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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 4 months

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Yves (yandere oc)

Tw: stalking, infantilization, obsessive behavior, reader cheating on yves hypothetically, gore

enjouy

Yves is a man who knows how to take care of himself well. Adorning expensive scents, maintaining his hygiene, and diligently attending his regular self-pampering saloon, manicure, and facial treatments. His skin is porcelain, supple, and free of any imperfections. His hair is full, lush, shiny, pitch-dark; soft, and smooth.

He is a man who values the importance of physical fitness, strength, and the sculpting of the body, daily exercise in his modest yet sophisticated home gym is a must. Though he also understands the essence of moderation in training, he has a towering stature with a lean, muscular frame; no one in the right state of mind would ever call him frail or weak. But no one would accuse him of taking performance-enhancing drugs either.

His fashion and mannerisms exude class and elegance. His aesthetic and tastes are nothing to scoff at, very few could meet his standards. Even if they could, it would be close to improbability to keep up.

He presents his best image of himself to the world every day without missing a beat. There is no such thing as 'sloppy' in his vocabulary. All things are done with such precision and care, his rouge immaculately lining his sultry lips. A dusting of bronze eyeshadow accentuated his emerald irises and sensual yet steely, calculating gaze. Clad in quality clothes that usually cover him from the neck down, he moves fluidly with them with such grace; as if it was his second skin. Yves dislikes having anything loud and overwhelming on him, his palettes are of black, white, greys, and neutrals. He does not like to stand out. But he will; in a room filled with commoners. As he seems ethereal.

His money matches his spoiled lifestyle. It is unknown what he does for a living, but what he brings in a night, is more than what a normal, middle-class worker earns in a decade. Yves prefers not to discuss about his line of work, however, all you need to know is that he works remotely; and his hours are extremely flexible. There are times, rare, but possible, that he has to physically travel to someplace. He would be away for days and come back as pristine as ever. However, to the trained eye, he comes back exhausted, irritated, and freshly scarred. Perhaps that is why he loves to conceal. He does it so well.

He loves so obsessively, so consumingly; and he hides it well. Yves notices each and every minute detail about you. From the number of breaths you take when you're calm versus in an agitated state, to the fidgeting between your index finger and thumb behind your back. All of it means something, and goodness, does it help to accurately predict your next move.

Without a doubt, he knows you more than anyone. Even yourself. You don't come even close to the knowledge he gathered on you. He would know what you're feeling before you even realize it. The body works faster than the brain, and the mind gives up before the body, as they say. He observes and appreciates what no one sees or deems important. You are under his constant scrutiny with or without your awareness. Yves knows what you like, he knows what you hate. He knows what you will like; he knows what you will hate; and he is never wrong. Not ever.

Drives upon digital drives of data are stored within his office, graphical statistics, images, annotations, hypotheses, diagrams, conclusions, and many more, of one study subject: You. Not all of them were stored in hardware. Yves has a library, bookshelves upon bookshelves of research-level papers in monstrously thick paper binders with him the sole author. There is a section where his information vault is full of academic papers related to you and your behavior, where he could appropriately draw conclusions and compare his findings with others.

His collection spanned over years, decades, even. He studies you intensively and he enjoys it. He reviews the extensive hoard of dossiers on you to keep his mind sharp, and memory fresh. All while you go on living your life normally, without suspecting something is awry. Everything you do is data. Precious data.

Yves knows what you want at any given moment and your words or awareness aren't necessary.

He orchestrated the ideal meeting sequence. Whether that be a meet-cute at the local cafe, a charming first encounter by picking your fallen papers after you 'accidentally' crashed into him, a flirty exchange that escalated into something more at a lonely bar, having his attractive dating profile appear on your monitor screen, being paired up as a classmate or colleague for a project, being your saving grace from an abusive home or partner, being your "blind" date your friend set you up with, as the religious, alluring man that takes your attention away from the lord at churches, the man who offered his umbrella when you're stuck in the rain, maybe even just starting off with innocent small talk in the elevator that leads to months of brief chatter, but no progress; all of it has one common denominator: it is specially tailored for you and no one else.

And you will inevitably fall for him. Yves knows you but you don't know him. He knows what gets you excited, flustered, giddy, and hot under the collar. Most importantly: he is patient. Like a predator stalking its' prey, his patience knows no bounds. He will not slip up and make a silly mistake because he wants you so badly. He absolutely does, but he is a man of discipline. Yves achieved full control over himself, and that is what made him so menacing. No human has ever done so except him.

Perhaps, you might be suspicious of him. You're pleasantly surprised when he dims the lights that have been irritating you for a while without you saying anything. Then, it happens again; Yves hands you a refreshing bottle of your favorite drink as you're starting to feel thirsty and lethargic. And again; he politely dismissed your friends when you're silently starting to feel sick of socially interacting with others. And again; You're cranky because you received an itchy or painful rash, maybe you live near stagnant water, and mosquitos are common. Yves would almost instantly relieve that by wordlessly applying a special ointment on your skin. He knows what to do.

And again; You're craving seafood, maybe. Then, tonight's date is at an exquisite restaurant that serves only the finest salmon, crabs, lobsters, and whatever else you might want. Lucky guess? And again; he toggles the control panel for the air conditioning unit to cool the room further. You then just realized you're starting to feel a bit too warm for comfort, but you haven't even broken a sweat yet, how did he know? This cannot be a coincidence.

It's delightful, not needing to ask. Not needing to demand or beg someone to make your life easier for you. Having a second 'you' doing the things necessary to keep you comfortable and happy. Having someone to read your mind.

But, then again. Someone is reading your mind. It can make one feel naked and vulnerable. As if, you can't even have the privacy of your own thoughts anymore. All that is visible and invisible is broadcast for everyone to witness. If you're the type to overthink, this could induce some sort of paranoia.

Bold of you to assume that Yves hasn't accounted for that yet.

If his calm, no-nonsense demeanor, reassuring smile, and gentle gaze aren't enough to lull you into a false sense of security; maybe his quiet, baritone, seductive voice with a charismatic coupling of a posh European accent would do the trick? It is quite possible that still wouldn't be able to soothe your nerves. No matter what, Yves always has something under his sleeve to overcome every obstacle in his way.

His body language is outstandingly alluring. He utilizes his looks and his hair, you might catch him leaning forward and playfully twirling a lock of his hair around his slender fingers. He appears to be tremendously interested in you and enamored by you. If that is what you like. Otherwise, he would keep his composure. Have a faint smile on his lips as his eyes are trained on you. Nodding at appropriate times.

