#and its like... seems to have only had one print run or whatever

[mejomonster]

i have... a penchant... for getting really into books which are out of print. not cause they’re like first editions or collectibles or whatever the fuck (i went to an antique book show recently and was SO pissed there was like 50 Alice in Wonderlands, but no 1900 printed french books you couldn’t even find in pdfs online... in fact, no foreign language books at all what the fuck :c... and 2 gone with the winds, 50 lord of the rings... like i get it, the target audience of an antique show is maybe? idk people collecting expensive books? but for me? the point was to find out of print old books that may never have been digitized. thank the universe for archive.org there’s so many 1800s learn japanese, 1900s learn chinese books with different versions of romanization and then later different amounts of character simplification, theres the ‘nature method’ textbooks that i’ve only seen back in print very recently and only for a few languages and probably only cause nerds like me can’t shut up about them, there’s so many BOOKS i’m into that just... :c good fucking luck finding them if not for the kind efforts of archivists or random chance)

[pullhisteeth]

classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

-

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins. 

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

-

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all. 

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

-

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?" 

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up. 

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him. 

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square. 

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

-

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time. 

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

-

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!

[ladybirdswritings]

Bound - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Summary: Miguel O’Hara was never known to be a man wanting. He was beyond content with the power surging through him upon his multiversal throne. That is until he lays his hungry eyes upon you. Now, he will do whatever it takes just for the taste of you… dark!miguel x reader fic. very steamy as always <3

Notes: I couldn’t stop myself from this hades and persephone-esque fic so I hope you enjoy!! SW&P is far lighter if you desire that <3

next chap

one

Morning is a sweet greeting to you, warm and incandescent to shine it’s rays upon soft skin. As it always is. Though you find it to be dreary on days like this, as it is the same as the day prior, and the day prior to that day. As if it is not sparkling gold but shadowing gray.

All the same repetitive waltz for you.

Yet to your unknowing mind, much would change within the quick hour. Change not in the way of little things but rather in the way that would make your toes curl and your eager hands grab your tresses so you might not trip upon them on your dash toward the tallest hills.

You would have run had you known what was to come.

Yet you didn’t; and so? Your morning was quite a bore.

Similar to a zombie are your sunken cheeks and coffee kissed eyes decorated with awful bags. Your toothbrush is made of oak as is your boar-bristled comb. You tend to your prettying before slipping away from the hustle and bustle of a lively home. Four sisters and two brothers you sport, and an overbearing woman you dare to call your mother.

You made routine of this. Sneaking away with the latest print picked up from the small shop next to the apothecary in town. Out the oak wood door and past the burnt toast and meat to cuddle yourself comfortably against your favored weeping willow by the bend.

Your only company is the ducklings these days, though you don’t mind them much. They are mostly quiet beyond the occasional quack.

Serenity became you as you lay there in the remnants of springtime’s shadow, willfully sprouted in peonies and lilac blossoms.

Your print is a work of Austen, an old and worn thing but one you’d found comfort in recently. It would be your fourth time revisiting.

Would… however.

“Oh heavens sakes! You must enjoy making your mother walk upon tousled soil, girl! Have you got half a mind!? I don’t presume so otherwise you’d avoid any possibility of me losing a leg!”

A whine like that of a carnaged cat rings out from behind the bend. In the grassy plains your mother struggles her way toward you. You stand to your feet in swift motion, but your wandering eye finds curiosity in an unfamiliar bloom. Its colors an odd pairing of red and blue unfurled toward the sun.

What an odd thing, you think.

The huffing and puffing snaps your attention center, and you nearly grumble in complaint as you hurry toward your mother.

“Mama I was just—”

“Oh save it. I see you slip out each morning, I know full well your disdain for the company of your own family… but I didn’t come here to admonish you, sweet girl. Quite the opposite in fact. I am here to ask a favor of you. It seems the cold air has made our chickens most unwilling to provide us with eggs. Won’t you go in town and gather some?”

Like the rainfall’s mist caught by breath of wind, your hopes and plans of reading in the bend till dawn have dissipated. Pursing your lips, you nod— not wanting to administer a guaranteed headache at wake of your protest.

In to town you’ll venture.

✧*̥˚ … *̥˚✧

The cobblestone is cracked underneath your boot, as it is dampened by springtime’s departured mist. You like the clicking sound, though it is most lonesome at this ungodly hour.

The house cannot be run well with lack of your aid. Father left long ago and mother is just a dreadful housewife. The doctor blames her dissonance on the ailments within her mind’s confines though— she swears herself always to be whole and well.

Regardless, for the sake of your sisters— you help. Besides this, you owe it to her.

Your basket is made of weaved wicker and adorned with crimson cloth, at the end of the cobble is where life shines proud. A more lively gathering of townsfolk in search of early morning eggs to enjoy with their breakfast.

A single carriage, outdated as the things are, surges forward in an unstable command by a young man. He cannot be past twenty three, and his face is speckled with pale freckles. His hair is a burnt orange rasp.

The stallions are dark as midnight, sweat being huffed like chimney smoke from their nostrils. Dear god, the way he commands them is certain to ensure an accident.

You tuck the thought away in to the back of your mind to be focused upon your task. You’ll need no more than a dozen or perhaps three what with the vacuum cleaner your eldest brother refers to as his mouth.

Babblebrooke, it is where you’ve lived most your orphaned life. Surely some places have technology of picture books and magazines you skim through when you are awarded the rare chance but— you find yourself content with a place so simple.

You cannot imagine a life of loudness, no quiet space to tuck away and read. It’s a frightening thought.

The stand is nearby, only a few more passing steps and you’ll reach it. Your eyes are locked on the fresh berries, but you know full well you won’t have enough for them.

A bark startles you out of your trance, one excited and pointed. You jump at the sound and turn your head to find a cocker spaniel hound circling round and round to chase its own tail. You giggle at the sight, and its chestnut ears raise in alarm at the vibration.

Oh, it’s noticed you.

The little thing hobbles over excitedly, and you cannot help but bend on your knee to brush back its silken locks.

Beyond a canvas collar of pale pink lays a heart, engraved in molten silver the title: “Lyla.”

So she belongs to someone. Such a kind thing, they are to be a lucky companion indeed.

You smooth back the hair from her excited eyes before lifting to your feet again and continuing forward. She begins to follow you, but a movement in the alleyway shadows is a matter she finds far more pressing for her attention.

“Lyla…” you test in a whisper as you make your way behind a man hunched and gray— awaiting his eggs for breakfast.

Time seems agonizing and the line moves awfully slow, you peek behind the elder man to find annoyance laced in the eyes of the townsfolk. Blaire has taken a liking to the farm boy— it seems she’s busying herself with conversing nonsense with his mother rather than picking her fresh fruits for tart pastries.

You sigh, checking the time on your cracked, golden watch with impatience brewing at the soles of your boots. You sway on them, shifting your weight forward and back. No use just staring ahead.

Though it is quite loud, it doesn’t stop you from reaching in to your tote for “Jane Eyre.”

You find your favorite part, their first midnight meeting in the hallway. How romantic it is, you only wish that to be a possibility for you one day. You forbid yourself from joining the season of course but somewhere tucked away inside— you wonder how marvelous it would be for a broody and handsome thing to appear upon your doorstep with a bouquet the size of France.

You grin at the thought. Though it is swiftly interrupted by the quick patter of familiar paws.

“Woah! Easy!”

Your head snaps up at the gasps of those around you, and you are most horrified to see that the horses have reached the steep bend mere steps away. The ginger fool, they halt in warning and he kicks at them— slapping them with a russet pole. They comply, and the carriage loses control.

It creaks, hurling forward and disconnecting from its rusted shell. Tumbling at godspeed down the cobble and straight for little Lyla who lays mindlessly and happily on her back now.

Panic surges, and your eyes find worry in everyone’s features and yet no motive to act alongside it. Such cowardly men, allowing the poor thing to succumb to the bite of freak nature and cruel fate.

You won’t allow it. Though you feel frozen, the sharp and desperate shout of “Lyla!” from a phantom voice is enough to snap you back into the most horrible moment present.

“Christ!” You breathe, tossing Jane Eyre to the sapphire sky before surging forward. The carriage stalls on a pebble for a quick moment and it’s enough time for you to beat it by a mere step. You scoop the silly thing into your arms and as the wheel just grazes your skin— it is you now that is saved from immediate death.

A warm hand tugs at your wrist and you’re certain the brick wall has grown awfully large palms and fingers; for what you slam up against is hard and unpleasant.

You grunt, Lyla yelping in surprise where she is tucked up tightly against your chest.

Whistles and claps overtake the coward crowd and you sway upon your own boots as the wind itself makes you unsteady with its light graze. Firm palms steel you, grasping your shoulders tight to keep you together and well.

Your eyes venture on an upward path to find two crimson pupils imploring your features as if they are etched in stone and stored away in a beloved museum somewhere in Rome.

Brows pinched and quite bushy, eyes cold but curious, his reddened orbs search your face for what feels like a millennium. Fascinated.

Awed.

You blink, and the cry of the sweet creature in your arms breaks the trance you were entangled in. Lyla leaps from your arms and onto the cobble path— and you only huff and reach a weak arm toward her before the exhaustion of a skipped meal and your adrenaline fueled actions bring you to sit on the cobble ground.

He kneels beside you, the stranger. Yet you cannot find yourself mustering enough energy to truly examine his face. Just his eyes, rare things they are.

“She’ll be alright.” He whispers, hands still pleasantly upon your shoulders as if he fears you’ll topple over and shatter once he parts.

When you do lift your gaze however, stricken curious by the sickly silken sound of his voice, he’s gone.

“Thank y-”

The word croaks in your throat, and you can only wonder how it was possible… how quickly the phantom left you upon the cobble. The farm boy rushes over soon, much to the demise of poor Blaire. She stares on at the carriage and ginger man as if she wishes it was her nearly trampled.

He hands you fresh water and berries, and you wave his concern away and the crowd’s curiosity with a weak hand.

Your mind is only glued upon one thing.

The phantom.

🏷️’s: @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield @poutysprouty @chorizobeets @tabalittlelong @iitangerine @queenb27sblog-blog @dprmooni @neptunieesworld @cyd2301 @amelialysm @justanothers-things @heartfeltlonging @coralreefses @knightowl019 @cybersry

[sovasleepy]

beauty sleep

[ gekko x reader ] — when you fall asleep wearing makeup, gekko does his best to clean your face without waking you ; part 2

warnings: the reader is gender neutral, although the reader is described to be wearing makeup so take that as you will. also a brief mention of being drunk/alcohol but its not gekko or the reader.

notes: requested by anon! i hope you enjoy :)

the usual banter between phoenix and jett played out in front of you. they were high off of a victory, much like yourself and several other agents that had joined together for a victory feast at a local takeout place. what was supposed to be a quick run for food turned into a posse of idiots parading around downtown, much to the credit of an already half-drunken skye.

phoenix quickly followed her, his energy coaxing the fire that was already brewing in the hearts of the agents. a particularly important mission had gone incredibly well that day and the entire team was still riding high.

jett snorted as she shoved phoenix, laughing at whatever cheesy joke he’d laid on her.

“love the energy, but i’m far too tired to match it.” gekko spoke, leaning his head slightly towards you. his voice was much softer and quieter than their’s. it was a sharp contrast to the loud, chirpy voices of those around you.

“couldn’t agree more.” you grumbled.

as much as you loved your friends, you were happy to have them split off into their own directions once you were back at base. gekko was the only one to follow.

he padded toward your door and gently held it open for you. he watched you walk in, but hesitated another moment before speaking.

“could i come in? i know we’re both tired, i just don’t think i’m ready to sleep yet, yknow?”

you nodded and smiled. gekko always had a weird way of matching your emotional state, purposefully or not. absently kicking away a t-shirt that had ended up on your floor, you apologized for the state that your room was in and invited him in.

you proceeded to hit the mattress, and you were out like a light.

“thank you,” he spoke, words falling on deaf ears. his eyes scanned your room. he took in the decorations, noting how such small things were marked by traces of your hobbies or personality. “i just need to be around ‘calm’ for a while before i knock out, is all.”

he sat on the edge of your bed. he didn’t notice the fact that you were asleep. he continued to mutter to himself for another moment, before finally turning to see your reaction.

“well,” he spoke one last time. “that would explain the silence.”

still, he didn’t leave. he felt creepy. as though he was spying on you in some weird way. but you had invited him in, right? so there wasn’t something morally off about it, he assured himself.

he would like to deny the warmth that spread in his chest as he observed you, but that would make him a liar. while the thoughts were always in the back of his mind, he never truly got the chance to fully take you in. every curve and every feature of your face, the slight pinch in your brows as you slept, and the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. it took him a while to realize the other thing he was seeing.

“isn’t falling asleep with makeup on bad for your skin? or your pillows or something.” he whispered softly to himself.

as he did, he slowly got up from where he sat on edge of your bed. a quick glance around your room offered him nothing, but he didn’t want to turn on your light and wake you. you looked so peaceful, after all.

quietly, gekko walked toward your bathroom. after trying for a miserable ten minutes to figure out which washcloth in your bathroom was the softest, he finally settled on one. he stepped towards your sink to dampen it, where his eyes caught a sleeve with the words “makeup removing wipes” printed on the side.

yeah, that seemed like a better idea than his.

makeup wipes in tow, he finally returned to your sleeping form. slowly, as if it would make a difference, he turned on your lamp. he froze as if to make sure you were still asleep.

he pulled one wipe from the package, gently rubbing at your skin. after a second, he pulled back and checked the wipe. he was doing this correctly… wasn’t he?

how often were you supposed to change wipes? or was it just one for the whole face? how hard was too hard to rub? how expensive were these wipes, anyway? how does he know when your face is clean? would the liquid that dampened the wipe hurt if it got in your eyes?

oh well. he could try his best, at least.

he discarded the dirty wipe in the trashcan near your bed and retrieved a new one. he continued his process of gently rubbing your face, taking extra care around your eyes and making sure he wasn’t pressing down so hard as to irritate your skin.

when he was sure he was done, he closed the container and returned it safely to the bathroom counter.

he came back when he was done. gently setting his weight on the bed, he smoothed down your hair with one hand and smiled at your sleeping form.

