one's still got some time before it finishes as well! Hope you liked my writing as much as I liked your writing AND drawing AND designing!

We're a few chapters from the end of the story!

[hermanunworthy]

can i request 23 for oakworthy? :3c

Charmed (In Your Arms)

23: carrying the other one in their arms

from the touch prompts list!

kai i KNOW u chose this one bc of that one hcs ask and ily for it bc i have been waiting for an excuse to write something about it teehee

also on ao3!

In a perfectly ideal fantasy (of which he has many), Hermie would be the most charming of princes, dressed in an expensive suit, whisking his bride away into the sunset in his very capable arms. The princess, in her elegant white gown, would swoon over his admirable strength, calling him her hero, and he would kiss her cheek with a dashing smile. A choir of birds and angels would sing in harmony, following them into the distance as the curtains drew on their love story.

But “happily ever after” just doesn't seem to be quite in Hermie’s reach yet. Because… Well…

“Wh-Whoa! ” the prince cries out as the weight of the mannequin in their arms tips them over and crushes them on the floor. For–well, not the first time.

…Hermie might not be the best at everything in acting.

They shove the wretched doll off of their definitely-now-bruised body and sit up with a groan. They have to get this down, if they’re ever going to stand a chance auditioning for the prince in the school play. What kind of Prince Charming can't sweep his princess off her feet?

Hermie may have been known for their wonderful acting abilities, but not exactly for their physical capabilities. And though they know the school’s theatre department is not one to typecast, as they’ve been able to land a variety of roles before… a scrawny kid like them is not exactly their first choice for this particular character. It’s not an easy feat to pretend to be a powerful, masculine man when you're just a pathetic non-binary teen who can't even lift a chair without breaking a sweat.

They brush themself off in embarrassment, feeling as though an entire audience has just witnessed their blunder. “Once more, with feeling this time!” they mutter to themself, although the only feeling they have left in them is frustration (and aching pain).

They crouch down to pick the mannequin back up, expecting it to be a herculean task with how tired their arms are, but find lifting it to be a breeze, all of a sudden. Perhaps they really are settling into their role–

“Hi, Hermie! What’s the mannequin for?”

Standing on the other side of the mannequin, holding up its body effortlessly, is Normal. When did he get in here?

Normal is, shockingly, not in the mascot costume at the moment. Standing backstage with his messy hair and casual clothes, it would be easy to mistake him for stage crew. But Hermie is one of the few people who are used to what Normal looks like underneath Teeny. Well, maybe “used to” isn't the right way to put it, in Hermie’s case. Seeing Normal so plainly like this is startling to them, in a way. He looks so much smaller when he’s not in the bulky suit.

The thespian masks his shock by taking on his princely persona once again, giving a stage bow before standing straight and tall (it hurts his back a bit though, since he’s still unlearning his awful Joker posture). “Greetings, Normally.” He rests a hand on the mannequin’s shoulder, as though it really is his betrothed. “I am simply practicing for our future wedding.”

“Oh!” Normal’s cheek flush. “That’s… Oh! You mean, like… the princess! At the end of the play! Oh wow, you're trying out for the…” He trails off as he stares at him, his blush steadily deepening.

“Prince Charming himself, yes,” Hermie finishes for him while he’s still starstruck. His polite smile shifts into a smirk. “It would appear my charms are already working?”

Normal tries to laugh it off, but he’s visibly sweating as much as he does when he’s been at cheer practice. “Ha, yeah, you're uh, doing a great job…” He clears his throat and shakes his head a little. “But, uh. I actually came because a teacher asked me to grab those chairs that got taken in here yesterday?” He points behind Hermie at a stack of chairs sitting against the wall. “I-I wasn't, like, expecting you to be in here, too.”

“Ah, of course.” The prince gestures for him to go ahead, trying to scoot the mannequin out of the way but failing.

The mascot kid scurries past him, clarifying while walking backwards, “Not that I mind seeing you! I'm glad I saw you!” In his distraction, he ends up bumping his back into the chairs. Once again, he laughs it off.

He turns around, grips the base of the bottom chair, and somehow lifts the entire stack with ease.

It's easy to forget just how strong Normal is. Despite his lack of height or a jock-like attitude, this little sophomore can lift. Hermie just doesn't understand how he's able to support an entire pyramid of cheerleaders, with those very arms, just hidden underneath the arms of his costume. Now that is talent.

That's it! Inspiration strikes Hermie (as well as jealousy, but he can handle that just fine, as he has had to before).

“Normal, wait,” he says without thinking it through first. He instantly realizes that doesn't know what he’s doing. Asking Normal for help is admitting that he can't do it himself. He’s supposed to be confident, capable, not asking a school mascot to teach him how to carry his own bride.

But it’s too late, because Normal is literally dropping everything for him right now. He places the chairs back down on the floor immediately and turns back to him with his full attention. “Yes, Hermie? What do you need?”

A truly loyal knight he would make. Perhaps this is a better way to look at this situation: simply the prince calling on a trusted guard to aid him.

The thespian straightens himself again and tries to put on an authoritative air. “The teacher requested you specifically, I imagine, because you are notably strong, correct?”