Yves has exemplary table manners and etiquette, and his posture is confident and tall. He prefers to listen; of course, he does, as he rests his hands on his knee; his legs are delicately crossed and still. Best be careful of what you say and when you say it; And how you say it. He always remembers.

Yves takes care of you much, much more than he takes care of himself. He is already a marvelous chef with indeterminate years of experience but for certain, more than a decade. Cooking healthy and delicious meals for you and himself. He actually prefers to cook instead of going out, he knows your portions and the nutrients your body truly needs to feel satiated. He knows how you like your eggs done or if you even like eggs at all. He is an expert in making dishes tasty and simultaneously fitting your dietary needs and, or restrictions.

It's only fitting that he lives in a richer neighborhood. However, he isn't swayed by flashy displays of wealth in the form of purchasing mansions, luxury cars, and yachts. Yves owns a modest two-story house with a modern finish. As modest as a billionaire could be. However, it is small enough for Yves to be successful in maintaining the cleanliness and the state of the building himself. He has no hired help, unlike his neighbors. He is responsible for scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom every week. He is responsible for keeping his lawn trimmed and even. All of that, he still has ample time to accompany you everywhere you want him to be, keep up with his self-grooming rituals, and conduct his extensive research. It's almost as if Yves has 72 hours a day instead of the regular 24.

His humble abode follows a modern gothic aesthetic. Dark yet soothing. Unfortunately, he has a very strict set of rules as to how his home should appear to him, you, and others. Fussy about the choice of curtains, floorings, flooring, bathroom towels, and even the cutlery available in the kitchen; he would politely express his displeasure if you were to tamper with anything without his approval. However, he will provide a large room for you to express yourself, Yves will be more than happy to provide whatever you require to make your designated room purely yours.

Although he finds delight in serving your (almost) every verbal or silent request, he isn't spineless. Disrespect and rudeness are unacceptable, he will not entertain you if you're treating him as subhuman. Yves made sure you understand that he is deserving of esteem and dignity as well. He does that by calmly but firmly explaining that he does indeed love you and would do anything to make you happy. But he will not accept unnecessary callousness from you. Hence, it is not at all advisable to take your frustrations out on him.

"I understand you're upset that this happened. I have your best interests at heart, I have been nothing but compassionate to you. Please, do not act cruel towards me." That is what he would have said in such events. His scolding glare, stern body language, and muted yet assertive tone are usually enough to snap anyone out of their anger, retract their hurtful words, and hang their head in shame as they mutter an apology.

Yves will relax, soften his gaze, and fully demonstrate his appreciation for your remorse. The reward for your desired behavior is dependent on your files. It could be as simple as a forehead kiss, or it could be a platter of intricately cut fruits. Regardless, his main priority will always be solving your problems and making you the happiest version of yourself.

Perhaps, to a select few, you're undeterred by him calling you out. Maybe you would amp up your mistreatment towards him. No matter, he knows what to do. He is the master of bending reality by meticulously carrying out his convoluted plans. He could orchestrate the perfect circumstance without you ever suspecting he has any involvement in it, and it will influence you to change your ways, to be kinder towards him. Rest assured, he will never mirror your actions, as he believes it's unnecessary and horrible to treat the love of his life that way.

You could have tried to beat him into a pulp out of the blue and he would have never thought of doing that back. Of course, he will appropriately defend himself and obviously, you will not listen to reason. So he stays eerily silent as he blocks all your hits or restrain your wrists enough to protect himself, but not enough to hurt you. Or he simply walks away. Again, depending on the situation and your personality. Are you going to cause yourself harm? Or will your tantrum stop when he pays no mind and it's all for show?

Could it be that you're having a meltdown out of overwhelm instead? Quite unlikely, Yves would have swiftly eliminated all the factors that can cause a mental or physical overload before it happens. Nonetheless, Yves is not an omnipotent, omnipresent god (but he is close to being one) and you, as a human, are facing constant changes. That is why he has to update his database often for any new observations and review past records regularly.

On the topic of keeping records, his collection indeed includes your medical history. Even that unknown to the hospitals. The number of scrapes and cuts you have gotten, even paper cuts, the time and date you received that minor injury, and how long it takes to heal. Your genome sequence and many reports on your probability of developing certain diseases. Your dental records, your blood work archives, any and every radiological image taken of your being, your prescription details, vaccination history or lack thereof, and many more.

Yves could recite the values on a blood test you took a decade ago by heart. He would accurately and nonchalantly describe the figures on that sheet of paper. As if he was reciting the alphabet.

He will undeniably be the first person to notice that you're falling ill or close to catching a cold. You might think he has a 6th sense that detects your sickness before any symptoms start to arise. But his sharp eyes, nose, ears, and mind already picked up on all the signs that doctors will miss.

You could be his little prince or princess while you're unwell. He would be at your beck and call with no complaints. Yves would fix up a hearty meal, spoon-feed you, and stay up all night comforting you to sleep. He has no problem if you get any mucus, vomit, or other bodily fluids on him. He will settle your situation first, valuing your dignity and feelings of utmost importance before cleaning himself up.

Or, maybe you feel pathetic. Maybe you would very much prefer to continue working or studying and going about with your day. You don't like the feeling of being pitied or pampered just because you're sick. You don't like having your autonomy taken over just because you're temporarily weakened; or permanently disabled. Yves understands that.

Yves allows you to have your cake and eat it too. You may think that he's not watching or caring because he isn't around you. But he always is; and to a certain degree, you knew that. He made sure of it. Yves is always a couple seconds away from helping you. Though, you wouldn't know that a lot of the time, you're living a lie.

The thesis that you're slaving over for months despite your chronic illnesses, sacrificing a few years off your lifespan, you got an outstanding award for it. But your actual thesis is in Yves library; it was abysmal. You would have definitely failed if he hadn't intercepted the network and swapped the file with a wonderfully written one instead. Written by the man himself after he spent as much time studying about your course as you in secret.

It's a miracle you passed your final exams even though all you did in the past month was break down into a messy puddle of tears. Nothing a bit of hush money between your lecturer and your significant other couldn't fix.

The balance sheet that you're supposed to submit to your higher-ups. That would have landed you in jail at worst and fired at best. You did it while you were severely sleep deprived and the numbers were all wrong and there were many missing figures that Yves had to locate. If you pay attention, the red pens in his pencil holder are almost out of ink.

You would have poisoned your customers if he didn't buy the entire ruined batch of bread from your bakery. All this while, you thought Yves was an event manager who chose your business as catering.

You would have killed hundreds of passengers if he didn't sneak into the hangar and tightened that one bolt you missed. Either due to carelessness or otherwise.