“you don’t really need your beauty sleep, but i guess i can let you have your sleep-sleep.” gekko commented after a beat.

he sat up gently as to not disturb you. he clicked off your lamp and shut your door softly behind himself as he left you to rest.

[matchesarelit]

Imagine If You Will... r/WeaponizedIncompetence (Spencer Agnew x gn!Reader)

W.C: ~1.6k

Warnings: Teasing? The below joke...

He weapon on my Incompe until I Tence

A/N: I know that this isn't exactly what weaponized incompetence is, but I feel like he would be teased for it nonetheless.

Prompt: "A pretends to not know how to work appliances around the office (photocopier, coffee machine, etc.) so that B will help them. " from this prompt list by @deity-prompts

Smosh Masterlist

THE moment you entered the offices of Smosh inc. you'd made your daily beeline to the kettle. Whatever the day called for; instant coffee, tea or hot chocolate, the water never seemed to boil fast enough for your early morning impatience, Then again, the moment it began to whistle and you swept it off the stove your sense of urgency always seemed to dissipate. So today after fixing your cup, you breathed a simple sigh as you lifted the ceramic up to your lip. Standing in blissful silence you remained somehow unaware of the chaos a few feet away in the bullpen.

When your drink had cooled enough for you to sip comfortably, you concluded it was time to officially begin your workday. Stepping out of the kitchen you were suddenly aware of the cacophony only a few desks away, you watched as an exasperated Spencer, swaddled in his Oodie amongst the morning chill, waving off Tommy and Erin as he loudly proclaimed his comprehension of how the copier worked. Hands in the air the other two had backed away, eyes wide with light smiles tugging the corners of their mouths up into their cheeks.

A brief conversation with Luke later and your mug had barely kissed the pleather of your desk mat before a miniscule clearing of a throat had you turning on the spot. Standing in front of you was a sheepish Spencer, his hands fiddling with a strange piece of greyish plastic. As his eyes aggressively avoided your own, the rubber of his soles squeaked against the floor as his feet all but tap danced in apparent nerves.

'um-Hey do you know how to work the copier?- this uh -piece came off.' You gave him a warm smile and a nod as best to quench his unease, Settling your cup down once again, you found yourself wordlessly following him over to the machine.

'Don't worry about this-' you took the plastic from his hands; '-it always comes loose' before placing it back into the mouth of the copier, and snapping it into place.

'So-um what are you hoping to copy?' turning around to check the paper tray, your awaited an answer that didn't come... So craning your neck around you spotted the dumbfounded look all over his face, seemingly lost already. Presuming it was your actions that stifled his linguistic abilities you started again, 'Oh yeah sorry, so this tray-' you paused to gesture to the part and to check he had indeed snapped from his stupor.

'Just needs whatever paper you want it printed on- It runs out all the time, so its always worth a check if you're running into problems. Speaking of...' Extending a hand in his direction you forced yourself to remain straight-faced as his fingers brushed yours as he handed over the page.

'Sorry about this by the way, but at least its a short one. right? cause its only one page?' His voice was unsure but when you moved your head in confirmation his posture straightened. 'definitely! And whenever you need to do a longer one just give me a yell. yeah?' Spencer only smiled in response, glad for your offer as you continued; 'But for now, you just have to put the page in here and then you press...'

YOUR drink had already grown cold, long since forgotten in the multitude of tasks that filled your morning. Spencer was fiddling, today, with a notebook; a haphazard table drawn out on the grid paper. 'Hey- sorry- um do you know how to work the scheduling setup? I need to organize for next shoot week for games and I'm not sure how to use the new system.' Shaking your head you fixed him with a teasingly critical look, 'Tsk tsk tsk Spencer, didn't you do the new training module?'

He sighed in relief at your attempt at jest before starting to explain his confusion as he turned to walk away from your desk. 'Well uh-you know Alex usually handles it, but 'cause he's on holiday, I've got to...' He trailed off somewhat as he looked over his shoulder, now a few meters from your desk he pouted until you pushed out your chair and stood to follow him back to his own desk. With a slight roll of your eyes you trailed along behind him, considering how best to explain what was... plain and simple, a colour coded version of the exact same old system. As he settled into his chair you made quick work of pulling up the excel sheet, well somewhat 'quick', you weren't exactly rushing to leave his side.

'So yeah, it's simple enough, just check the column for the time slots and the rows for the cast members down the side there...' trailing off, the hand you had used to explain your point dropping to the desk as you noted his eyes once again set on you. It wasn't until you raised a brow in his direction he managed to stutter out a measly; 'What?'

THIS time your work day was almost over, only a couple more emails to reply to and you were free as a bird. Nevertheless when you spotted the familiar fluffy head of hair slinking up to your desk, your mug in hand alongside his own, you struggled to find an ounce of frustration within yourself at the interruption. A new addition to what was now a commonplace occurrence in your day to day at Smosh, was the dusting of pink in his cheeks and dancing across his nose.

Spencer seemed somewhat reluctant to speak so you silently stood to follow him wherever he needed your help. Flashing you a brief and timid smile in appreciation he spun on the spot and scurried ahead to the kitchen.

Clawing at a shred of composure and dignity you managed to stop yourself from darting after the receding editor, instead settling on what you hoped was a casual stroll.

It was not.

Catching up to him you waited for him to explain what he so desperately wanted your assistance with. Spencer gestured towards the kettle that sat heating atop the flame of the stovetop. when your blank stare returned to him he finally spoke, 'I've had it on there for like ten minutes and it's not doing the whistling thing,' he forced a quick exhale before keeping going, 'I thought it was only meant to take a few minutes.' His tone was high and incredulous, appearing to be utterly stumped by the small device.

Narrowing your eyes, you looked back and forth between Spencer and the kettle for a solid moment until a muttered 'please?' fell from his lips.

Caught of guard by the desperation in the word, yet still reeling from what you now had to conclude was a serious question, you stepped forward and flicked down the small spout cap without a word. In that same moment the room was filled with the all to familiar screeching whistle of the device, all the while keeping a narrow stare focused on his face, a small part still disbelieving in his confusion.

Spencer's now fully blushing expression followed your movements as you stepped back. Filling the space in turn, he retrieved the kettle and poured both mugs full with water, quieting the noise all together.

More shy than ever he placed your mug on the counter by your side, a soft 'thank you' snapping you from your stare, and painting a boisterous smile on your lips at the released absurdity of the situation of the past few minutes. 'My pleasure Spencer' you muttered back, still astounded by the preceding minutes.

'TODAY on Reddit Stories our theme is r/WeaponizedIncompetence.'

You had some spare time during your day and had decided to spend it watching the filming of the next Pit Reddit video.

'So today we have IAN! an expert in-'

'Being and absolute WEAPON!' The man himself cut Shayne off with a flurry of flexing and groaning before he slowly took his seat, allowing the other man to continue.

'And we also have Spencer! who's an expert in-' Ian cut him off once again with a cry of 'Incompetence!' Ian, of course, laughed at his own interjection, but was this time quickly discouraged,.

'No... Spencer here, is our office's master of weaponized incompetence.' Shayne dissolved into giggles and Ian guffawed at the look of offence all over Spencer's face, 'I don't think I-'.

Shayne was quick to dispel his concern, somewhat.

'Not all the time, and definitely not with just anyone, but you do it often enough. Its okay Spence we know its not at all malicious.'

As Spencer continued to dismiss the accusations the other two men were making, Ian had fixed his sights on you, with a look that was clearly trying to get you to join the conversation. Shaking your head vehemently in response, you averted your gaze, ignoring him all together, until of course the smart arse spoke up.

'That reminds me-', Ian pouted as he called your name, and out of the corner of your eye you noted a camera panning your way.

'Yes Ian?' you ground out through gritted teeth.

The man in question had clasped his hands together against his chest, pressed his cheek to a raised shoulder and was adamantly batting his eyelashes as he carried on.

'Can you edit a games video for me? I-um don't know how... I'm just a widdle guy...'

Rolling your eyes at his antics, you curtly agreed before promptly deciding to leave the set and let them work.

Back at your desk, a fresh mug of hot chocolate by your side, your day continued to pass as it always did; productive... up until scuttling feet entered your line of sight.

'So...Spencer? Need help with editing? I wouldn't want to leave my widdle guy all lost and alone.'

[sakumz]

____________________________________________

「 lu guang x gn reader 」

a/n : I doubt there's many readers for this but THIS MAN OH MAH GAWDD I just started link click... every episode makes me wanna cry when xiaoshi punched him and instead of getting angry he comforted him MY GOODNESS

warnings : a little ooc, reader in hospital...

____________________________________________

" you seem pretty spaced out lately, lu. " xiaoshi playfully punches the white haired boy on the shoulder as he drops his phone from the impact.

" sorry... it's just... remember y/n l/n? " lu guang looks directly at cheng xiaoshi as he ponders for a while before replying.

" yeah, they were from our school though they transferred away halfway. what's up? "

" their brother texted me the other day, said they're in the hospital and well... "

" you've always liked them huh, want me to go to the past and confess on your behalf? " xiaoshi playfully winks as lu guang sighs out of relief. giving xiaoshi the photo he printed out earlier of you and him in the classroom.

" yeah, dont mess up. got it? " lu guang raise his hand.

" got it. " xiaoshi slaps his hand on lu's hand.

" was I that mesmerising in your eyes that you just had to take a picture of me and the golden hour? " you teased as you turn away from the window to look at the white haired boy as he snaps out of his gaze from you and put his phone down, mumbling a sorry.

' damn did you really take a picture without asking for permission? what a creep. ' xiaoshi teased in his head as a certain lu guang flushed red at the memory.

' they looked really pretty, now tell them you'll walk them home and confess then leave the picture. ' lu guang instructs.

" its getting late, I'll walk you home. " xiaoshi tells you as you accepts and pack your things.

exiting the school and walking behind the male, you can't help but feel nervous. xiaoshi occasionally peeks over you as lu guang mentally prepares what nonsense might sprout out of xiaoshi's mouth.

' so why do you want to confess to them? ' he asks.

' they woke up from a coma, their brother said they don't remember anything and have been crying almost every day ever since they woke up. I doubt this confession will change anything in the future but... '

' I get it, today was their last day at school. you didn't get the chance to confess as you ran away after snapping that photo. '

' you- well you're not entirely wrong. ahem focus on the task at hand, just repeat after me. '

" you're really pretty, bright like the sun. funny, kind and sweet. I'm not expecting an answer or whatever but just so you know. I love you a lot, and- " xiaoshi stopped walking as you bump onto his back, stumbling at the impact a little.

" I'm moving away tomorrow. if youre asking me to be your lover then I'm not so sure if a long distance relationship will work out. one might fall for another in the long run. " he's staring at you as you fidget at your spot. this was all so nerve-wracking to you.

" I know that. it's okay, I don't need to be your lover now or ever, but I hope you always remember that there's a guy that fell for you and that you're amazing no matter what. " xiaoshi can't help but sympathize with his friend's possible one-sided love.

" I-I'm sorry, " hearing the apology shocked both xiaoshi and lu guang, tears pricked onto the corners of your eyes as you aggressively wipe your eyes.

" I'm sorry, it's just... " crouching down to cover your face to cry wasn't helping the words come out of your mouth.

xiaoshi bends down to your height, " it's okay really! " he attempts to pat your head in hopes to comfort you but it only made your heart sank deeper.

" you're a sweet guy despite your h-hard and cold exterior. I truly loved you too but we can't be together! not now or ever, so many things might change for you and me. I'll be moving away tomorrow, to a far-away place. you and I- we won't make it as lovers with those circumstances! " lu guang sighs heavily as xiaoshi mentally panics, ' hello? lines quick! '

" umm, I don't know what to say besides goodluck on your departure. " hearing that, your sniffles stop as you glare at the man infront of you.

' don't say that idiot, tell them it's alright. I'll find them in the future eventually, just wait for me. ' so xiaoshi repeats after him.

hearing the words, renders you speechless at his confidence to find you. you broke into a smile as lu guang body's reacts with a faint blush on his face, heck even the real lu guang looking at you from xiaoshi's eyes was blushing. after the so-called confession session and successfully bringing you home. xiaoshi exits the photo.

" thank you, " lu guang peeks over to his friend sprawled out next to him on the couch.

" wanna visit them or what? " xiaoshi challenged to which lu guang sighs before agreeing.

after texting your brother for details, here they were starring at your figure looking out the window.

" am I still mesmerising in your eyes? why don't you take a picture of me and the golden hour, lu guang. " hearing the softness of your voice, he rushes by your side to give you a squeeze.

you feel his tears fall on you as you return the hug, you're home now. wherever he is, your heart will call it home. xiaoshi watches as his friend cries for you before walking away to give you guys more privacy.

" sorry, I can't help the tears. you- you remembered, " he stops crying to look at you. you were wearing a soft smile on your face, the faint blush was there but with the glowing sun behind you. you looked ethereal.

" I'm happy to see you too, waking up from a dream... that confession was what I last dreamed of, lu guang... I love you so much, " he takes a seat next to your bed, following to grab your cold hands with his larger and warmer hands.

" I love you just as much too. after you left, my heart couldn't move on from you. it longs for you, I miss you so much. I didn't want to bother nor distract you when you moved, so I didn't text you. when your brother texted about today, I can't help but feel the need to visit... I wasn't sure if doing so was right until a friend suggested it. "

" ha, that friend must've been cheng xiaoshi ? I think that's his name, "

" yeah, " he smiles fondly at today's fiasco.

" I've got so much to tell you, but for now... I'm feeling a little sleepy... " you mumbled out as you slowly changed position, moving one of your hands out of his hold. falling asleep with one hand of his in front of your face.

he watches fondly, your heartbeat in the monitor seems fine. he didn't change your future, seeing as the major event where you were in the hospital still exists. heck, you must've been telling on your brother about him despite not talking to lu guang eversince but, for your brother to even bother to reach out to him like that... does that mean you were fated to meet him once more? he can't help but smile a little at the thought.