“Uh…” Normal glances at the stack of chairs. “I mean, I guess? She knows I do cheer.”

Hermie nods. “Yes, and you are able to carry people with great ease, as I have seen.”

The cheerleader scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “I don't know if I’d call it ‘great ease’, but…”

“Normal, do you happen to be familiar with the bridal carry position?”

Normal jumps a little at the question. “I… am, why?” There’s a nervous but somewhat hopeful twinkle in his eye.

Hermie wraps an arm around the mannequin's waist. “I might acquire some… assistance, in preparation for the big day.” He curses his face for beginning to heat up in shame, but at least it’s underneath his makeup. Still, he shouldn't be averting his eyes.

When he directs them back at Normal, he finds his expression to be much more openly flustered than him. As is the mascot kid’s near-constant state, it seems. “Oh, yeah! I’d–I’d love to help! What do…” He swings his arms back and forth. “What’s holding you up about it?”

What’s holding him up is that he can't hold this thing up. “Might I demonstrate with this, and you may critique?”

Normal stops his swinging motion. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”

As soon as Hermie turns toward the mannequin again, the regret starts to hit him. This audience of one is somehow much more pressure on him than the crowds of eyes he’s used to having watch him. His hands hover over the mannequin’s body awkwardly, like a young teen not knowing how to hold their partner at their first dance. He hasn't felt this kind of stage fright in years.

Eventually, his arms settle somewhere along the torso and legs, and, with his breath held, tries this time to just tip the mannequin over and then catch its weight, hoping that that'll make it easier. However, it only ends up starting to pull him down with it, and he lets go before he can go through the even-more-humiliating ordeal of having Normal watch him fall again.

And then Normal laughs. He tries to stifle it with his hand, but it was impossible to miss. Hermie’s cheeks only burn more, as if he’s standing under unbearable stage lights and not just in the dim backstage area.

“Sorry, sorry. I just don't think the mannequin is working for you, man!” He walks over and picks it back up for him. “It and you are too stiff to make it happen!” He looks Hermie over briefly, before chirping, “Here, you gotta do it like this!”

And before Hermie can even protest, he’s being scooped from the floor in one sweeping motion. Normal’s hands, warm though the prince’s clothes, cradle his back and the crooks of his knees. As though he’s nothing more than a pillow resting in his arms.

Even though his hold is steady, Hermie involuntarily swings their arms around the cheerleader’s neck with a very unprincely squeak. The back of his neck is sticky with sweat, but they hang on for dear life anyway.

Normal lets out another giggle, and this time, Hermie can feel it from his chest pressed against their body. He’s so close to them now. Solid. Steady. Warm warm warm–

“Let me down this instant,” the prince demands, feeling suffocated and alarmed as he feels comfortable and safe.

Normal looks down at him (he’s looking down at him for once) with a bright smile. There’s that unbearable stage light. “Of course, your majesty,” he teases in an uncharacteristically smooth voice, and gracefully sets him back down to earth.

As soon as Hermie’s feet land on the floor and Normal’s hands are no longer there for support, they feel their balance falter for the umpteenth time. They try to step away to place some distance between them, but their knees buckle under their own light weight.

But of course, Normal is quick to catch them. An order to unhand him readies itself on Hermie’s tongue, but when the hands draw away just as quickly as they came, he feels the need to lean back into him.

This can't be. He can't be swooning, he’s supposed to be the prince. He’s not supposed to look at Normal, with his dashing smile and very, very capable arms, and feel charmed.

“Once more,” he orders instead. His face feels about as flushed as Normal’s clearly is, and that’s probably becoming more and more evident by the second with how much makeup he’s sweating off, but the show must go on. “With feeling this time.”

Once more, the mascot kid effortlessly sweeps the prince off his feet. Hermie now allows himself to relish in the warmth of his touch, memorizing the way his arms curl around him protectively. To keep in mind for later. To help with his romantic fantasies. As in, to apply when playing as the prince in the play.

Normal then presses the lightest touch of his smiling lips to Hermie’s cheek.

…Hermie may be reconsidering her role now.

[galaxyedging]

Mr Ben x gn!reader

Fluff with some bad language.

Fancam Worthy

Last period had been a killer. Trying to teach a bunch of teenagers about organisms, without the dreaded fuck up of say orgasms, took a toll. The tea on your desk was serving to calm your frayed nerves a little but a distraction would be welcome.

The chime of your laptop draw your attention. An email from your boss appeared in your open inbox. That was not the type of distraction you were looking for. The email was to all staff regarding social media.

Good Afternoon,

We are aware of the recent trend of 'fancams' featuring members of the faculty. We will be dealing with this and calling an assembly to address the issue with the students.

Just as you finished reading it, a text came through from your teacher bestie, Amy, across the hall.

Do you really blame the kids?

What?

Have you not seen the fancams?

No.