He does a very convincing job impersonating a respected doctor at the hospital you work in. He forged the signature as an imposter, legally implying that "he" was the one who administered 100 times the appropriate dosage of insulin. You, as a nurse, mistook 1 unit of insulin for 1 ml. The doctor takes the fall and you get off scot-free. Maybe a bit shaken because you know the truth. At least you will be a lot more careful next time.

You're lucky he is also an expert in all things coding. Yves needs a glasses prescription change after staring at his computer monitor for so long to wipe out the bugs, faulty lines of code, and vulnerabilities. If you were to publish this for the massive corporation that you're working with, lawsuits would come flying right at you like darts.

Yves is constantly cleaning up after you without your awareness. Yet you still get all the praise and recognition for it. He is very content with that.

Yves rarely faces any ailments of his own. As reiterated over and over again, he takes care of himself better than most of the world takes care of their children; and his genes are almost invincible. However, as he is still human (even that may sometimes be debatable), he will succumb to an absurdly powerful virus and develop the flu. But you wouldn't know aside from his increased hand washing and his unusual choice to wear two surgical masks around you. He is still carrying himself with grace, fluidity, and with the energy of a healthy, young man.

If the illness is particularly contagious and he knows that it could put a severe toll on your body if you catch it, he will isolate himself and hire someone competent to take care of you from behind the scenes, out of your sight. He worries for you.

There are very few people whom he would trust. He has no family that you know of, he never speaks about his friends; only his associates. Even if you're the most insecure person in the world, only in Yves will you feel secure. He seems to devote all his time to you and more. He is a self-sufficient man who built everything he has from the ground up. It seems unfair that he knows you like he lived in your body twice, yet his last name is unknown to you. Yves said that he does not own a surname, it's a bit hard to believe him but what else could you do? You're not the one with the magnifying glass, he is.

He is a very private person. He does indulge you with information about himself from time to time. Like how he enjoys caviar on toast points, how he prefers buying high quality bags and clothes with discrete logos from obscure yet lavish designers and companies; he is fond of its' meticulous craftmanship and durability. He plays the grand piano and the harp, as evidenced by the presence of a grand piano and a harp in his designated music room; things that you would expect him to like or dislike based on the stereotypes of rich people.

You already made assumptions that he spoke English and French, based on his name and accent. Which was accurate. What came to you as a surprise is that he also spoken fluent Mandarin and Cantonese over the phone before. You were watching a cooking video one day on your smartphone, there was a voice over in Russian. Yves gently rubbed your shoulder to announce his presence before handing you your glass of water. It was a shock to know that he could translate the whole thing effortlessly to English. He even offered to make the food shown for you.

It puzzled you to no end when you caught him leisurely reading a set of papers printed in Hindi Devanagari. He was sipping on his steaming cup of black tea, not needing an ounce of effort to get through the jargon. He told you that he is reading a published journal article about Ayurvedic medicine.

You asked him what other languages he speaks. "الانتظار لمعرفة." He said with a playful wink, he pushes his reading glasses back up. Yves offered you to sit on his lap while he reads his article. You may or may not have accepted the offer, he is fine either way.

He is prone to touching you. Nothing malicious in nature, Yves would always have an arm around your waist, a hand on your shoulder, locking his large, warm and soft hands with yours, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, running your fingers through your locks if you have any, hooking his pinkie fingers with yours and many more. He knows your limits and backs off accordingly, he noted when is the best time and circumstance to give you physical affection if you're the type to like the surprise.

Otherwise, he would whisper if he could give you a kiss on the cheek, forehead and the lips, or a hug. Asking for permission not too frequently and at the appropriate time. You can feel his love is lingering and undying whenever he holds you close to his chest.

Yves doesn't believe in keeping you all to himself, locking you up in a glided cage and clipping your wings. Because your happiness and health is his main priority in life and he is intelligent enough to understand that you need others to fill in roles that he may not be able to fill. Yes, you're allowed to have friends. Yes, you should visit your family, he will come with. Yes, the ones that you love aside from him are welcome into his home. Within limits.

He is, in most aspects of his life: polite, but distant to your friends and family. Yves has a separate database for all of them them somewhere in his shelves for security reasons- to keep them in check and nip any threat at the bud, but they're plainly not as vast as yours. You better hope none of them annoy him, he has access to their private messages, call logs and emails. To his disgust, a lot of them has their own infidelities to hide.

If you have decent parents who were there for most of your life, you would be astonished to see Yves speaking to them so warmly. As if he cares about their existence. His eyes pupils will be dilated as he takes in as much information as possible. It's unnerving, even you had the vibe that this relationship between him and your parents is that of researchers and lab rats.

Yves recognizes that your parents or guardians are a treasure trove of information revolving around you. Now, he understands that their memories of you may not be the most reliable, but the data is still as precious. The knowledge that your friends have of you is useless, as Yves already possesses a more accurate and objective version of it. But information from the people who raised you or taught you (I.e., teachers), he may not have them in his logs yet.

What did you like as a child? What were you like as a child? Any strange fixations you had that could better explain some of your behaviors and preferences now? Any verbal tics? If so, when did it occur? What were your "bad behaviors" and were they a reaction to unpleasant stimuli? What did you tell them about your schooling life? How much did you tell them about your life? What were the values passed down from their generation to yours? When you were a toddler, did they notice what made you cry the most? Who made you cry the most? What media did you consume, cartoons? Live action? Specifically, which ones? How did you punish bad behavior, any lasting effect on your innate reflexes? Any repetitive habits? Where did you look when spoken to, straight into the eyes, away from the eyes, downcast, or past the speaker entirely? Did you prefer your nails long or cut? Did you fit in? Did you enjoy playing 'house' with the other children? Or did you prefer to play alone? The list is not exhaustive.

The barrage of questions was carefully worded and strategically sprinkled into the conversation. His social intellect is unmatched, he could easily obtain the necessary voice recordings in three meetings without your parents feeling overwhelmed or perturbed. With his unbelievable charm, your parents instantly fell in love with him too, thinking that he's the best fit for an attentive, loving, and dependable partner.

It doesn't matter if your parents were conservatives who may be offended by how he presents himself with modest makeup as an androgynous man. No one can deny that he looks stunning in every angle. He will win them over without compromising on his identity too much. Knowledge is power and Yves is the most powerful one out there.

You might or might not find it strange that he defies the common trope of hating his in-laws. Yves gets along with your parents well, maybe a bit too well. There is an 'off' aura to each interaction; he also makes a beeline to his office when he gets back home, claiming that he was contacted for work.

Obviously, he was transcribing what was recorded and organizing them, to improve his predictive algorithm.