" I've got so much to tell you too, " he says as he closes his eyes and places his head above the arm, holding onto your hand. he falls asleep from the sounds in the room. how he truly can't wait for things to play out. he didn't really change the future now, did he?

[dduane]

Middle Kingdoms "Tale of the Five" Mark V covers, minimalist (type 1) group, TDIF

This is the only one of these where I'm not going to put the work under a cut, because there are going to be twelve of them before I'm done, and I don't want to bore people with the roughs in progress.

So this was the sketch for this group's Door Into Fire cover the other day...

And here's a rough example of what I was seeing in my head.

Possibly a little on the nose, but (a) I had to start somewhere, and (b) it was 1 AM when I finished work on this one and I was beyond caring. :)

The "since we're talking about doors, let's lean into that" concept is one that's appeared in previous covers on this series—both mine and other people's—but none of mine have looked this polished, because I just wasn't as good at this stuff ten years ago as I am now, and I've now got far better tools.

...Though one hilarious exception to this situation has been applied to the lettering. The extremely nice Eye Candy plugin from Exposure Software once in its much earlier versions ran on both Corel Photo Paint (my preferred design software for pushing three decades now) and Adobe's various versions of Photoshop. But for whatever reason(s), that situation came to an end. Now, I have Eye Candy for Photoshop... but I really hate Photoshop, and avoid using it whenever possible.

So in order to add some pop to the Cinzel Decorative font on this page, I had to go elsewhere... which in my case means to the little Samsung notebook computer that lives (mostly snoozing) in the front window of the living room, and is still running Windows XP. (Because of this it's never allowed to go online any more, as it can't be made secure.) I refuse to get rid of it because we've traveled too far together, and I've written too many books on it, and I love it too much. But its other chief virtue is that it will still run Corel 11 (which my newer Windows machines refuse to do). And the install of Corel PP 11 in the Samsung will still happily run the old version of Eye Candy, which has all the familiar presets that I tinkered together over years of use. I really need to sit down, eventually, and figure out how to train the current version of Eye Candy to accept the presets from the older one.

But today is not that day. Today I just plugged in the .cpt Photo Paint file and edited it to add the golden-colored effect on those letters. That was all this rough needed for me to kick it to one side and get on with thinking about the next one.

Anyway, for those interested in materials: the hand and the doorway were created using Daz Studio. The blue fire is stock art. (I do have a very nice app called Flame Painter, from Escape Motions, but I'm not yet expert enough with it to use it much in cover work.) The basic (parent) font is Cinzel, as I mentioned: both Cinzel Bold and Cinzel Decorative Bold variants are used in this cover.

There are still a number of things that can use some tweaking in this one, but as I said, this is a rough. Over the next week or so I'll get around to the other two in this set, and get a better sense whether this whole idea is workable—as if the style doesn't work well across all three covers in the trilogy, it's useless.

And now I'm going to go make some oatcakes, as @petermorwood someone seems to have eaten all the ones I made last week. :)

(cc: @mutantenfisch: Links to the print copies at Amazon are over here, if you don't feel like waiting for the new covers...)

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of both worlds (Part 4) [Choice: GO TO UNIVERSITY]

tw: yandere, slight injury

damn yall iam tempted to add a third mid yandere like not as slayer girlboss as Yves but not as cringefail Montgomery, but fr idk how to slot it into the story because i think its gonna get 2 crowded

anywahys enjouy and pleas id appreciate them reblogs

part 5

You gave him the address of your university. He may now know where you frequent, but at least he doesn't know where you live.

"Alright, buckle up."

--

"Here ya' go." He pulled up right to the entrance.

You muttered thanks, but as you were unbuckling yourself, he told you to wait for a moment.

You watch him fish a ballpoint pen and an old flyer from somewhere, he removes the cap of the pen using his teeth before scribbling something on the piece of printed paper. He took something out from the side pocket of his door before shoving it into your hands.

You opened your palm to see that he had written his phone number on a torn brochure of the countryside. You quizzingly looked at the crumpled $20 note between your fingertips.

"I'm... actually not done workin' for the day. I'll have to work extra hours to make up the ones I lost. I don't know how long you'll be here, but I bet you're gonna get hungry or thirsty."

You said that you can't accept this, it's a lot of money!

He laughed right at your face.

"Don't worry about it! I'm workin' full time, that's just a little change for me. You just focus on settin' your grades straight. I'll probably clock out at ten in the evening. Give me a call and I'll pick you right up if you're still here by then."

Well, if he insists. You shoved the cash and his number into your pocket as you opened the door. He got out and opened his trunk, he retrieved your backpack with a grunt.

"What's is IN here?" He mumbled as he found it abnormally heavy for someone of your stature to carry daily. You replied that it's your study materials, he only shook his head in pity.

"Are you sure you're alright on your own?" He helped you get your arms into the loops of your straps.

You assured him that you're fine and you're used to this. He opened his mouth about to say something, but you already took off running. You looked back and waved goodbye, he scratched his head in bafflement as to how someone like you can run that fast with that much load.

--

The next bus is in an hour.

Sitting under the bus shelter is definitely not ideal in this severe weather. You wiped the sweat off your brow.

The only place you know you could lurk around without seeming strange is the library or one of the university's many cafes. You checked the time, it's still just half past three in the afternoon. Yves doesn't leave until six.

The cafe it is.

You don't know what to expect, whatever they're selling is always out of your budget. So you never bothered going near it, as it only made you hungry and bitter that you weren't born into generational wealth. But since you're a rich person today thanks to... what was his name again? You had a small spring in your step as you made a beeline to the cafe.

Perhaps you were too excited, you were too fast and too distracted by the various blackboard easels around promoting their respective cafe's dishes. You weren't paying attention to the man leaving the establishment

You bumped into something, rather, someone. Your collision is followed by the sound of a hot liquid spilling and a metal clanking. You gasped, trying to take steps back but you ended up stumbling over your own feet, tripping over your own ankle and falling backwards.

A sense of deja vu washed over you as a strong arm wrapped itself around your waist, keeping you steady and unharmed. But your dignity is definitely bruised to death.

You were afraid to look up. You know who this chest belongs to. Who else would wear a black turtleneck in this scorching hot weather and not break a sweat?

You muttered apologies as he lets go, realizing that not only did you commit accidental assault on your biggest crush, but you also made him spill the golden brown, clear, steaming tea that he's probably looking forward to drinking.

He grabbed you by the wrist and began inspecting you for any burns. Your eyes trailed to his other hand, which is now reddened by the scalding liquid splashing onto his skin. His fingers are still wrapped around his half empty, reusable stainless steel thermal cup. The rubber lined lid is now on the floor, sitting still in a puddle of wasted tea. The smell of jasmine permeates the air and into your nose.

Once he deems you unharmed, he lets go. And you rushed to pick his lid up, flicking any remaining liquid off before nervously presenting it to him.

"Thank you." He plucked it out of your hands and entered the cafe again. Through the pristine glass door, You watched him talk to the employee behind the cash register, they nodded and accepted his cup. Soon after, someone came out with a mop in hand.

They smiled and greeted you as they placed the mop onto the puddle. You panicked when the staff opened the door and invited you in.

At this point, you wanted to run away and hide in a ditch. But Yves is staring at you as he wipes his injured hand with a cool, damp towel provided by cashier. There doesn't seem to be any discernible emotion present on his face, but when you tried to flee- even only a single step, he narrowed his eyes at you.

Defeated, you hung your head low and went in. Setting your kiloton bag onto a nearby chair before making the walk of shame to the counter.

You tried not to look at his face, knowing that you're going to burst into tears out of severe embarrassment and guilt. You went straight to the cashier and asked to pay for his replacement.

"No worries! You don't have to, we replaced his drink free of charge. It was an accident, after all!" She chirped.

That came to you as a surprise. Aren't they supposed to be money hungry? Well, whatever. At least you don't have to pay extra, but you asked about their pastry choices. You wanted to buy him something sweet to make it up for the bitterness.

"Right this way!" She walked to the display case. They all look exquisite, but you felt like your eyes are about to pop out of your head with the prices. Unfortunately for you though, the option which is the most presentable and the cheapest is a large slice of fresh cream fruit cake, for the price of exactly twenty dollars.

You tried to hide your hesitance as you told her you wanted a slice. Good lord, and you see people eating their baked goods every day. She prepared one on a quaint little ceramic plate, placing a miniature fork next to it.

"That will be twenty dollars." You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from grumbling, knowing that Yves has some sort of superhuman hearing. You fish the $20 out of your pocket and try your best to smoothen out the wrinkles.

The woman's customer service smile faltered a bit when she felt a little resistance trying to take the note from you. It took a few more seconds of you mourning and tugging it before you finally let go.

"Thank you!" She beamed again.

Finally, you have no choice but to face him. At least you have a plate of cake with you.

His gaze softened and the straight line formed by his lips was replaced by a pleased smile. You followed him to the table where you placed your bag.

He set his bag down on the chair next to him and took a seat. You placed the dish on the table, you're actually unsure if he wanted you here or left alone. So you awkwardly stood nearby, waiting for the next social cue.

"It's been a while since we last talked. I missed you." He purred. His words and body language is enough to tell that he's accepting of your presence. But you're still cautious, it could just mean he's being nice for treating him to a scrumptious dessert.

"Please." He gestured towards the chair opposite of him. "Take a seat. I would love to catch up with you."

It would be rude not to. You settled in your chair, completely disregarding the rule you set for yourself to not mingle with him.

The table is... smaller than you thought. You're physically a lot closer to Yves than you would like, the table barely served as a barrier between you and him.

"How have you been?" He asked while taking a bottle of hand sanitizer from his bag. Yves applied a decent amount on his palm and rubbed it in thoroughly, going gentle on his recent injury.

You said you were... fine. Not wanting to reveal too much about yourself. The last time that happened, you managed to act a like fool in front of Montgomery. You don't want to look stupid in front of Yves. So you threw the question back at him.

He hummed in response. "I suppose... it could be better."

Yves left it at that. You don't know what to say next, trying not to look at the fresh burn. So you apologized again.

"You're forgiven." He shot you a teasing smile. "How endearing of you, treating me to a slice of this decadent sweet." Yves picked up the fork to cut and retrieve a piece.

"And, It's my favourite. Why don't you have a taste?" He brought the fork closer to your face. You tried taking the utensil, but his other hand went ahead to hold your chin. Applying a gentle pressure to silently signal that he wanted you to open your mouth.

'Why is he like this?' You internally screamed as you allowed the detectability of the cake to sink onto your taste buds. You might be biased, thinking that the dessert is a thousand times better due to him feeding you. You thought that this is the best thing you ever ate in your life.

Your face is probably hotter than his tea at this point. Curling your toes in your shoes as the embarrassment becomes nearly unbearable.

He released his hold as soon as he felt a little tug from your head, knowing not to go too far with his actions; just enough to excite your growing infatuation with him.

You give him a thumbs up as you repeatedly wipe your face with your sleeve as if trying to wipe away the blushes under your skin. Your ears perked up at his chuckles, it was something that you would like to hear often. But you don't think it's worth having heart attacks over.

"Your classmates were discussing about the exam." He cut another piece for himself. You watched him with widened eyes as he used the same fork to eat the cake; daintily covering his mouth with his hand. Yves didn't seem to care that the utensil was smeared in your saliva and proceeded with his train of thought. "They were lamenting over it in the library."

Then, he stopped. Bringing his piercing gaze back up to you.

You freaked out, realizing that this is the cue for you to respond appropriately. You let slip out that the paper was atrocious and you were fully expecting to fail your course. Blood ran cold in your veins as you realized he now knows more than he should.

"That's a shame." He replied. "But, you're being unfairly harsh on yourself."

He was interrupted by a staff member handing Yves his thermos cup filled with his Jasmine tea. Yves thanked them and they went back to their post.

"You're clearly dedicated to your studies." He nonchalantly fed you a piece again, this time without having to hold your face. Only when you bit into a slice of strawberry among the fresh cream did you realize what you had done. Yves slid the metal fork out of your mouth and took another scoop for himself.

This is extremely unsettling how you suddenly felt that comfortable accepting his antics.

"I know you did well." He took his time chewing his food behind his fingers. "You will not fail."

You found comfort in his words no matter how much you thought he didn't know anything about your life. It was nice to have someone recognize your efforts for once without resorting to fake pity.

However, unless your marker accepts tear stains as coherent answers, you are definitely going to fail.

Though, there is a small part of you that found it weird Yves is so sure of himself. It almost feels like your valid worries are simply sleep talk to Yves. But in the end, you dismissed it and convinced yourself that he's just a huge fan of toxic positivity.

You and him continued the day chatting about each other. Mostly about you, though. There were many times that you caught yourself oversharing, the majority of which you either downplay or overplay depending if it made you look good or bad.

Yves would only have a mysterious, even knowing smile on his face when you grossly upsell some of your best moments. You don't know why you did that, maybe subconsciously you tried to impress him.

Eventually though, you don't seem to mind sharing forks with this man who you spoke to twice and counting in your life. You realize if he wanted you to shut up about something, he feeds you a piece. You were offended, but humbled because you would immediately realize how ridiculous you're sounding at that moment.

You swear, Yves must be a practitioner in the dark arts. He made you act in ways you don't normally do, you're unusually attracted to him and he always seems to know how to control you.

You made a mental note to check your bag for any stray crystals, strange leaves, rocks or jewelry when you get home.

Yves sets the fork down on the empty plate before taking a sip of his tea. He listens attentively to every word you tell him about your interests in your favourite colour, your favourite TV show, your favourite song-- things that you knew would bore just about anyone.

Because if someone you don't really know were to rave about whatever you're raving to Yves, you would be fucking bored out of your mind. Your friends and family would be bored too, why is Yves so different? You're completely self aware that whatever you're blabbering right now should cease.

But somehow couldn't stop for the life of you.