The next message had a link. Thinking nothing of it, you tapped it. I Need a Big Boy blasting out of your phone had you scrambled to turn the volume down. Once both your heart rate and volume were down you took a look at the video. It was a fancam of Mr Ben, the kid's, and secretly your, favourite teacher. God, he looked good. Even just sitting drinking coffee. Those large hands made his mug look tiny. His Adam's Apple bobbing drew your attention to his long neck. This was a more welcome, yet inappropriate, distraction. The crush you had on the man was completely unprofessional and childish and why were you watching the fancam for a third time?! 

So has he made a move on you yet?

What?!

Come on! Everyone can see how he looks at you.

You didn't reply. It was true that sometimes, if you were hopeful, you thought you saw him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. There was no way he liked you though. He was sweet, patient, smart, handsome. He never mentioned anyone but there was no way he was single. Even if he was single, you weren't that lucky.

Another message, another link. This one was a fancam of the two of you. Hearts exploded around the frame as the two of you looked at each other.

Stop it. You're worse than the kids!

Or we're all just not in denial like you. See you at the meeting.

When the meeting, that could have been an email was over. Ben wandered over to you earning a look from Amy.

"Hey. How was that not just an email?" He whispered, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne. It was a clean, fresh scent. Like a breath of fresh air. Much like him. He had such a passion for his work, he breathed new life into the school when he joined.

"Right? How was your day?" Today was Valentine's Day. Considering half the kids had a crush on him, and were not shy about it at all, you expected his day to be quite rough. 

He chuckled knowingly. "Not too bad. A few inappropriate comments. I think. I'm not always sure what they are even saying." 

It was cute how he was honest that he didn't get half of what the kids said. He never tried too hard to be 'down with the kids'. That was probably why the kids liked him so much. He was so genuine. Where other adults lied to them, he didn't. They knew where they stood with him. It was a quality that you found very appealing too.

"I've been intercepting love notes all day." He held them out for you to see. They were pretty standard. 'Do you like me? Yes or No?' Some depressing bad poetry. "The kids have been so distracted."

"You're not a romantic then?" Maybe more a leading question than a curious one from you.

"Me? No, I love romance. It doesn't seem to be a fan of me though." He chuckled, a blush blooming on his cheeks.

"Ben, we need you." One of you colleagues called him away. Leaving you to formulate a plan.

The halls were empty when you approached his classroom. Even the most dedicated students had left, most of the staff had gone early as they had plans, the rest had gone so they weren't stuck behind while the others enjoyed their night. 

"Hi." Ben smiled as he saw you approach. He looked good. Standing behind his desk, flicking through some papers, long fingers skimming the pages. His stance drawing attention to his well fitting cords.

"Hi." You managed to get out. The nerves bubbling inside you made you long for the simple organism/orgasm days. That would be a breeze compared to this. 

"What's up? Do you need that paperwork?" You had been paired on a student engagement project together. He was looking into more opportunities to give the kids work experience. He'd worked really hard on it. He was so caring, and sweet and…he was staring at you expectantly.

"Er…no. I found another Valentine's note. I thought you should see it." The folded note was between your fingers. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, before sitting on the edge of his desk. Inwardly, you hoped that the janitor had cranked up the heating, you were on fire. 

He opened the note. "Would you like to try that new Italian place in town with me on Friday night? That place is a little fancy for our kids. Good for them, I suppose." He laughed.

This was it. Deep breath. "The kids didn't write it. I did. For you." Seriously, does this place not have air con?!

He looked up at you over his glasses before grabbing a pen. He quickly scribbled something before handing it back. 

He had ticked 'Yes' and added 'Can I take you on a date now? Yes or No?'

"Yes." A ridiculous grin split your lips. It only widened when he smiled back and offered you his arm. The action, along with the feel of his firm bicep under your hand had you honestly swooning. 

"It's not a fancy Italian place but I know somewhere where we could eat." The stairs up to the roof usually felt like a chore to climb. Not today then didn't, not with a spring in every step. 

"How is the roof garden going?" You asked just as he opened up the door, the answer appeared right in front of you. "Oh, wow!"

The garden was flourishing. The wildflowers were blooming. They swayed gently in the breeze, the bright colours rippled against the layered orange hues of the sky as the sunset. It was dazzling. With your attention lost to it, you didn't notice the fancam worthy look Ben was giving you as he look at the smile on your face as you positively glowed in the golden light. 

"You grew food too?!" You gasped. He smiled at your excitement. The same wide eyed joy was present on your face when your class succeeded at anything. You were the most supportive, sweet person he'd ever met. The delighted squeal when he gave you a fresh strawberry to try would be stuck in his head longer than any catchy tune the kids added to their edits.

Standing there, for once, he actually understood why the kids made fancams. He could watch you in this moment over and over again. If you'd let him, he'd make a million more moments like this for the rest of your life.

Tags @kirsteng42 @babydarkstar @prolix-yuy @thegreenkid @hquinzelle @fangirl-316 @gracie7209 @jedifarmerr @doommommy @scorpio-marionette @sturkillerbase @harriedandharassed @aynsleywalker @mswarriorbabe80 @quica-quica-quica @rise-my-angel @adancedivasmom @graciexmarvel @kinda-nobody @movievillainess721 @munsonownsmyass