One thing that you may be worried about, would he secretly judge you for liking this one thing, for doing a particular activity your own special way, and disliking something he likes? No. Yves is humble, who is he to pass judgment? He is lucid enough to know that he's not at all normal. Nothing about you irks him, data is data. You may have dated before him. Maybe during with him. But he remains neutral, it just means some hypotheses are either proven or disproven. Does that mean he will not get jealous? No, he can turn into a green-eyed monster of envy. However, he has full control over all aspects of his life, even his feelings. It may not be easy, but he is fully capable.

He does consider cheating as a major betrayal and disrespect, as he ensures that the both of you had the talk, discussing what is considered acceptable and what isn't. But he never let his emotions take him over. Yves remains cold and calculating as ever. Depending on your personality, he could either confront you and come to a compromise- and update your records, or he could simply eradicate the nuisance- and update your records. Yves is a strong believer that your actions were bad, but it does not mean that you are a bad person, And you could grow from it. He words his thoughts very carefully here, guaranteeing that he doesn't label your entire being as evil. Your actions are separate from your inherent value.

Everything he does is according to your nature and what works most effectively. His goal is never to punish you for wrongdoing, it's always to love you unconditionally while advocating for himself.

Even if he has tears rolling down his cheeks upon setting sights on the surveillance camera footage that confirms your adultery.

He would be badly hurt, the pain searing through every unit of life in his body. However, Yves would still love you the same and care for you to the best of his abilities. He just needs you to understand that it is not acceptable.

If it takes brutally dismembering your lover in front of you to teach you that lesson, so be it. Let the filth smear his expensive clothes. Let the blood paint his lips even redder. Let his tears wash the smear of viscera away from his face.

Your screams will be data to him. Your hyperventilation, heart rate, and blood pressure shall be the baseline wherein you're experiencing an extremely traumatic event. It will improve his prediction.

When that's all done and over with, he will assess the situation. Have you learned anything? Do you feel regret or remorse? Will you do it again? Will you break his faith once more by outing his crimes to the public?

Once Yves is satisfied with the outcome, he will give you a tight, comforting hug. Thanking you for enduring that and appreciating your genuine apologies. This is only if he is absolutely sure he achieved what he wanted.

But thankfully, that is unlikely to happen. As you wouldn't cheat, correct? You know better. You know very well that isn't a good idea to cheat on your personal mind reader.

As long as you're kind, in line, and faithful, you will have a wonderful, fulfilling life with Yves. All the ugly, unsightly parts of him will remain hidden in the shadows. He will conceal his eyes, giving you that sense of normalcy in day-to-day life while monitoring your every step and breath. Like a magic trick, the magic lies in not knowing how the trick works.

But unlike knowing the ruses of a magic trick, you will be horrified to learn about Yves's clandestine machinations.

Don't ruin a good thing for yourself.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #tw gore #tw blood #tw yandere #tw infantilization #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #tw reader cheating #oc yves

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pampanope · 5 months

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Graves Headcanons from Shadows’ POV (Part 1):

((Or, i wanna share some silly hc in this format in between all the art stuff • 3•))

Every Shadow, from the grizzled Spec Ops operator to the fresh faced civilian, no matter what background or experience, always had Graves as that one topic of gossip they turned to when things got too slow.

It’s become both habit and sport to catalog every detail of their Commander and then discuss their findings in a twisted peer review, preferably with alcohol involved, as if gathering intel on a high value target before the op.

Through the years it had been tradition for Elder Shadows to pass on Graves ‘lore’ to the newest Shadows and encourage them to take up the hobby of Graves Watching (it’s effective observation training, you see…if you happen to catch feelings for the boss, well, it’s par for the course)

There’s a ‘published’ (a fat binder of loose leaf) Graves Manual floating around,(bland cover and backing and with dick doodles all over for extra camouflage, pockets full of photos of the Commander from various angles) on base with multiple entries:

- first notable observation: Graves is fucking pretty. Too pretty (and relatively young) to be head of a band of mercenaries. And he knows he’s pretty (been seen smirking at tongue tied, blushing baby Shadows and civilians alike). Rival PMCs and militaries, on the rare chance SC has to cooperate with them, would ogle in envy as the Commander strutted around and barked orders in his tight preferred BDUs (the Shadows preen with pride at this. Every. Damn. Time)

- Graves is every bit the outspoken Texas stereotype. He’s loud, worships at the alter of Texas Barbecue, an avid Dallas Cowboys fan (staff found a jersey in his closet), had been winning gun competitions since he was old enough to compete (off-hand boast from the man himself) and blasts country music both out of love for the genre and out of sadistic spite (Every cookout. The trick is to get a stealthy Shadow to switch playlists while Graves is busy grilling)

- but he’s also been observed waiting for his Shadows to finish speaking, listening intently with full on eye contact (a bit overwhelming for the newbies). He prefers to workout in the evenings, alone, when everyone else would be in the rec rooms or asleep. He’ll take his tablet up to the roof and work in solitude drafting tedious emails or planning a difficult op. There are days, when nothing of note is scheduled, when he’ll almost retreat into himself and bask in the Company’s presence instead of engage.

- it’s this duality that started the Shadows’ fixation on Graves: a pretty loudmouth with Depth (the Shadows chuckled over this description but it was true dammit)

-the man is tight lipped about his childhood and family; braver Shadows have asked but were diverted to other topics or out right shut down (Note: more data needed on this!)

-his personal quarters are spotless and put together (bed made with sheets tightly tucked in, boots shined and neatly placed, everything in its place), his meeting room where he entertains clients is pristine and posh in furnishings, and yet his work office is an utter disaster, organized chaos is a charitable descriptor.

-the Shadows conclude each room represents a facet of the man; the orderly quarters is habit driven from years as a Marine, the opulent meeting room is the face of a successful CEO he wants to present to the world, and his work room, the one filled with binders, reports, coffee stains, knick knacks from his Shadows, is the realest representation of Graves out of the three, the Graves only they were privy to (high fives were exchanged over this big brain discovery, the Shadow who posited this theory was promptly dog piled)

((More to come, just wanted to vomit out these ✨t h o u g h t s✨))

#new to writing but this was fun!#phillip graves #shadow company #call of duty #mwii #mwiii #thoughts #my stuff

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keepingeahalive · 10 months

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Hunter Huntsman Headcanons

His full name is Hunter Huntley Huntsman.

Came out as trans in his early teens. His family was “supportive” in the sense that they allowed it. But his father only let him transition under the expectation that he “act like a man”.

This might as well be canon, though: He can’t name anything for shoat. I mean, “Hunter Huntsman”?! I can’t imagine that either of his parents would be dumb enough to name him that. But some young trans kid? Yes. (Also, in True Hearts Day, he couldn’t even come up with a creative fake name. Gunter Guntsman?!? He put it on his GOSHDARN COFFEE!!!)