It was like a projectile vomit of words, you kept yapping endlessly while Yves nodded and occasionally interjects with his own opinion at the most appropriate times.

In the end, the only thing that snapped you out of this mania is overhearing one of the staff members complaining about having to take the filles trash bag out back.

You knew that food establishments usually do that at the end of the day and you were instantly reminded of something important.

His smile fell into a thin line again when you suddenly whipped your phone up to check the time.

Two busses has gone by and you're still here. The next bus is in five minutes.

You scrambled to gather your belongings, hopped off the chair, and said a quick goodbye to Yves- right after explaining that your bus was arriving soon. He didn't look too happy with your sudden departure, all he did was observe you unspeakingly with his posture straight. Both of his hands were resting on the table atop each other.

You felt chills down your spine as he looked straight into your eyes with no anger, no sadness, but none of that warmth from before.

It scared you, but missing the bus again scares you even more at this point in time. So you took off running, leaving him alone in the cafe.

He spent a few more minutes sipping on his stone-cold tea before, collecting his cup, standing up, and leaving the building. Yves closed the door behind him and from his handbag, he drew out a familiar piece of printed paper with a certain construction worker's phone number scribbled onto it.

Yves took his time to tear it to shreds with controlled, fluid movements of the wrists. He repeated enough times to give him a handful of thin, even strips. There was no way of knowing what the document was anymore, which satisfied him.

He dropped his handiwork into the trash can he walked past. Yves sanitized his hands before heading in the direction of your bus stop with slow, relaxed strides.

[bentosandbox]

Ambience Synesthesia tutorial blog

rambled this out because I didn't have inflight wifi otw home and the turbulence was too crazy to draw

Buying the ticket

erm so they only dropped the tickets like slightly less than a month before lol kinda insane

The concert tickets were sold on Damai so you need a CN number or know/pay someone with one who'd buy it for you which is what I did by recommendation (A tier 1280 + 400 'service fee' [apparently it would have been cheaper if they only helped you half way or something but i wasnt gonna risk running into a payment hiccup so]) Iirc they sold it in two batches but I don't remember the ratio split between first and second wave…

I got a ticket for 5/5's afternoon show (so the second last performance), I DID meet an oomf who said they managed to snag a ticket for themselves on their own (without a Professional Ticket Snatcher) so its not too impossible to attain on your own I think??? (I didn't get a CN number until like 2 days before I flew back home soo)

Professional Ticket what?? Uhhh apparently there's a whole industry/scene for this you look for listings on xianyu/taobao etc for people to buy on your behalf, you have to give them your real name and identification number (so for foreigners it'd be your passport number) for verification purposes during entry so yknow yea

getting there

You could cab directly to the venue but my friend signed us up for the free shuttle bus (they had freebies last year but not this time) and before we boarded they gave us like free water and bread (apparently free raincoats too on rainy days) which was nice of them but also insane because. the venue doesn't allow you to bring food/drinks in so a lot of people were leaving A LOT of unopened bottles near the gate and I saw a venue staff just throwing them all into the bin (HOPEFULLY JUST TO CARRY THEM AWAY IN ONE GO AND NOT FOR STRAIGHT DISPOSAL….) They drop you off near the venue but you don't go in directly, there's a 'Doctor break room' where most people are seated waiting to be ushered in batches into the venue, but also a lot of people standing around on one side of the room swapping/offering merch

merch swap

ive been told this is a very concert culture thing but i feel like its kind of different because a lot of these are so high quality ike…you could sell them at Artist Alleys but here they are just distributing for free if you have a E2 60 blorbo lmao or whatever (there seems to be a tiny…? minority that prints official art but most of them seem to be handdrawn/made)

i was too unprepared for this lol i did exchange some of my old stickers (missed out on a collapsal plastic fan bc my brain lagged when the guy asked me and i went to my auto 'sorry i dont have any merch' response' :( regretted this bc the room got a little hot from the amount of people in there and i was wearing like 3 layers with that fan on my mind)

from people watching a lot of trades are arranged beforehand on weibo/other sites unless you're willing to yell WHO WANTS TO TRADEEE/anyone wants freebies (a lot of people were also wearing 'Feel Free to Swap Merch/Ask for Freebies' tags) which i was definitely not brave enough to do lol… met up with an oomf i got to know from last dec when i attended an arknights only and they gave me some birbs and charms (bottom of post), there was someone who got a free LGD zine and charm from me bc i posted on wb that id give a free copy to anyone with a Mod 3 swire/swummer LMFAO

I had 2 more people to meet but, uhhh so I bought an esim for mobile data and it would intermittently lose signal here and there which was a little annoying when getting coffee but it just died entirely when i reached the venue and it was kind of Dire because i was waiting for one more friend who was coming over from the fes and i couldn't contact them lmao. told the friend i came with to go in first because I thought if my food got confiscated at least my oomf could see it beforehand LOL

waited outside in a light drizzle for an hour trying to trouble shoot my data to no avail and ended up borrowing a staff's wifi hotspot to get my entry qr code (I actually bought a second data roaming plan on my local sim but i quite stupidly did not check the country coverage and only learned later that night that 'Asia' doesn't cover China kuxiao) she was so nice i was (bow emoji) so sorry to trouble you im a stupid gaijin and she was like no its ok enjoy shanghai!! pien

spent a good 30min next to this board praying for data to no avail

the show

erm anyway because of that clownery above i more or less missed the first piece (the one w the goated hoho) but at least i wasnt the guy next to me who went for a bathroom break right before starset came up

The live singing this year was definitely an improvement I think… I can't really remember the setlist off the top of my head but I'm sure someone else has already listed it out, there were a couple of new pieces that weren't related to the concert groups like a Babel/Kazdel?? one sung in Latin, a Victoria…? one (in victorian ofc) also an Amiya (? just remembering by the visuals they used lol) one in Japanese

ohh yeah so almost every track would start with like a faction logo transitioning in from 3d to 2d which was cool but also amusing because it was honestly bringing quite the 'I will Make Your Company Logo Into 3D Fiverr' vibes

Since I missed the first piece idk if any of The Dreamer(s) got 3D models but The Pilgrim(s why are they all singular) had Kaltsit playing on that piano (there was also a replica of that piano on stage the white one complete with 'Arknights' text on it lmao) and Siege being cool running around in 3D (and ofc Eureka during her denpa number) it was very cool but man... its a pity the other characters in the group just get their live2d png during the beginning and effectively get sidelined lool compared to say Phenomenal Agents idk if i like this tradeoff but that eureka bit was so good sheesh #NOVAFIVE⭐ULTRALIVESWEEP

The other stuff was really great too looking at you Lone Trail medley…!!!!! I might be wrong but I... assume... you're encouraged to karaoke bc they always show the lyrics on screen… I couldn't even hear myself anyway but it was very fun singing songs you can't get on joysound/etc with a whole crowd going at it too (even if most of them would only sing 1-2 lines of the chorus)

Mary Clare did Radiant (they had the lyrics scrolling on the sides very cool) and iirc the Throne group's song...? Radiant was so fun live

Starset did Monster > Telescope and when the latter ended they were like Bye! and we(?) started yelling ENCORE--awkwardly because idk how they do it here (I was half expecting it to be JP style 'an-call-roo' but a bunch of us just yelled en-core en-core here and there until they returned to perform Infected) speaking of yelling.. between every piece when they had to switch sets people would just yell memes or skill names (like Dage's) to pass the time or sth i barely caught half of whatever they were memeing about

did i forget to mention anything else uhhh originium rock turntable for Guide Ahead's boss theme/Dossoles Lobby and they had IS4 medley live throat singing very cool also the dancers they got for silbenherze's boss theme good stuff...

iirc after starset was like a behind the scenes video of how HG prepared for AS and a recorded lowlight video saying some stuff that i forgot LOL just some thank you message basically. 9.5/10 bc no missy/shu EP live

i just realised i forgot to display all the merch from the A tier ticket but w/e. light stick photo ft. merch swaps/gifts from friends and strangers 🥹 (the iffy lenticular card was literally dropped into my bag by an iffy coser (wearing the LT outfit..?!) while waiting for the cab LMAO)

[mortal-kombat-shitposts]

Just some thought NSFW

@boomclowntown as I told you I would. Part two of two @mammaonii @mangos-other-corner

Imagine teasing rain all day on to pin him down and out a vibrating cock ring on him and then loving fucking his cute ass till he practically begs to cum, tears running down his face, cock angry and red from being denied that lovely high, only to pull his hair and snatch his head back and tell him to beg hard. Unfortunately you break a table but my gods when you do let him cum it thick and theres so much of it. Even better is you used the cock ring to tease him thought out the day before bending him over the table. Even better if he reminds you once he's collected and after care has happened that this is a two way street. Your turn next, round 2? Fight.

Also don't imagine biting his shoulders, making hand prints on his ass or biting his back just to hear him actually moan and not hide his voice. "say it louder zef~fee~ro, I can't hear you darling. Stop hiding that pretty little face sweetheart in want you to see your own face and hear the wonderful voice." It just a mirror in front of whatever you decide to fuck him on so he can see how fucked out he looks, at just black pupils staring, now brown in sight, he might have just cum from your teasing just now but he's no less hard then when you started this game.

Imagine adding someone else to amp it up.

"look at you all you had to do was behave, now you get to watch as I fuck the good boy over there. Now stay still and keep this warm for me."

He would try to behave but he just can't seem to. Acting out for your attention. Even if that means your strap/cock is in his throat most of the time. He knows he needs to keep it in his mouth but sometimes he's a brat the keeps only the smallest bit in cause technically it's still in there.

Better yet when you treat him to body worship and force him to look you in the eyes as you kiss, nip and bite every part of him, just to hear him hold back his whimpers and moans. You could break him doing this till he's a begging mess for you to just touch his cock or something then the little kisses he's receiving. "Darling please I... Need more, anything please, I can't take much more." His cock would be leaking something fierce. If you do give in and end up jacking him off it doesn't take long for him to cum, it will spill everywhere, if you blow him, its gonna leak out the sides. No joke his hands will be gripping the sheets, not your head cause he knows you don't like that but it'll be tempting.

This man imo is a switch, that being said he would look so damn good riding your strap as you lay back and guide his hips up and down, possibly in a circular motion just so it hits different points. Honestly might be the loudest you'll ever hear him is when he gives in and up to your will and accepts all the love you have for him. Bonus points if you have one of the one that do fake cum son you can fill him too. Maybe asking to keep all inside him as he goes about his day.

That is all for now I'll add more later reblog it with more spicy.

[wolveria]

The Raven's Hymn - Ch 44

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “Whatever happens, I’m not going back to my cell.”

AO3

Not being dressed in the orange jumpsuit of a D-Class gave you a slight advantage, but the white smock was still a dead giveaway. Your first goal: find a disguise. Or at least, a change of clothing so it wasn’t painfully obvious you were an escaped prisoner.

The corridor outside your cell was conspicuously empty, but the other corridors in Heavy Containment were not. You had to duck into more than one utility closet, waiting out guards and researchers who passed you by. But you knew the layout well, and the heavy footfalls of guards, the sharp click of heels, and the rhythmic tap of dress shoes gave you plenty of warning.

You also knew where the security cameras were, mainly focused on four-way junctions and places of gathering, such as breakrooms and cafeterias. That gave you a limited range of movement, and you were running out of utility closets until you found the one you wanted.

Boxes lined the shelves, and you opened them quickly, one by one, until you found plastic stacks of white fabric. You pulled the box down and sorted out the stacks, looking at the letters printed on the plastic indicating sizes. Finding one that would fit, you tore open the package and slipped on the lab coat.

You still wore the smock and leggings underneath, but the weight and familiarity of the lab coat was like slipping back into an old comfortable sweater. Even your posture changed as you searched the shelves and found a box of rubber bands. Wincing at the stray strands pulled out of your scalp, you tied up your hair, both to change your appearance and get it out of the way.

It would have to do. You might fool staff who didn’t know you, or guards that weren’t assigned to you, but you wouldn’t get out of the sector without a keycard. You wouldn’t even be able to get to a computer without one.

You waited until the hallway was clear before slipping out of the closet. If you were lucky, you could find a laptop in one of the staff rooms, its owner distracted while you swiped it. And then, of course, you had to figure out what was on the thumb drive and prayed it could help you in some way. You trusted 049, but he wasn’t known to be the most tech-savvy SCP. How he’d come into possession of the thumb drive, you could only guess. And your guesses weren’t many.

Your steps slowed when you realized where you were. You’d had to backtrack to avoid a T-junction with a security camera, and perhaps thoughts of him had brought you back to this area of Heavy Containment. Either way, the containment door was open.

Two D-Class were at work cleaning up the mess on the floor, courtesy of 049’s spilled bag. The doctor’s bag was nowhere to be seen, but there were plastic bins on the autopsy table where the D-Class were using as sharps containers.

A glimmer drew you to one bin, the overhead lights reflecting off the thin edge. It was the scalpel 049 had held to your neck.

One of the D-Class raised his head and blinked at you.

“Sorry, we’re not done in here yet.” He gripped the handle of his mop, nervousness in the width of his eyes. “We’re going as fast as we can—”

“Uh, no, no. That’s fine.” You forced out a smile and tried to remember what it was like to be on this side of the cage. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

The D-Class relaxed and nodded, turning back to sweeping up the mess, seeming all too glad to return to what he was doing.

But the other D-Class gave you a hard stare, as if trying to figure out if he knew you from somewhere. You returned the stare with an irritated one of your own. He quickly turned away.

Before either of them could come to the correct conclusion that you didn’t belong there, you quickly swiped the scalpel and slipped it into your coat pocket. Without a word, you left the chamber, unsure if you would ever return again.

If all went well, you wouldn’t.

Now with a weapon and a supposed means of escape, all you needed to find was a computer. But the staff rooms you found were either empty, or worse, contained people you recognized. Panic crept up your spine; you were trapped in this sector, and even if you tried to quickly move past the cameras, you couldn’t leave Heavy Containment.