He also cut his own hair. He saw it on a band poster and wanted to be like them. No one has the heart to tell him that his haircut…it’s not good.

All the women in his family are named after plants and shades of green, while all the men are named after marksmen titles or weapons.

Because he and Ashlynn are both trans, he feels like she is the only one who knows what he’s going through. He has to constantly hide parts of himself to fit in, but he can be himself completely around her.

He’s an empathetic person. This was always discouraged by his father, who is very much a “man’s man”.

He is great with kids but doesn’t want any of his own. He doesn’t feel like he can handle the responsibilities of being a father. But he’s glad to take anyone else’s kids or younger siblings if it means not keeping them forever.

He loves his baby sister Fern, but he can’t play with her without his father calling him a “hypocrite”. He wasn’t even allowed to hold her when she was born.

He loves movies, mainly comedies and adventure films. He’ll watch a scary movie when his friends want to, but he doesn’t always understand them.

He hangs out with Dexter when he isn’t with Ashlynn. They play video games together.

He and Cedar are partners in Woodshop.

He’s a decent musician. He’s able to play the flute and the mandolin.

He’s very claustrophobic.

Hunter and his mother used to be close. As he grew up and transitioned, they spent less time together. Hunter’s dad took over a lot of the bonding time. But, even still, Hunter believes his mom resents him for transitioning. This feeling only grew stronger after Fern was born.

He has a lot of scars. Hunting can be dangerous, and Hunter’s made his fair share of mistakes going on hunting parties with his dad.

He has an incredibly high spice tolerance. His mom always made spicy food, so he’s used to it. It’s not his favorite though. He prefers salty organic snacks like seaweed chips.

He has a habit of dramatically ripping his shirt off (he wears a skin-colored binder) which causes trumpets to sound. He has no idea where those trumpets are, and he’s a bit scared.

He is very athletic, but his favorite physical activity outside of archery is cheerhexing. He’s usually the one cheering the hardest when Ashlynn is on the field.

Hunter hides a lot from his family: The fact that he hates hunting animals, that he’s vegan, that he’s on the cheerhexing squad, even dating Ashlynn. He loves the idea of being a hero, but he constantly has to put up a manly front to prevent disappointing his family.

#eah #ever after high #ever after high headcanons #hunter huntsman #eah hunter #lgbtq #trans ftm

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punk-in-docs · 2 years

Text

🕷Wolf Men & Secret Heists🕷

Eddie Munson x Reader

9.2k words.

Behind closed doors and locked in shadows. Woven in between all these things, it seems a great burning crush is being harboured in the pair of your huge hearts.

“Hey.” You breathe. You almost sound nervous. You hate that you do.

In the half dark you can see Eddie’s eyes look stunning black. Big pretty tar pits that tug. His grin flicks into white.

“Hey.” He answers back.

Trying not to trip over where he stood. He’s certain you’d be able to hear the way his heart is pounding his ribs so hard, like it’s rattling against the barred window of his bones.

Or;

You and Eddie enjoy a rendezvous in a storage closet at school. Some inevitably dirty stuff happens-

Warning: There is smut in this! Fingering /sex references and all manner of dirty talk. follow the rest of the Super Freak series here-

Heels that click and clack on lino. That’s how you know your friend has arrived. She’s stomping up to your locker and to no one’s surprise- first thing she does?

She whines.

All scary padded shoulders in her bleached denim jacket glittering with rhinestones. Neon blonde hair piled up and bouncing. Plastic pink hoops rattle in her ears.

“My life stinks. I woke up with a zit on my chin. And I think I’m getting a fat ass.” Linda slumps against your locker with a scowl like her world simply must be ending.

“Good morning is the more traditional greeting.” You comment.

Side eyeing her, as you move her aside with your binder, to wrench open your locker. Actually getting some books out to do some learning.

She didn’t even bother to look pleased at the fact you were back and feeling much better- by the way. So nothing much had changed there.

Linda was still her vacuous-poison slinging self. School was the ever steady same. A crush of gossip, hormones, pooling levels of geekdom, and elitist social strata.

Your world was back to rights, so it seemed.

You rummaged in your locker for your weighty English textbooks. Linda shoved a stick of pink gum in her mouth. Shrewdly eyed you up and down as she slowly chewed. Judging you from under those periwinkle eye-shadowed lids. Long flick of mascara on her lashes. Neon pink heavily dusted on her cheekbones.

“Why do you look different?” She asks you with one raised brow. Trying to put her manicured finger on it.

“Do I?” You comment. Knowing full well you do. Maybe you allow yourself a small mercy of a half smile at that.

You’d left your hair down. Sprayed perfume on your wrists and neck again. Prettied up more than you would for school usually. Dare you say it, you’d even put on mascara this morning. Just a little indulgence.

You’d wanted to rectify the situation; the last time he saw you, would leave him the lingering memory of unshaved legs, untamed bed hair, and snoopy shorts. And you probably looked green from being sick.

You felt this outfit was a must, to clear the air. So to speak.

You’d dived submariner level deep into the back of your closet to find this dress. A simple cream button up with red flowers swirled all over. Little cute climbing roses. You wore it with just your white socks and your old sneakers.

Right day for a dress outside. It was that soupy kinda Indiana day that lingered, pressing sunshine down with stuffy mugginess.

You keep the real reason you’d prettied up very close to your chest. She’s already checking her hair in her compact. Despite the fact she probably checked it five seconds ago before climbing out Jonny’s wagon of a car.

“Laundry day?” Linda asked with a staining tone of judgement at the end of her question. Eyes on her own reflection. Not turned to you.

“Yeah.” You beam. Because it was easy to sway her. And that padded lie was far more preferable to the truth. Not that she’d bother at all.

You didn’t, couldn’t, pique her interest unless gossip or bitching was involved. You mainly leave that acidic, razor-studded ball in her court.

You missed the old Linda sometimes. That Linda.

The goof she’d been before High School and it’s noxious halls grabbed a hold of her. She used to love books. Nerdishly so. Always with the books. Wore a bright yellow camp fun time t-shirt and used to adore thrashing around your room to your Romeo Void cassettes. The way she used to chug a coke and burp afterwards cause she didn’t give a shit if it wasn’t ladylike.

Then it was like someone flipped a switch halfway through your freshman year.

Suddenly she was all about what was the right table to sit at. Worried about being visible. Started ranting about cute purses and funky tight pucci tops. The right clothes she went broke trying to buy, to stay current. Cause ew vintage clothes. What the fuck. This isn’t the 70’s anymore grandma.