Maybe you could find a keycard, steal one from a staff member. You had to do something before your absence was noticed. Every minute that went by was another minute more likely you would be caught, another minute closer to failure—

You were passing the communal bathrooms when you came to a dead stop. Only a few feet away stood Kenneth. He was too distracted to notice your presence, dabbing his nose with a tissue. It was stained red, and one of his nostrils still trickled blood.

“Goddammit,” he swore under his breath. Turning his back to you, he started down the other direction, moving slowly as he tried to stop his nosebleed.

It gave plenty of time for you to catch up, grab his free arm, and slip the scalpel against his side.

“Don’t speak. Don’t raise the alarm. Keep walking.”

Kenneth went stiff, freezing on the spot.

“I said keep moving,” you hissed, and he obeyed with a tiny jerk as the tip of the scalp pressed against his ribs.

“How did you get out?”

At least he spoke in a whisper, though it was nasally behind his pinched nose. His naturally pale face had lost even more of its hue, and anyone glancing his way would know something was wrong. If you weren’t so focused on escaping, you’d be more worried he was going to faint.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said so only he could hear. “You’re helping me escape.”

“I... yeah, okay.”

You frowned.

“Really? Just like that?”

Kenneth sighed and pulled the tissue away from his nose. Satisfied it had stopped bleeding, he slipped it into his pocket, careful not to jostle the scalpel.

“You think I wanted to follow those orders? Or help the Site Director torture you?” He glanced at you over his shoulder. “A lot of things have changed, but you’re still my friend. I’ll help any way I can.”

His words brought up a confusing mixture of emotions. Guilt, relief, and cautious but hopeful gratitude.

“Oh. I… wasn’t expecting that.”

A faint ghost of a smile appeared. It wasn’t quite the goofy one he used to give you, but it was nice to see again. He almost looked the way he used to, a little too carefree and relaxed, but you suspected that old version of Kenneth was rarely seen these days. His sandy-copper hair was too long, his framed glasses unable to hide the bags under his eyes, and there was a lot more stubble on his jaw than there used to be. He looked older than his years, and it was hard to remember he hadn’t yet reached his 30s.

“Not sure how much help I’ll be. My card can’t get you out of the facility.” His smile slowly faded, a grim flattening of his lips taking its place. “You know this place is supposed to be breach-proof. Even if you had the Site Director’s own card, there are other security measures that would stop you.”

“Let me worry about that.” You pulled the scalpel away from his side, but you kept it gripped in your palm. You didn’t want to hurt anyone, but you weren’t going to let anyone get in your way, either. “Just follow me.”

Kenneth nodded, and even though you kept him in the corner of your eye, he didn’t attempt to run or alert anyone to your presence. In the junctions and high traffic areas, you put Kenneth between yourself and the cameras, staying close to him as if you were two normal coworkers discussing the latest observation report.

“What happened to your nose?” you asked after pushing the elevator button. Thankfully no one else was waiting.

“Oh, that. Donno. Been getting nosebleeds lately.”

You made a sympathetic noise, but your gaze dropped to his hands where they fidgeted against his lab coat.

The elevator ride to the skybridge level was silent and filled with a tension you couldn’t quite pinpoint. You were relieved when the doors opened, and you continued onward to the large walkway that spanned the empty space between Heavy Containment and the administration section.

The two sections looked like skyscrapers placed deep underground. Heavy Containment was larger and built out of heavy concrete and steel. The administration building was a more flexible blend of concrete and stone. It had only been a few days since you’d last been in the admin building, but it seemed like a different lifetime.

Kenneth swiped his keycard to open the glass doors that led to the skybridge, and you crossed the covered tunnel, looking out of the glass walls into the darkness beyond. It was easy to forget all of Site-20 was underground. It had been a long time since you’d seen the surface, and your heart ached with the desperate need to see sunlight and smell fresh air again. It was painful to imagine that it had been even longer for 049.

“Did you watch us?”

Your question hung in the air. There was no need to specify exactly what Kenneth would have watched. His unhappy sigh meant he understood the question.

“I didn’t look at the monitors, but the Site Director was there. I couldn’t—he wouldn’t let me leave. I didn’t want him to do that to you. I didn’t... I wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Reid.”

He sounded so sick to his stomach that you couldn’t be angry, not at him. Your rage was reserved for only one person.

“I know,” you said quietly. “It’s not your fault, Kenneth.”

His expression was pained, and his words surprisingly bitter.

“It sure feels that way.”

You entered through the glass doors into the admin sector and the halls remained empty. Judging by the lack of activity and how tired you were, you guessed it was the night shift’s turn to be on duty.

No one in sight, you slipped your hand into Kenneth’s. He gave a small start, his eyes wide, but then he relaxed, his arm brushing yours as you walked. He was the closest thing you had to a friend besides 049, and it was comforting to think it was a friendship that could be salvaged. Even if best case scenario, you managed to escape with 049 and never saw Kenneth again, at least you’d part on good terms.

It wasn’t long before you both stood in front of Dr. Puli’s office. Kenneth turned to you and released your hand, his expression folded into something tense, earnest.

“Reid, I... I want to say something first.”

You glanced both ways down the corridor; it was still empty but wouldn’t remain that way forever.

“Okay. What?”

His mouth worked as if searching for the words, or perhaps unable to voice them. He winced, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“I didn’t want to listen to him, I didn’t. But he made me do things—I’m sorry. I did it, but I didn’t want to.”

You frowned and shook your head. Hadn’t you already forgiven him for what Leahy had forced him to do?

“I know, Kenneth. Like I said, it’s fine. I forgive you.”

Instead of looking relieved, he seemed more frustrated.

“That’s not... what I’m saying.”

A closing door followed by footsteps somewhere in an adjacent corridor drew your attention. You put a hand on his upper arm, forcing Kenneth to look at you.

“We can talk about it later, okay? There’s no time right now.”

To your relief, he nodded his agreement. You released his arm.

“Here’s what I need you to do.” You tilted your head toward the door. “I need you to get Dr. Puli to let us in. Don’t tell him I’m here, obviously. Once we’re inside, do as I say. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He attempted to give you a ghost of his old smile, but there was sweat beading on his forehead. “I can do that.”

You kept close just in case something went wrong. Despite Kenneth’s nervous behavior, you didn’t sense that he was trying to trick you or lead you into a trap. His guilt seemed far too internal, his focus scattered. He seemed like a man floundering rather than one attempting deceit.

Kenneth pressed a shaky finger to the intercom button.

“Doctor Puli, are you there?”

You waited in tense silence, broken by the click of the speaker.

“Yes, what is it?”

He sent you a relieved glance, and you nodded your encouragement.

“Doctor, it’s Kenneth. I want to talk to you about... about Reid.”

Another beat of silence.

“Very well.”

The door clicked as the magnetic bolt slid free.

It had been easy, much easier than you thought, but then again, this wasn’t supposed to be the hard part. You took Kenneth’s arm and quietly bade him to open the door. He did with the click of another button, the door sliding open, and you both crossed through the threshold into Dr. Puli’s office.

As soon as the door slid behind you, automatically locking, you pulled the scalpel out of your pocket and held it aimed at Kenneth’s neck.

Dr. Puli hadn’t even looked up yet, too busy focused on the papers on his desk, pen scratching across the surface.

“What is it?”

When Kenneth didn’t answer, your former boss finally looked up. He froze, eyes wide as he took in the blade, Kenneth’s pale features, and finally yours, hard and determined.

“Get up.”

He didn’t move.

You positioned the scalpel closer to Kenneth’s neck, and he made a startled sound that didn’t seem part of the act.

“Please, do what she says.” Kenneth’s voice was unsteady but effective, getting Dr. Puli up and away from his desk. You watched his hands, making sure he didn’t press the emergency call button.

“Reid,” he said, slightly spreading his palms to show he wasn’t holding anything, “what are you doing?”

“Sit down. Over there, on the futon. Keep your hands in the open.”

He frowned but did as you demanded, cautiously crossing the office to sit on the green piece of furniture. His gaze flicked between you and Kenneth, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“What is this?”

“You wanted to help me, right? That’s what you said?” you asked, some of your bitterness slipping through. “This is how you’re going to do it. Pull out your keycard. Toss it on the table.”

He moved his hands in a plaintive spread.

“Please. No one needs to get hurt.”

More bitterness poured through, no longer a trickle but an oozing wound.

“Little late for that.”

He winced but otherwise didn’t move.

“Yes, I will acknowledge that. But what you’re doing isn’t going to make your situation any better. Do you really think you can get very far even with my keycard?”

“The time for you to give a shit about my well-being passed a long time ago. Put down the goddamn card.”

His frown deepened.

“You don’t expect me to believe you’d actually hurt him.”

Your fingers tightened on the back of Kenneth’s neck, forcing out a small whimper.

“You want to test how far I’ll go to save 049?”

Dr. Puli’s gaze faltered, then fell, and with a defeated slump of his shoulders he pulled the keycard lanyard from his neck and tossed it on the coffee table.

“Take it and lock the door.”

This last set of instructions you directed at Kenneth, and he took the card, fingers slightly trembling. You walked him over to the door, keeping the scalpel close to his skin in case your old boss tried to play a hero. You didn’t think he would, but backing people into a corner made them desperate. You would know.

Kenneth used the keycard to lock the door from the inside. There was a keypad next to the door, and without his keycard Dr. Puli would have still been able to enter a code to leave. Now the door wouldn’t budge without the proper level of keycard.

You tugged on Kenneth’s coat collar, leading him up to Dr. Puli’s desk. On its surface sat a monitor, the desktop hidden somewhere inside one of the cabinets. But the monitor itself had USB ports, and you had to hope it was enough.

“What are you doing?” asked Dr. Puli, eyeing your progress. “I thought you would want to know where 049 has been taken.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Dr. Puli opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Didn’t think so.”

He was out of the Site Director’s good graces and had been for some time. He wouldn’t know where 049 was, even if he was willing to help you.

Needing both hands, you released Kenneth’s collar and slipped the scalpel back into your pocket. You fished the thumb drive out of your bra, the grey object innocuous and rather dull as far as escape tools went. Kenneth looked at it with confusion, but Dr. Puli seemed more alarmed.

“What is that? Reid, what are you—”

Fingers gripping the drive like a blade, you aimed it against the port and slid it inside. It clicked into place.

The dark monitor flickered, sporadic and unstable, and it wasn’t the only thing. The lights dulled and brightened, as if there was a brief fluctuation of power followed by a surge.

A long siren began to wail.

You exchanged a wide-eyed look with Kenneth. It was the most unsettling noise you’d ever heard, and by his expression, he thought the same.

Dr. Puli moved, and you went to grab your scalpel, but there was no need. He was pulling something out from his belt, something small that beeped out a loud, analog chime. A pager—old school but effective as an emergency broadcast receiver during containment breaches.

“What is it?”

“Something’s broken containment,” Dr. Puli said to your question. He read the scrolling message on the beeper and looked up at you both, his words thick. “SCP-106 has escaped.”

What? Had the thumb drive caused it? Why would 049 have something like that—

“Wh-what about the other anomalies?” Kenneth stammered.

“It appears to be just the one, for now.”

“What about 035? Is he still in containment?”

You frowned, a reflection on Dr. Puli’s face.

“As far as I know. But we need to get to the nearest shelter. Reid, you’re coming with us.”

You didn’t answer, your attention drawn to the monitor next to your arm. The screen had flickered briefly, but in that moment, you had seen something there. Something impossible.

“Where’s your laptop?”

Dr. Puli blinked, thrown by the non sequitur.

“In my desk drawer.”

You pulled it open, the drawer not locked. The disjointed klaxon hadn’t abated, and it was starting to grind on your nerves. The hairs on the back of your neck stood upright, each rise and fall of the eerie pitch giving you the sensation of being hunted by an unseen predator. Whoever designed that sound deserved a healthy raise and some therapy.

Placing the laptop on the desk, you hoped this would work. If you were right about what was on the thumb drive, you would need something more portable than a desktop.

“Go.” You raised your eyes when neither of them moved. “You both need to get to the shelters before they go into lockdown.”

“What about you?”

You met Dr. Puli’s gaze.

“Whatever happens, I’m not going back to my cell.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words remained where they were, unspoken. He gave you a nod, something sad lingering in his eyes as he palmed open the door. It had been unlocked during the power fluctuation, a fail-safe measure that would keep people from being locked inside rooms without a designated keycard.

The door remained open after Dr. Puli disappeared through it, but Kenneth didn’t immediately head for the exit, his eyes pleading with you to follow.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, not wanting him to wait around. The sooner he got to a bunker, the safer he would be. “Go. Go.”

He finally moved at your urgency, glancing back when you called out to him at the room threshold.

“Kenneth… I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

The smile he sent back was tinged with a sad understanding.

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

Something ached in your chest, and you searched for the words that would soothe the discomfort. You didn’t find them.

“Good luck.” He gave you a two-fingered salute, a goofy gesture the old Kenneth would have made, and you almost called him back. It would be a relief to have an ally, to not have to do this alone, but it would only put him in further danger. You couldn’t do that to him, especially because you knew he would say yes.

And then he was gone. The door slid shut behind him, seemingly of its own accord. You certainly hadn’t shut it.

A face appeared on the screen, textured in black-and-white, its features blocky and obtuse.

“079,” you breathed out. You’d never met the SCP, but it could be nothing else.

“Identified: Assistant Researcher █████ Reid.” A stiff, digital voice spilled from the monitor speakers. “Proposed designation: SCP-6830, rejected. New designation found.”

It paused, and the computer inside the cabinet whirred. It spoke again.

“Identified: Assistant Researcher █████ Reid, SCP-001.”

Next Chapter

[annwrites]

—boarding school

come on, everybody to the boarding school. make love with our teachers. — englishteacher!oc x student!oc ; ˗ˏ✎❜❜

You sit quietly at your desk, watching as the teacher scrawls his name in large print across the blackboard—his cursive impeccable.

You wish you had handwriting like that, but the public school system only bothers doing so much.

Maybe you’ll learn it here. You doubt it, however.

Your eyes study his attire. He dons a crisp white button-up shirt and a neutral-colored plaid vest, black dress-slacks, and polished dress shoes. He seems very old-fashioned just from his clothing alone.

Finally, he sets down the chalk, wiping his hands against one another before facing the full, seated class before him.

“My name is Mister Taylor, and you will address me as such.”

He rests his arms behind his back. “You’re all here for various reasons. But I think it suffices to say paramount among them is a need for discipline and structure. My class is only one of multiple that you’ll be taking here to further, and complete your educations. I can’t speak to how others run their classrooms, but in mine, when I give an assignment or instruction, I expect it to be done with your utmost effort, and for said instruction to be followed to the letter. Otherwise,” he says, gesturing to the door, “You’ll find yourselves quite acquainted with the Dean in no time at all. Make no mistake: whatever you were allowed to ‘get away with’ before arriving here—such behavior has reached its end.”

He walks around to the front of his desk, and leans back against it with crossed arms. “Do I have any questions?”

You hear a pair of girls whispering quietly behind you, and then one giggles and she shifts in her seat.

Mister Taylor nods to her. “Yes, Miss…”

“Kenova,” she says sweetly.

He waits for her to continue.

“Are you married?” She asks with an obvious smile to her voice.

He doesn’t shift his stance—does not so much as avert his gaze—when he replies.

“Gather your things, Miss Kenova.”

“W-what? Why?”

“Do as I’ve asked. I won’t repeat myself.”

The room remains silent while she does as he’s told her, sliding a messenger bag onto her shoulder before walking quietly to the front of the room.

Mister Taylor leads her over to the door, and he opens it, then speaks lowly to her as he gestures with his hand.

She nods then, silently stepping out, and he shuts the door behind her, returning to his previous stance.

“Would anyone else like to accompany Miss Kenova to the Dean’s office, or should we begin our class for the day?”

Everyone remains quiet, including you, as you stare at him with wide eyes—somewhat surprised by him not so much as giving the girl a warning. But sending her immediately to the head of the school was clearly meant to be as much for the rest of you.

You’re fortunate that you’re quiet by nature, then. But you wonder if he’s level-headed by any means, or if he merely looks for excuses to go on power trips.

You wish that you’d been assigned to the other English teacher now instead.

“Miss Y/N, I’d like to see you after class to discuss your essay.”

Your eyes flit to Mister Taylor’s—your heart jumping into your throat, terrified you’ve done something wrong and are going to be reprimanded for it, or worse—and you nod in response.

Mister Taylor grabs a spare chair from the back of the classroom, and he carries it up front. He turns it around with the back facing you, straddling it.

You’re surprised that he doesn’t sit behind his desk while he makes you stand before it as he chastises you.

He then rests his arms atop the back of it.

“I wanted to tell you how impressed I was by your essay—rather, story—and I just wanted to sit down with you and ask what was so different about this assignment.”

Your brows furrow, so he explains.

“With your other work that you’ve turned in, there’s a reason why I only granted you Bs and Cs. It’s because, while you were putting your utmost effort into it, and you were completing the assignments and doing so within the appropriate time-frame, you quite clearly weren’t putting yourself into it. You were holding back, and I could tell. But this time something shifted. What you wrote was…extraordinary. It enveloped me within it as if I were there.”

You smile slightly, happy to be receiving praise for your work. To be receiving praise in general.

“Where did you get the idea for it?” He asks.

You fold your hands in your lap, your eyes flitting down to them while you nervously rub them together. “It’s… You’ll think it’s stupid.”

He leans forward and you look at him, watching as he smiles warmly.

You realize then that you’ve not seen him smile even once in class.

“I won’t,” he states quietly. “You’re not the first artist to worry about being judged for their work. But I assure you that you won’t be with me. I’m simply curious.”

You clasp your fingers together, glancing to the window to your left, watching as green trees sway softly from a late summer breeze.  

“It comes from daydreams. A fantasy.”

You look at him once more. “I was sent here because my mother finally got what she always wanted: a wealthy husband to provide for her. And those things he provided included a way to finally be rid of me. And I…”

You smile slightly.

Tears brim in your eyes as you look upwards, before leveling your gaze again.

“I was so afraid, at first, to be sent away to boarding school. But, for the first time in my life, I feel free. Like I can breathe. Like I’m not cutting open my feet on eggshells. This place serves as the very opposite of a punishment for me. It’s an escape—not a cage. Because being here…the door to my own is finally open. So, my story was the place I went, before, when I felt trapped.”

You shrug. “I ran away and joined the circus. I found a new family; made friends for the first time. I had a home that wasn’t sedentary; I saw the country. And I was given a purpose. And it was to bring people joy. Some days, I served as a fortune teller. Some nights, I was an acrobat. Others, a trapeze artist. I went to a place I had never been, and saw such amazing things. And then, inevitably, I always had to return to my real life. And the dream faded away. So, that’s where my idea came from. My hopes and dreams and my head.”

His eyes flit between your own and you lean back, your cheeks heating, feeling mortified for being so personal.

You’d sounded like a child who still plays make-believe and lives in her imagination.

And then he smiles again.

“Hold on to that,” he says quietly. “Hope. Dreams. Because, when you get to be my age, the world bears down on you and destroys them. It doesn’t stop until you’re jaded and empty.”

He rises from his chair. “I expect to see more work written at the caliber you did this story. Do you understand?”

You stand then, as well, and smile. “I do.”

You walk around the side of his desk and he pulls a cookie tin from the side drawer.

Your brows furrow.

“I hope this isn’t… That it doesn’t come off as inappropriate.”

He slides the tin toward you.

“When my maternal grandmother passed, she had a collection of these in her house, and her children, and grandchildren… We divvied them up between us. This was the one I chose. And it’s been sitting in a box collecting dust for years. I just thought, maybe, you’d like to have it. That you could give it a new home.”

You wrap your hands around the cool metal and lift it, a smile spreading across your lips as you look it over.

“It’s a carousel,” you say quietly, turning it around it your hands.

The lid is raised—a gold ball in the middle, with stripes of white and red painted across it, while the tin itself has numerous horses printed and raised along it in various colors.

Your eyes flit to his and you find him smiling softly at you.

“Open it.”

You raise a brow and he grins. “I promise it’s not two decade-old cookies, or sewing supplies.”

You do as he’s asked and find two tickets resting within.

You set the tin down, retrieving them.

“There’s going to be a small circus in town in a few days,” he says. “And I was wondering… You said you’ve never been, but you’ve always wanted to go. We could do so together, if you’d like.”

You smile broadly, while happy tears shimmer in your eyes.

“I’d like that,” you tell him.

The summer before your senior year, your mother finds for herself a new man. One of wealth and prospects. And through him, she finds something further: a way to finally be rid of you. The thing she’s always said was responsible for ruining her life.

So they send you away to boarding school. And it becomes a place of refuge.

And then you meet Mister Taylor, your English teacher, who has a reputation for being even stricter than the Dean himself. You vow to do what you can to stay in his good graces, not wishing to end up like your reprimanded classmates. And then, after writing a story that you pour yourself into, do you gain his attention and find someone to surprisingly confide in.

He shows you a different side of himself—a kinder, more honest one—in particular when he makes your one dream come true of seeing the circus. And that fateful night is when a love story of your very own begins.

headcanons:

the idea for this story actually came from a dream I had. the only thing in said dream was cillian murphy—who was clearly a teacher in it—the cookie tin & the tickets to the circus. i expanded from there.

[malsfefanfics]

Linhardt and Ashe?

Let's try this.

When Ashe had agreed to stay at the Hevring manor for the upcoming festivities, he'd anticipated a lot. People coming and going with research papers needing read over. Office staff asking for signatures for funding. Hubert stopping by with "samples" needing "a look at". He even expected Caspar to come running in and out, dropping whatever was in his hands to scoop them both up in a strong bear hug before running back to whatever tasks her Majesty asked of him.

What he hadn't anticipated, however, was this.

"Um, Linhardt?" Ashe asked. "Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable elsewhere?"

Linhardt shrugged. “I’d rather be here.”

"I see."

The 'here' that Linhardt referred to was his lap.

Ashe had managed to find a rare copy of a knight's tale he'd only heard of second hand. It was called "Graham and the Smith of Jasmine", and it was believed to be lost to time. He'd gotten so excited to sit down and read it over. And now that the printing press was starting to be used to restore and mass produce many other texts, he'd hoped to have this one recopied so as not to lose it in the future.

And of course, once he'd settled in with a warm pot of tea and a roaring fire in the hearth, Linhardt had decided to join him on the lounge seat with the latest edition of Hanneman's book on Crestology research. One arm wrapped around his shoulders, flipping through the pages absentmindedly as he sat on Ashe's lap. His feet lay on one of the cushions, preventing anyone else from joining them.

Well, anyone other than Caspar's cat, Patton. Who now lay belly up sparawled on Linhardt's legs.

"Um...would you like some tea?" Ashe offered.

"You know, if you want me to move, you could simply ask," Linhardt sighed. "But you would upset the cat."

Ashe chuckled. "I know. It's just...I'm sure it'd be more comfortable on the sofa proper, wouldn't it? And that way we can both read our books without issue."

Linhardt snapped his shut. "I was just looking over mine briefly. I already know what's in it. I helped with the research, after all." He glanced at the book in Ashe's hands. "What's yours about?"

"Oh, this?" Ashe smiled. "It's about a knight in Loog's service. Lesser known, but well respected in his time. In this story, he supposedly met a smith who had forged a legendary weapon blessed by the Goddess. But no one knows what it is, or where it would be, if it exists."

"I see. You believe this tale to be a work of historical fact rather than fiction?"

Ashe let out a hum. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. Personally, I just want to read the story to find out what it's fully about. The book's supposed to have been lost for a good two hundred years."

At that, Linhardt lightly tossed his book onto the the nearby chair and swiped Ashe's from his hands. "In that case, I'll hold the book. You read aloud."

The archer's mouth gaped wide. "Wait, you...want me to read to you?!"

"Why not?" Linhardt asked, a cadence of curiosity hanging off each word. "Loog and the Maiden of Wind bore some level of fact within its fiction. Maybe we'll discover something here." He glanced at his face, eyes staring through him intently. "Unless you'd rather I move still."

Ashe sighed, but it wasn't frustration. Rather, playful defeat. He wasn't going to win this battle, it seemed. Instead, he nodded to the teapot.

"Make me a cup so I can have something to sip between pages, and you have a deal."

[yacinthemorning]

Birdsongs

Chapter 9

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Summary: The Life Pilgrimage is the biggest music festival of the century, set to take place all across the continent. Small-time rock band, GIST, and the up-and-coming alternative band, Empire, are both lucky to be among the hundreds set to make appearances, but there's just one problem. Neither can afford the travel expenses on their own. For better or worse, they're stuck with each other for the next five weeks as they try to make their dreams come true.

And, perhaps, among the chaos and music, two unsuspecting souls find one another...

Ships: Jimmy/Tango (slow burn romantic), Joel/Lizzie (romantic), Jimmy & Scott (platonic)

Warnings: Drugs, anxiety

Scott’s heel was bouncing against the ground, finger tapping out of tune from it against the table, staring down the trailer doorway like it killed his mother. Everyone else sat around, beds half made and sandwiches untouched. Somewhere in the trailer a clock ticked away.

Jimmy sat in the corner, arms tightly wound around his guitar case while his head rested against the cold metal cage. Every once in a while the canary would twitter out the first few notes of a song, but they died before it continued. He wasn’t sure how smart birds were, but he thought a rock would be able to sense the tension in that trailer.

It was Skizz who stood up first, determination in his expression that wavered when Scott did not react in the slightest. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t.” It came blunt and indisputable. Skizz tried to anyways.

“No, it was my fault. I put the cage out in the sun and ran off without waiting for Tango or Pearl. Jimbo and Lizzie had no way to know-”

“We’ve been discussing what to do since yesterday.” Scott’s gaze still hadn’t left the door, but his foot had stopped. The clock chimed seven. A long silence stretched out until it was done, and then Scott deflated with a sigh. He pushed up out of his chair. “They aren’t getting back tonight. How close is town?”

Fwhip startled, and traded a look with Impulse. “About a half hour walk down the road.”

“Where are you going?” Gem asked.

The fiddler slipped on his shoes without reply. Two other pairs were tossed across the room, one white and the other violet, both speckled with dried mud. When the siblings looked up to him with confusion he made a beckoning motion and pushed open the door, “Come on, hurry up.”

Already having made a fool of himself enough today, Jimmy quietly obeyed. He stumbled out of the trailer sideways, guitar bumping against the side. Lizzie more cautiously followed after, one hand on Jimmy’s arm as they began to walk. A long, long, deafeningly silent walk. For the first five minutes all they had was the crunch of gravel under their feet and the last echoes of the festival, but even those faded as they reached a proper road. Then it was only the wind through grass and shrubs left between abandoned developments.

Through the whole thing Scott did not turn around once, head forward and walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. Of course he did, he always did. Lizzie’s grip on Jimmy’s arm occasionally tightened from whatever was running through her own mind. But Jimmy, he couldn’t think of anything else besides how stupid could you be? As soon as he saw the bird he should have assumed, someone else was taking care of it. Someone else who was smarter than him knew what they were doing. Now they’ve wasted time and gas when they could have all been listening to music like they were here for.

Town came into view, marked by a large sign saying ‘Welcome to Sanctuary’ in such flowery print it could have been written by Lizzie. It was quaint, to say the least, and colourful. Someone with a lot of time and patience had to be maintaining its copious amount of planters and hanging baskets that adorned every streetlight and historic building. Like walking into a secret garden, filled with people living the small town dream right out of a hallmark movie. It seemed almost ridiculous that they would allow a music festival on their doorstep.