She compromised instantly on who she would be. She grew up, apparently. You like to think you never did take that full compromise.

You missed the same scruffy kid as you. Joined at the hip like twins. With her mousy brunette and un-permed hair (shocking, unthinkable) the way she wore scuffed muddy kneed jeans and sneakers to school like you, and boys had been a distant and irritating spec on her radar.

The way she got more and more hung up on hot pink nail polish, hormones and chasing after scoring beer and trashy sex. How she’d rather be flipping through glossy fashion magazines and gossip columns than her actual studies.

Your friend, who she was in the before, would have been straight round to you like a shot, once upon a time if you’d been sick. Or not at school for even one class. She’d whine at you, and irritate, until you felt better.

She’d have slung her ass over to yours in an instant, burst through the door to raid your fridge. Sat criss cross applesauce on your bedroom carpet throwing flowery pillows and your teddies at you, because she was bored at school on her own. And how dare you-

Now all she wanted to do was pop pink bubbles of gum on the sidelines of her boyfriends basketball games, and natter away to preppy airhead cheerleaders, rather than put any effort into her own life.

She became the bitchy stooge you’d always sworn to hate when you were little kids. Erecting makeshift tents in your bedrooms and telling ghost stories.

No rectifying it now. She’s in way too over her permed head. Drawn to the dark side.

Her life now is lipsticks, new mini skirts, and blowjobs. And she revolves around her thug boyfriend like one of Jupiter’s moons. Heaven forfend she ever falls out of orbit.

You mourn it for a second. Looking at her inspecting her one very small zit, probing a finger to it, like its satan’s own hell spawn nesting on her face.

“I should be in fucking Notre Dame bell tower.” She grumps.

You dig in your locker some more. Shake your head with a sigh. Strong arming all your books in hand. Hunting for the one for your chemistry class that began in ten minutes. You shift stuff onto your hip.

“Paper bag over your head?” You suggest.

She scoffs at you. “Nice.” Knocks her elbow into your locker door to hit it up against you.

A shadow brushes past you. A disgusting greasy wash of assaulting Paco Rabanne stinks up the air. All spice and wood, overpowering.

You fight to roll your eyes. Her revolting boyfriend lumbered past you. All cologne and seriously no braincells.

“Baby.” She chirps all sweet. Demeanour swirling into sugary sweetness. They’re acting like they didn’t just see each other two minutes ago.

“Hey.” He gives her that lopsided too white grin.

She folds her arms out for him and he kisses her right up against the locker door. Tongue noises and mouthing, sucking making you feel suddenly like vomiting again. That wasn’t kissing. It was like he was trying to swallow her. Suck parts of her face off in slurpy chunks.

“What you doing after school tonight?” He asks close to her ear but loud enough for all to hear.

“You, probably.” She flirts. Eyeing him like he was a full steak dinner. Dragging her sharp nails down his letterman.

“Christ.” You wince in revulsion. They resume tangling and knotting their tongues.

“Can we help you?” Linda asks when they stop sucking face. Having heard your gripes. Her lips were red swollen already.

You glare, boredly. “Yes. Give me a larger sphere of personal space. Couple of hundred miles should do.”

“What’s up your ass, Picasso?” Jonny asks as he splays a hand against the locker near her shoulder. Her spit is gleaming wet on his lips. Charming.

He used that really clever arty nickname he’s assigned to you. You half wonder if it’s because he hasn’t got the mental acuity to learn your name. Or if he even bothered to know it. Probably couldn’t even spell it-

“No one as per usual.” Linda sighs in a cruel little jab.

You bite back the strong urge to kick her in the leg. You really do bite your tongue so hard it stings. You wanna shout:

Eddie Munson. That’s who, Linda. Eddie goddamn freak fucking Munson is currently so far up my ass. Matter of fact, he’s so balls deep I can feel his cock tickling in my throat. Kay?

If only you could say those words aloud. Open up your mouth and let them tumble past your teeth, unfurl from the bed of your tongue.

You could only imagine. Their faces would be pure comedy gold reacting to that news. You’d walk down these halls cackling and blast the finger at them.

Jonny pipes up to you.

“I got a buddy, Derek, whose looking for a date to the game. You’re like, kinda his type.” He offers up to you. Eyeing your chest when he remembered his buddy said something about liking big tits.

Your eyes sharpen with frost creeping in at the corners.

“I’d rather lick a filthy toilet bowl. Thank you.” You beam all sweet. Venom punctuating your smile.

“She doesn’t date jocks. Her idea of a hot date is a library group study session.” Linda explains.

Yes. That’s my idea of a blistering hot foursome, you think.

“Hey. The head librarian is a total hot fox. Maybe tonight is the night I’ll finally score.” You play around. Waggle your brows.

“Shit. You eat beaver?” Jonny asks dumbly. Laugh grazed on his voice.

You make a disgusted face. Of course that’s a sick term only a meat head jock would use.

“That would explain so much.” Linda tilts her head at you meanly. He mutters something to her and she laughs.

“Glad I can amuse.” You scathe.

They smile all bratty together, not listening to you, and then they go back to their mating ritual. She wraps her arm around his neck. Mussing those sweaty looking blonde curls of his.

They finally break apart. He’s wearing so much of her waxy pink lipstick. “I’ll swing by for you around seven- wear that pink thing I like.” He asks.

She giggles all squeaky. They kiss. Again.

You feel like you’re watching an exhibit at the zoo enclosure. Gag.

You shut your locker. You’ve heard enough. “See you in class. If you can remember to stop humping.”

They don’t even hear you. Rolling your eyes. They’d only break apart with brute force. Or if a teacher walks past and throws the safe sex advice at their backs. Telling them to disperse. This isn’t a brothel.

You start down the halls and away from hormone-and-braincell-dead central. Leaving them to it. You clutch your books and weave past people.

And you’re suddenly awfully cheered. Perked up by the sight a few locker rows down from you. Why, it’s your favourite ever metal head.

Eddie has his head shoved in his locker. Up on his tippy toes rifling through for something. Scooping his hand right to the back.

You know just from essences of his character you’d already gleaned, that his locker would be an absolute garbage tip.

Littered with trinkets and random mementos. DND dice. A pack of playing cards. A dead can of spray paint in chilli neon red. Cool pebbles or stones he’d found outside the trailer. Odd pencils and plastic figurines from cereal boxes and his Hellfire club. Loose erasers. Pencil shavings. Broken Metal cassettes.

Possibly long forgotten school text books, lost in amongst crumpled leafs of odd paper, scored with old ideas for campaigns. Old purple and red sharpies and dead ones he doesn’t use anymore but clings onto them anyway. For god knows whatever reason-

When you scoot up to his side and tap him gently on the leather shoulder. He shoots five feet in the air, like a startled firework that’s just been let off.

Bless the boy. You made him screech and jump. He jerks back and his shoulder slams into his open locker door.

He splays his ringed hand wide over his raging heart and calms when he sees it’s you. Huge puddles of muddy brown he has for eyes widened, big as saucers. Now they relax when he falls onto the shape of you.

Ceases screeching when he does see it’s you. Smile curls up the side of his mouth instead.

Cause, Holy shit, it’s you.

His voice breaks on the first word when he speaks. “Jesus fucking christ of Nazareth, Pencils.”

You flinch. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you Munson.”

He leans against his locker for support and laughs under his breath. “Holy hell. I’m not used to that. How stealthily do you move around. My god-“

His eyes fix onto yours. Eye contact that sets shimmers living inside your skin.

“I never considered myself as particularly covert.” You offer.

“Honey. Trust me. You could work for the CIA.”

You preen a little with the way he calls you honey.

“Not sure I’m entirely what they’re looking for you know.” You tilt your head and smile.

He smiles back. It’s magnetic.

Your smile just pulls things out of him. Cute sweet things like fluffy pink kittens and rose petals. He looks at you and it’s like, maybe it’s stupid as shit, but he feels like someone has finally found him.

“You didn’t die. I’m so relieved. You’re feeling better?” He asks all curious as he shuts his locker door.

Violet purple sharpie in hand. He uses the shutting of his door, as an excuse to sidle up close to your side.

You’re not going anywhere. You sought him out. Stood holding your books and talking to him and- god. This is like the fucking high school romance in some tacky movie. And he’s the lead.

You’re wearing a dress. He makes his twitchy eyes focus on your face. Because he’s so tempted to let his eyes soak and swim up and down the rest of you. And he’s trying so much not to act like a sexual slobbering deviant with you nearby.

Your hair was down. So pretty. It looked so soft. He bet it still smelled gorgeous too. Still wearing that tropical sweet bite of coconut from before. Your legs were bare and you wore your paint spattered sneakers. Sweet little red roses swirled on your dress.

“Much better actually. I had one hell of a great nurse.” You lean in an tease him a little.

“Florence.” You smile, saying it lowly.

He blushed. Dear god, how he blushed at that praise. His cheeks filled ruddy with it.

You realise you’ve caught him off guard and hooked this bizarre vulnerability out of him. Keeping him caught on his toes. Literally.

He bites his lip. “Yeah but I can’t promise I’d look good in nurses uniform, pencils.” He winced at the thought.

“I think you’d pull it off nicely.” You assume. He chuckles.

“Don’t think I have the equipment to fill it out.” He grins as he twirls the sharpie in his hand.

Nerves. Just silly infatuated nerves. He picks idly at the peeling metal stickers on his locker door with a thumb nail.

You’re stood near his locker in public, in full view of the eyes of everyone in this hallway. You’re here, you’re so cool about it. In ways he can’t be.

Stood there all cute, and there’s your perfume sneaking across to him like oranges and petals, and there’s flirting skated on your voice and your smile- holy fuck.

He didn’t think you’d want to openly come up to him in front of everyone like this. He’s so happy he’s not listening to those fetid bear traps of usual Munson anxiety littered in his head.

You want to kiss him so badly right now it’s driving you into madness. When his tongue darted out to wet his lips. You follow the movement almost hungrily. Those heaven looking lips. Now you’re feeling better, you can’t ignore it in this close vicinity.

You want Eddie.

And the look he returns back, seems like a full reciprocation on those wants.

“How’s our respective friend the dragon doing?” He asks. Otherwise he’ll just blush and stare at your lips.

He tries not to skate his eyes over your scooped neckline (he fails) He can’t help it. He’s a simple man composed of hormones and he’s dying, actually slowly crawling to a painful death, to see more of you under that dress.

“Currently wrapped around her ogre of a boyfriend.” You nudge your head over your shoulder. He peers.

“Ew. Now that’s gotta be unsanitary.” He drags his eyes down the lockers and quickly sees exactly what you meanHe puts one hand on his hip. Is very quick to focus his eyes back on you. Fuck that noise. You’re by far a prettier sight to rest his eyes on.

“They won’t need to show sex ed classes anymore. They’re one strawberry flavoured condom away from putting on a little dirty show.” You smirk. Pure horror at the notion etched on your face

Eddie smirks all wide in agreement. “And in the hallways too.” He tutts like a scandalised nun.

“Have they no shame?” He asks you in faked affronted mockery.

“Should try carpooling with her. Her hand so far up his leg it borders on a porno shoot.” You shudder.

“Your poor eyes.” He says worriedly. He does worry for them. You’d have to scrub that image away with stinging water and soap. Maybe he could help. Nurse Munson and all that-

He shoots forwards and cups the side of your head like he could pull out the foul memory by osmosis alone.

His warm hand on your head fired up so much passion in your blood. Your veins skip and pop and sing with the bliss of his touch. It’s insane.

There’s that tender eye contact again. The one that feels like the start of a wildfire in your heart. Swirls up and swells, desolated everything in it’s wake. Both bursting with things unsaid. Things you want to be done-

Undone is more like it.

You’re fully ready to admit you would like to be the one wrapped around Eddie this hallway with your horny tongues down each other’s throats. Hands crammed in back blue jean pockets. One last hickie before the class bell goes.

“Hey uhm. Do you have a free period today?” You ask him. Curious smile.

You’re shuffling things in your hands. You bring a pencil out the tucked pocket of your binder. Yellow legal pad on top of your pile.

“Mmmm. Maybe I’ve a three third. Why’s that?” He plays with you. Smiling at you with cheekiness all smug on his amused mouth.

Your smile grows to hear it. “Oh nothing big. I thought we could uh, don some rubber face masks and pull a bank job that’s all.”

He bubbles up with laughter. That straight shiny grin of his you’re head over heels for.

“Hey I call dibs on wolfman mask. Alright?”

He then howls a loud ‘Aroooooooo’ which makes the poor kid walking along next to you to stumble back into someone else, all skittish. Almost caused a pile up in the crushing throng of bodies walking past.

You both giggle about it when the poor kid can’t zoom away down the hall fast enough to get away from you.

“Another great movie by the way. I watched it so much as a kid I think Wayne thought I’d go nocturnal, sprout fur and fangs, and eat sheep on Friday nights.”

You chuckle. “Well. You know. A hobby is a hobby. He shouldn’t judge.”

“And I guess that leaves me with the choice of Clown mask or Michael Myers.” You decide. Tilting your head.