Scott paused in front of a small shop with dog bowls set under a table of wares on sale. On closer inspection, they were mostly dog toys and cat tunnels. A small sign simply read ‘The Sausage Shop’ with the silhouette of a dachshund under it. Scott ducked into the shop without a word, leaving the siblings to scramble after him and trip over the single half-sized step at the doorway. Inside was packed to the brim with shelves of pet food. A stack of beds filled the far corner next to a small fridge and the far wall was lined with leashes. Above hung a few cages, a few songs twittering from the largest of them, but there wasn’t so much as a fish bowl or heat lamp laying about.

A man with a thick beard stood smiling a t the glass counter, also a display for special made dog treats. “Welcome, welcome!” He said too cheerily. “We’re about to close in twenty minutes, but if there’s anything I can help with quickly...”

“We need bird seed for a canary.” Explained Scott. “As well as enclosed feeders that won’t spill, a blanket, whatever it is they use for the bathroom, and care information. Probably treats or toys also.”

“Oh my, everything but the cage, huh?” The man pursed his lips and slipped out from behind the counter.

Scott followed after him with a hum, “We came into the bird rather... suddenly.”

Jimmy tightened his grip on his case, hiding his face behind its neck when the shop owner glanced their way. “Well,” He started, “If you’re worried about a mess we have some more enclosed dishes like these. For accidents you can just line the cage tray with newspaper, though. As for treats...”

The man went on, pulling things off the shelves that Scott would proceed to examine, nod and stow away on the counter while they moved on. Jimmy listened, as best he could since it was his bird technically. Judging from Scott’s attitude change it may not be for long. It was hard, when the birds above recognized their food being moved around and began chirping excitedly.

There was mostly budgies, but a few finches and canaries were scattered among them. One grumpy looking cockatiel kept shouting at them, who all huddled together. Only one of the little songbirds puffed up its red feathers and shrieked back, though it fell off its perch when the cockatiel lunged at its own bars. Wings splayed out for just a moment, they looked oddly short. Clipped, he realized. It made sense, but he couldn’t help feel bad for the poor things.

“... And a swing might be good if you don’t have one. Canaries are usually solitary, so the little guy will need enrichment.”

“Is it a little guy?” Jimmy wondered aloud.

The owner stopped, and shrugged. “There’s a few ways to tell, but if you don’t know you’ll probably need a vet, or ask the store that sold it. Most only sell one sex to avoid breeding. We sell males here, for example.”

A bell tinkled through the shop. Lizzie had found the cat toys. They officially had to leave before she started getting ideas again. Scott returned to the counter with a package containing a small swing and the transaction began. Before the register had even dinged a large bag was dropped into Jimmy’s arms, nearly knocking his guitar off his shoulder. He peeked inside. Food, containers, toys, treats, a cover... There was even a pet care pamphlet for canaries. Everything they could possibly need.

Scott stood in front of him, hands on his hips. He had that look in his eye, the one that Jimmy never knew how to feel about, because he’d never been quite sure what emotion it was. To anyone else – to him back when they were younger – it might seem completely neutral, but Jimmy knew better these days. Enough to know it meant Scott would not stop until the problem was solved. “Let’s go, then.” He said, motioning for Jimmy to turn around and head back out the door.

Lizzie raced to her brother’s side. “Should we get anything else while we’re here?”

“A small town like this, everything’s probably closing.” A hand wave dismissed the thought while they marched into the street. “We need to get back and set all this up, anyways.”

Jimmy was ready to follow when he noticed a tray beside the register. They were small, the colour dull from a home printer, and the edges were hand cut. Barely visible was the same logo as outside the shop. Terrible little stickers that Jimmy could not take his eyes off. A grin stretched across the owner’s face as he plucked one up and held it out. “First one’s free.”

He snatched it up quicker than he could think about it.

-

The car rolled back into the lot at 5 am as quietly as possible. Pearl let out a long yawn, ready to fall asleep at the wheel without ever returning to camp, but Tango was wide awake. He reached over to the poor woman, patting her shoulder, “You head back.”

“Y’sure?” She mumbled, not even looking at him. It was hard, with her wrists in the eyes.

“I got this, Pearly-pop. You go sleep.”

Not needing to be told twice, she stumbled off. With how heavily she swayed Tango debated walking her back first. Instead he popped open the back and sorted through their things. Most of it was stuff they could go without until the next stop. He yanked out a few boxes filled with trailer equipment and a few bags that replaced Empire’s things. Anything that needed to be put back in the proper place.

Few people were already up. A couple early risers, those waking against their will from the withdrawals of whatever drug had previous been pumped through their systems. More of the acts were awake, eager to get ready. This was the state he found half of Empire in at the trailer. Lizzie scurried about on nervous energy, fretting over her bags. Inside, teal flashed in the windows before Scott stumbled out. They acknowledged Tango with only a nod before returning to their preparations. After last night he imagined they’d keep busy with whatever they could all day.

Inside, splayed out across their shared bed, Jimmy laid awake as well, baggy eyes on the ceiling and one arm slung tight around his guitar, its case pushed to the side. Though he had the observation skills of a fly bouncing off a wall, Tango swore a sticker placed near the neck had not previously been there. The bird cage sat pushed onto the back window behind him, a small blanket thrown over top.

Jimmy’s eyes locked onto Tango, before his whole head slumped to the side with a miserable look. One guess who was at fault for the lack of bird in the car. But Tango had already deduced as much, given Jimmy’s luck. He breathed out through his nose, and placed the box he carried on the counter. A small motion was all it took to make the taller roll over, pushing himself too far into his own corner like he didn’t deserve to take up the space. Tango let it be for now, flopping down into the uncomfortable bed.

“Hey, there, partner.” He said in his thickest southern accent. It got a snort, which quickly devolved into silent giggles judging from the way Jimmy’s shoulders shook. A win, in Tango’s books. “What seems to be rootin’ and/or tootin’ this fine morning?”

Jimmy rolled back over, trying his damnedest not to make too much noise and failing miserably. “I can’t-” He managed to wheeze out. Tango grinned, most certainly a win. When he pulled himself together Jimmy shook his head and said, “How are you worse at that then I am?”

“No way I am, what’s yours sound like?” Asked Tango, then giggled as he whispered to himself. “Heh, I showed you mine you show me yours.”

Jimmy made the strangest noise as he slapped his whole hand over his mouth. If Tango couldn’t see his face he might have thought the little sounds that slipped through the cracks of his fingers were sobs. It took much longer for him to compose himself this time, but Tango, with a front seat view, couldn’t bring himself to mind. As it died down Jimmy leaned in, and said with utter delight, “Well, Pardner, looks like this bed just ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

“Oh my god.” It was Tango’s turn to wheeze, giggles turning into a cough as he grinned ear to ear. It sounded like an entirely different person, the man’s previously squeaky voice dropping probably about as low as it could go to try and mimic a complete parody of a southern accent. “Absolutely amazing.”

“You like it?” Jimmy asked, looking more like a big dog looking for praise.

Tango shook his head. “One problem with it, though.”

“What? What’s that?”

 “There’s definitely plenty of room for the two of us.” Tango patted the bed, arm stretched out wide.

Jimmy didn’t hesitate this time, scooching over to fill the empty space. Tango’s arm wound up trapped as a headrest. With Jimmy’s smile closer than ever it was going to stay there.

And it was so very close. He could see the various flecks in his brown eyes, the blanket of freckles that had been darkening with the summer sun. The very slight start of stubble too blond to see from afar but would be shaved down anyways before their concert, and the redness of his lower lip where he’d been chewing nervously only a few minutes before, now stretched into that smile...

Tango felt his breath hitch, body stiff as he desperately held himself back from doing something incredibly stupid. But Jimmy had other ideas, it seemed. He stretched forward and soft lips pressed against the tip of Tango’s nose. They were gone almost instantly, the taller settling back down with a wide yawn. Cheek mushed into Tango’s arm, tired eyes falling shut, Jimmy was out like a light before Tango could recover.

A squeak slipped out of the older, belated and abandoned. What was he supposed to do? The answer was apparently continue to watch Jimmy. There wasn’t much else he could do that would neither disturb his companion nor potentially cross an increasingly blurry line. He wasn’t ready to do either.

The door rattled. Tango looked over in time to lock eyes with Scott, frozen in the doorway. His gaze flicked to Jimmy, his frown deepening. Tango cobbled together a myriad of responses to what he thought the man might say, but none of them came into use. Scott stepped full into the trailer, silent as he walked behind Jimmy.

He plucked up the blond’s guitar, left abandoned and sliding precariously down between the mattress and panelling. Any protest was likely to wake Jimmy, so Tango watched instead. With more force than necessary Scott slammed the case closed around the guitar and propped it up against the bed. And that was where it was left. The man rummaged through one of the cupboards, pulled out a small bag, and was gone once more without a word.

Tango realized then. The reviews were already in, and he was going to have to live with the consequences of his impressions for the rest of the month.

-

“Are you ready?” Joel asked him. Regardless of Jimmy’s answer, Lizzie and Scott were already at their mics, introducing them to the crowd, so Jimmy shrugged. It wasn’t the answer Joel was looking for, but he didn’t ask again.

Scott was like nothing at all had happened, but everyone had their tells. In this case it was the first song he chose and the comical speech about destiny that accompanied it. And who wouldn’t play their best song?

Well, them, usually. Not until the end, when it was more jarring and everyone was well into the swing of things. It may be their best and it was certainly fun, but it wasn’t their smoothest and Joel did the least work of any song because it was made with Lizzie and Scott showing off in mind.

More importantly it was a song they preferred go as flawlessly as possible. First song and a good performance from Jimmy were mutually exclusive. While he waited tensely for the song to begin with his fingers held tightly to the right cord so as not to screw up, he missed the cue from Lizzie. It left him panicked, fumbling to find a place to enter without making it obvious where he – from the audience perspective, where they – stumbled.

Jimmy might not understand the point of playing it last but he knew it wasn’t an opener. Not with their dynamics.

The band didn’t matter, though, when Scott needed to remind himself why they were here. That his rise up was inevitable and this was a stepping stone to be put behind him. Current problems seemed small in the face of what was his right for all the hard work he has and will have put into this, and it would all be worth it eventually. It was destiny, so said the song. Scott and Lizzie belted it to the heavens to make it true. They’d all put up with Joel’s boredom and Jimmy’s first song fumbling if it meant by the end they all remembered what they were here for.

Most of the crowd bought it, too. The roar of applause trailed after the final notes. A few faces Jimmy was beginning to recognize cheered louder, while those from the other bands seemed tepid. He could hear them already. It wasn’t a great performance, not technically, and while the emotions were there, they were a mess. Maybe to someone’s liking. Maybe a good look on another band like GIST or HHH, who were supposed to be a bit sloppy, but not the perfectly balanced Empire. Jimmy tried not to make eye contact with those attendees. It was out of their system, they’d go back to what’s expected next song and the crowd would be happier.

You have to do something real shit to actually get booed off stage, he tried keeping Fwhip’s words in mind.

Joel was giving him a look, beckoning him. Jimmy gave a quick glance to Lizzie, who was well into monologue mode, and shuffled over, painfully aware that the crowd could see him.

“You good?” He asked. There was too much tension in Jimmy’s neck to fake a nod. Joel frowned, reaching out and wrapping an arm around his neck until until they were in their own little bubble. His brows were set stiff and eyes far too intense. “If you need a minute Lizzie can keep going.”

“I was so bad and they know it.”

“Then watch the back row.”

The back row? Jimmy tilted his head, squinting. With a crowd this big it was hard to see without his glasses, and that was likely Joel’s point. What he saw instead, though, was a shock of ginger hair well above the crowd atop someone else’s shoulders. Impulse, maybe Skizz if he wasn’t passed out in the dirt. Gem was cheering along with something Lizzie announced, pumping a fist into the air, that much Jimmy could discern. GIST were somewhere back there, enjoying the show despite their poor placement. His friends were happy.

Joel’s arm tightened slightly, something in the place of a proper hug. “It’s only four more songs. Maybe three, at this rate. And they’re all bangers.”

Jimmy snorted. Of course they were, Joel got to pick two of them and they were the most predictable picks one could imagine. There was no song in their repertoire that Joel loved playing more than Thunder and Clay Man. Too much fun, even. There’d be three stars shining today. Everyone but him. That certainly managed to ease the nerves. “You’re really gonna burst in on their show?”

“Like the Kool-aid man!” Joel’s grin was downright evil, and Jimmy snickered. That was a sight more than worth everything else, even if he wished he could see it from the crowd instead.

“Jimothy are you trying to steal my husband!”

Both men snapped to attention, shrinking under Lizzie’s accusatory pointing. Jimmy could feel his ears go hot as the crowd burst. He muttered an apology and jogged for his proper position. “Sorry, sorry.”

“That’s right, back off.” She mocked, hand on her hips and chin high. “Go get your own!”

“I’m trying!” He whined back. The crowd laughed along, no clue whether it was serious or not. There weren’t many people who listened to Empire, of all bands, on a Griande tour that would mind either way.

There was even a small smile on Scott, the tension in his shoulders long gone. For a moment, as they ramped up to play the next song, Jimmy thought maybe things could be okay.

[birindale]

This time: Catra goes fishing, She-Ra has most of Aquaman's powers, and the scripts get even more unbearable to type. We all learn a lesson about capitalism, but perhaps not the one intended.

Transcript/Image ID below the cut

[Image Description: 14 comic pages from the She-Ra mini-comic, “A Fishy Business”.

Cover: Mermista (in her mermaid form) and Starburst She-Ra swim around underwater, smiling at a school of seven bright yellow fish. The Princess of Power logo is up top as always, and at the bottom of the page in blue, outlined in a desaturated red, is the issue title, "A Fishy Business". Below that, the copyright info reads, "Illustrations: (copyright symbol) Mattel, Inc. 1986. Hawthorne, CA 90250 U.S.A. PRINTED IN TAIWAN. All Rights Reserved. (registered trademark symbol) and TM designate U.S. trademarks of Mattel, Inc."

Page 1: A desaturated pink caption box reads, "In the forest near a stream that began at Crystal Falls, Catra was busy making mischief. She stood back to admire her handiwork, a big waterwheel over the stream. Along the wheel were small fishnets, and on the bank was a giant goldfish bowl filled with water." We do in fact see Catra standing before a giant wheel, though it can't really be described as a waterwheel because there's no way for the water to turn it; its only adornments are the 'nets', which look more like baskets but you saw the caption! Who am I to disagree? A slanted, equal-angle channel runs from the wheel closer to the bank, a sort of reverse salmon cannon into the fish bowl. Catra isn't wearing her mask, her clawed gloves are only silver bracers here, and her outfit still strays closer to red than pink. She has a crosscut or rip-cut saw in her right hand (can't say for certain without a closer look at the teeth), and a claw (heh heh) hammer in her left. Her gloves are only silver bracers here, so she doesn't have any claws, and her outfit is straying closer to red than pink. 

A yellow caption box at the foot of the page reads, "PRODUCED EXCLUSIVELY FOR MATTEL BY: PENCILIER—JIM MITCHELL. INKER—TODD KUROSAWA. COLORIST—CHARLES SIMPSON. EDITOR—LEE NORDLING." 

"'There. As long as I don't get wet, this water-stuff is a snap to handle," says Catra, with an evil little grin. 

End Page 1. 

Page 2: ""Now to see if it works." She said. Catra pulled a lever that released the wheel, and the wheel turned in the water. As the wheel went around, the fishnets bought up fish from the stream. The fish were then dumped into a trough that emptied into the goldfish bowl." [sic] on that whole paragraph. It's like they took a concept script for a picture book and just turned it into a comic with absolutely zero editing or forethought. 

Speaking of no forethought, Catra sure has made this contraption within sight of the Crystal Falls, notorious hangout of Mermista and Friends. She's gripping a lever with both hands (now gloved) and looking back over her shoulder instead of facing the wheel directly. Skip Simpson, bless his heart, seems to have colored her skirt black on autopilot despite Todd Kurosawa's careful delineation. In his defense, Skip was colorist for the whole first wave as well, so he's still getting used to Scratchin' Sound Catra's adjusted color palette. Four concerned-looking fish are scooped up and deposited in the goldfish bowl. 

Catra seemingly lies down in the sand to prop her chin dramatically on one hand and smirk at the captive fish. ""You don't know it yet, Fish-face, but you and I are going into business together."" Seriously though, who put all of these quotation marks in the dialogue bubbles? Why didn't Lee Nordling stop them? What kind of editor are you, Lee? Whatever. Three of the fish gape at Catra in shock. 

""I can see it now. I'll open the first marine world in Etheria," says Catra. This seems to be an attempt at genericizing Marine World (now called Six Flags Discovery Kingdom), which at the time of publication (1986) had just moved to Vallejo, California and was moderately big news, featuring such wild headlines 'professional basketball player called in to pull bolt out of dolphin throat', 'tiger bites the shit out of football player at pep rally' before Vallejo moved them over from Redwood City. The year after the move they dropped an orca on William Statner (who was, tragically, completely fine). Basically, I think Catra is envisioning an animal theme park with a heavy aquatic slant, rather than a flooded planet situation. But it's the kind of theme park which puts chimps on motorcycles and an elephant on water skis. So look out. 

End Page 2. 

Page 3: A pink caption box reads, "Catra saw herself as master of the show. The fish would do wonderful stunts! Catra herself would be the star. And how the crowd would cheer! Handsome men—maybe even Bow—would be madly in love with her." Oh so I didn't need to explain Marine World. Okay. Well I'm leaving that in anyway. This one's for you, Norcal.

Catra imagines herself in a series of fanciful situations, whipping the fish into a cheerleader-style pyramid (her gloves are bracers again, but the rest of her costume is Scratchin' Sound Catra-accurate, including ripped silver tights and a silver skirt); staring dreamily at Bow, who's offering her a bottle of milk; and waterskiing behind four moderately sized fish, which feels optimistic even for this fantasy. 

""So do some aerobics while I sew up your little swimsuits," says Catra, actually looking pretty reasonable despite the fish's shock. Can a fish do aerobics? I guess it doesn't specify that you get your oxygen through air instead of water, but I feel like it's implied.

End Page 3. 

Page 4: A pale pink caption box reads, "A few days later, Peekablue was riding in the Sea Harp near the beautiful Crystal Falls while Mermista swam alongside. Adora and Spirit stood on the shore. "Peekablue! Mermista!" Adora called. "Let's pick some berries for lunch." But just then a young seal swam up to Mermista with a message. 

We see the Crystal Falls in the background, and Mermista with her seal friend in the foreground, but the midground is the Sea Harp sitting on dry land next to Adora and Spirit. Is it not a boat…?

""Oh no! He says his friends, the sunfish and the tuna twins, are missing. And no one has seen the bluegills since yesterday,"" says Mermista, translating for a distressed seal with emanata that seem to indicate seal-speech. 

""Hmmmm, this could be trouble. I'll go look for help!" says Adora.

End Page 4.

Page 5: A pink caption box reads, "Hidden in a spot behind some trees, Adora raised high the Sword of Protection and said "For the honor of Grayskull, I am She-Ra!" And in a magical flash, she became the Princess of Power. Then, she changed Spirit into Swift Wind." Because god forbid we draw an action pose, I guess. 

Starburst She-Ra raises both arms to show off her cape, and Crystal Swift Wind raises both wings. They're so sparkly that light refracts all around them, twinkling and vibrant.

End Page 5. 

Page 6: A pink caption box reads, "Peekablue and Mermista were glad She-Ra had come to help. She-Ra suggested they split up. Peekablue said, "I don't want to get my lovely feathers wet, so I'll follow the stream leading into the forest. With my many eyes I'll be able to see any fish who went that way. Then I'll meet you later."" She-Ra stands beside Peekablue in front of the Crystal Falls, and Mermista watches them from the water.

A pink caption box reads, "Then She-Ra and Mermista dove into the Crystal Falls pool." 

She-Ra dives, Mermista just looks like she's floating downwards. It must be hard to slow down enough for a human (super-powered or not) to keep up. 

End Page 6. 

Page 7: A pink caption box reads, "Deep in the blue-green world, the two friends passed great sweeping fronds of sea moss, sparkling stones, many-colored shells, and the broken columns of old ruins. But, oddly enough, no fish. And no one seemed to know where they were!" She-Ra and Mermista swim past a coral reef, some decaying, vaguely Grecian ruins in the background. There's not a fish in sight. 

""Have you seen our friends, the fish?"" She-Ra asks an octopus, who shrugs and says, ""Nope."" Apparently She-Ra can breathe underwater in this one. 

""Fish should stay in one place, like I do," says a bivalve, "Then they wouldn't get lost!"" 

End Page 7. 

Page 8: ""Then I hope Peekablue has already found them,"" says She-Ra, looking concerned. 

A pink caption box reads, "But Peekablue found something else. As she followed the stream through the woods, her eyes searched the water. "I can see all the way to the bottom!" She exclaimed. But then her special eyes noticed something further upstream." Oh shit. Her brand. 

Peekablue is shown wandering alongside the stream, Catra's contraption bleary in the distance.

End Page 8. 

Page 9: ""Why, it's a wheel! I wonder what…?"" says a pink caption box, which was probably supposed to be a thought bubble. 

Another pink caption box reads, "Suddenly Catra rushed out of the forest. "What do you want, Feather-head?" "Catra! What are you doing here?" Peekablue asked. "I was taking a catnap. Now go away!" "Hummph!" Peekablue said as she walked away. But she thought, "I'm going to tell She-Ra about this.""

I really think they're doing this dialogue-within-captions schtick to torture me, specifically. 

Peekablue is shown looking startled, the Crystal Falls once more in the background, as Catra leaps out of the bushes in front of her. 

End Page 9.

Page 10: A pink caption box reads, "A little later the three friends met at Crystal Falls. Peekablue told what she had seen. She-Ra said, "I suspect Catra knows where the fish are. Let's find out." "Wait," Mermista said. "I want to go along." She dove, then flipped out of the water, her silvery tail dancing on its surface for a moment." We see Mermista, surrounded by a few perfect tendrils of water, suspended above the surface as Peekablue and She-Ra watch. 

A pink caption box reads, "Then with a spin she landed delicately on the shore on two legs!" and we see a four-stage, Animorphs-style transition between her two forms. 

""There. I'm ready!"" says Mermista, to a smiling She-Ra. Her hair is a little more purple than usual, but it plays off the yellow in the background well. 

End Page 10. 

Page 11: A pink caption box reads, "The friends soon found Catra's waterwheel and watched as more fish were caught in the nets. She-Ra said, "I thought so!" On the ground nearby were blueprints for Catra's plans, and She-Ra looked them over. "An amusement park! Leave it to Catra!" She-Ra stopped the wheel, but Catra, who heard their voices, came running. "

She-Ra stares at the plans in apparent wonder as Peekablue and Mermista look over her shoulder. Fifteen of the yellow fish are trapped in the fishbowl. Mermista's pants are orange. Peekablue is smiling for some reason. 

""Just what do you think you're doing here?"" asks Catra, who looks mildly affronted with her hands on her hips and a single eyebrow raised. She's missing her gloves again. 

End Page 11.

Page 12: ""Saving my fish friends from your clutches!"" says Mermista, with no expression whatsoever. Her necklace, which is a shell on the toy and a simple pendant in the Filmation show, is a tiny yellow fish. Presumably it spits water the same way. 

""They're mine now, Miss Scaley-tail! Now go away before I…"" says Catra, with a mild frown. 

A pink caption box reads, "But Catra had no chance to finish her threat because Mermista quickly drenched Catra with her water spray. "Yeee-ow!" Catra screeched, as she jumped back. "I think you're the one who should leave, Catra," said She-Ra "while we try to undo your mischief.""

Catra is soaking wet now. Would have been nice to show that action, instead of just telling us about it! Would have been a nice break from shot-reverse-shot close-ups! She-Ra, Mermista, and Peekablue all smile at her. Her gloves are still missing. 

End Page 12. 

Page 13: A pink caption box reads, "As Catra ran off, She-Ra lifted the giant fishbowl overhead and dumped it into the stream. "I think it's time you fellas went back home to Crystal Falls," she said. And the fish were very happy to do so." The illustration shows She-Ra doing that. You know, redundantly. 

""I don't think we should leave this here either, She-Ra. Catra may use it again," says Peekablue, pointing at the wheel contraption. 

""You're right, Peekablue. And I think I have a good idea," says She-Ra. 

End Page 13.

Page 14: A pink caption box reads, "Later, under the water at Crystal Falls, She-Ra and Mermista turned Catra's wheel into a ferris wheel. The nets were replaced by little seats. Their friends rode happily 'round and 'round! Mermista said, "I wish Catra could see her waterwheel now!"" The fish have set up a tiny admissions booth and everything. Various sea creatures gambol about. 

In an oranger-than-usual 'moral' font color, She-Ra says, ""Yes, and I wish Catra would learn that it's not right to use others to get ahead."" Girl, what? You mean the fish? You guys just assaulted her, stole her waterwheel, and undid days of work because she didn't immediately agree to your demands. Now is the time for a moral about how removing species can negatively impact a biome, or against cruelty to animals (not that 1986 was necessarily ready for that). Is this a good time to mention Mattel owned The Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus for a couple years?

""Now—how about a ride?"" She-Ra suggests to Mermista, beckoning her on. They won't even fit in the tiny little seats. Stop benefiting from using others, She-Ra. It's immoral. 

End Page 14. 

End ID.]

[ashesrebirthed-a]

A few days had already passed down here, by Keiko's estimation. Only the lightening and darkening of the sky gave any indication of time, even the sun itself hidden behind whatever haze lit up the air. The insectoid MUTOs that had dragged Keiko down here to begin with ultimately hadn't become a problem; it seemed all of them had been scattered apart by whatever they fell through, landing in different locations than Keiko herself. Food, however, had. Thankfully the plants here were largely the same as back home, though Keiko didn't know if she could rely on that source forever.

So had shelter. Sleeping near completely out in the open could only safely last for so long, especially in a world where creatures much more powerful than even the most dangerous of Earth's common predators lurked. Crafting a rudimentary bow and arrows hadn't been too terrible - Lee had taught her how to years ago, alongside some quip on how you should know this stuff in case worse ever comes to worst out there, Doc, and your gun-toting neanderthal can’t be around to watch your back - but there was only so much that could do against some of the things she had seen, were they to find her vulnerable.

Earlier in the day, she had finally spotted signs of a cave in the distance. The walk there had been long but relievingly easy, not much of anything living crossing her path at all. It wasn't a guarantee, but it was promising.

That was, until she came across tracks. Tracks at least as massive as the print they'd found in the Philippines. And... was that a scale?

Crouching down, Keiko examined it closer, fingertips running over frosted-looking edges. It was huge, far bigger than her own hand; she could only imagine the size of the creature that had left it behind.

Reddish flecks marred the edge of it, though. Grabbing it firmly and flipping it over, Keiko drew in a sharp breath at the sight of dried blood. The rational thing to do here would be to leave, to run in the other direction of whatever caused this and not look back - in fact, she could hear Lee's voice clearly in her head, shouting at her to do just that right now - but... she couldn't. Not when a new discovery was so close, she could practically taste it.

So it was with fear and awe both coursing through her veins in equal measure that Keiko nocked an arrow into her bow, drew the string back, and pushed forward. Slowly and quietly, she took careful steps until she finally reached the mouth of the cave she'd seen - the same one these tracks led right towards.

Even that couldn't prepare her for the sight that awaited her inside of it.

A dragon-like creature laid prone on its side, neck mangled and red. It was at least the size of Godzilla, if not larger, majestic even in this terrible state. Keiko felt a thrill run through her again as she took the sight of it in: the feeling of being dwarfed by something larger than life, something she still couldn't fully understand but desperately ached to.

This time, however, that feeling was mingled with deep concern. "Oh, my god," Keiko breathed, bow and arrow lowering - but not put away completely - as she crept closer. There was no military here to harm this creature, no Lee to hold Keiko back. Only time would tell what sort of difference his presence could have made. "What the hell happened to you?" // @frcsttitan + plotted starter!