“I think you could pull it off pencils.” He flirts. “I have faith in your abilities.”

“So where we running to after this heist? I assume we’ll have to go underground. Assume new identities. Or hell. Let’s leave the country. Spend our spoils.” He narrows his eyes. Plays along.

“Ah see. I thought Tijuana.” You offer up.

He points at you. Brows raised under those bangs like he’s considering it. “I like Tequila. Let’s go for it.”

“Probably shouldn’t keep discussing it out in the open. Loose lips sink ships.” You warn.

“Honey, everyone here is not even paying the slightest attention to us. Not with Malibu Barbie and Ken putting on their National geographic reproduction special down there.”

As he turns and rants, you decide to surprise him by leaning right in and smacking a kiss right into his cheek. Up on your tiptoes to reach him. Apples and cigarettes mingled with old leather. Smoky scent of Eddie.

The look on his face: utterly priceless. Cheeks flaming red. Eyes stuck on you.

When you bite your lip still smirking and scribble on your pad of paper. Eddie thinks his heart may be about to actually fucking grind to a stop.

He needed a nurse now. Goddammit. A nurse. A cigarette. Defibrillator. A cold beer. In that order.

He thought it would be the booze or cigarettes that would get him, one day. Or the way he drives, that borders on escaped lunatic driven to maniacal suicide. But oh no.

It’s you that’s gonna get him. Gonna pump his pathetic little heart off it’s mortal coil.

Eddie, my boy. It’s always the pretty ones that will try and kill you.

He feels like his little overwhelmed heart is one large throbbing entity now ruling his entire freakin body.

Your stood so close your books almost brush into his chest where you hold them. Where you look down and scribble on your paper. You tear off the bottom of the paper and hand him the jagged slip.

“So. Maybe in your free, you can meet me. Here.” You tap the end your pencil to the paper you pressed into his hands.

He looks down at your neat loopy hand. Definitely had an artist’s slant about it. You’ve written directions on there;

Art department. Down the corridor. Closet opposite the Degas ballet rehearsal poster.

Eddies eyes flick back up to you. “Closet huh?”

He remembers with alarming alacrity what happened the last time the pair of you were in an enclosed dark space. Hands wandered and there was an insanely hot amount of making out.

He’d had that thought of you with fever hot hands on him peppered through his dreams for the last week. He may have jerked off to the memory of it a couple times. Hence why he’s just falling to pieces right here in front of you, now.

You offer a flirty look right back. Boldly you meet his gaze. “All heists should be planned in secret. And storage closets are kind of our thing now.”

“Damn. We have a thing.” He shakes his head at you. “Smooth talker.”

You blush and look down as you laugh at his crass joke. Maybe that’s exactly what you hoped.

Eddie is struggling to believe he’s the one to pull a blush out of a girl merely with his words. That’s never happened to him before. He liked the hell out of it.

“Count me in, I’ll be there.” He tucks the slip of paper in his pocket. Patting it after. Safe keeping. Breast pocket. Stuffed right close to his heart.

You nod. “Good. Because. Uh-“ You step right in and whisper those words to him. “I’ve been thinking about you a stupid unhealthy crazy amount.” You confess.

“That absolutely makes two of us.” He meets you head on in this crush.

“So I can’t be held responsible for my damages when I get you alone in the dark, again Munson.”

Eddie nearly falls over. And he’s stood leaning against a very hard, very solid stationary surface.

And he’s thought about some very very filthy shit with regards to you and darkened spaces. Things involving his bandanna tied around your eyes. Or binding your wrists. He thought about sucking and biting on your neck to hear more of those delicious yelps.

He thought about kissing you to absolute air starved death. About anything and every which way you could enjoy twisty hot n’ heavy sex, in numerous wild positions.

He swallows right now. And he really, reallyhas to fight the urge to shove his mouth onto yours, right here, and now. He wants to taste you. Slam your back to this locker and shove his tongue in the smiling cup of your mouth.

He wants under your dress. Pawing at you like a pervert. He feels like some parts of him will never recover from this. Ever.

“Goddamn pencils.” He whispers to you lowly. He almost moaned it. It shot straight to your gut. Lightning zap powerful.

Those dazzling chocolate drop eyes. He looks drunk with you. Hungry for you.

The shrill school Bell cuts into your heated atmosphere. You bite your lip and hate that you have to step back. More distance that you didn’t want or need. Fuck.

“See you there?” You step away. Voice laced with hope.

He’d tug you along there right now if he could.

“You betcha sweet lips I’ll see you there.” He grins. It’s maniacal and so sexy of him.

You join the crowds and melt into them as you walk away. Unable to resist leaving him with a smile flicked over your shoulder.

When you get back to Linda she didn’t even know you’d gone.

Eddie watches you the whole time before he had to peel his eyes away, and turn his mind to definitely less important things. Picking through crowds for you.

Mirrors on the ceiling. Pink champagne on ice. Welcome to Hotel California. Ready a room for one please-

Cause it’s sappy as fuck, he’s well aware, but he never wants to check out of or quit this feeling you leave in him. He’s scrounging for more. Always more. Hopefully come his free he can have it.

Free period better hurry it’s ass along-

Ballerinas. Where the ever living fuck were these damn ballerinas.

Eddie wanders along the arty corridors. Looking very out of place as he had done the last time. Paper scrunched in his clammy palms. Golden ticket.

When people appear walking the other way, heading for him, he ducks and squirrels it over to the nearest display. Hair whipping behind him. Wallet chain tapping his Jean thigh.

Pretends to be very seriously studying the artwork pinned to the cork boards on the walls. Graphite smudged fruit bowls. Interesting

Hands behind his back. Peering around at the people shuffling past him.

They continue on down the hall with their sketchbooks in hand. Bumping into each other and telling jokes and utterly engulfed in their conversation.

They don’t give him so much as a cursory glance. Like he’s suddenly melded as one with the walls. All the better.

He stands with his hands behind his back and leans back from his hips. Swaying to watch them walk away and stoutly ignore the lingering metal head.

When they disappear out the doors, he’s on the move before they’re even ripped out of sight. Trying to be stealthy and quick about this. He scurries along like a scampering cat. Worried a teacher is gonna catch him and then he’s gonna have to slink his sorry ass outta here.

Zips at top speed down the hallways. Nimble on his sneakered feet. Most of the classroom doors were shut. Noise happening behind them. Art classes being dictated. Creations flourishing under tip of graphite pencil scraping on paper.

The humming whirl of pottery wheels down at the end of the hall. That same smell of sticky old paint and dry clay dust. Sad pot plant table to the side again. In all its droopy unloved glory.

Posters with names of artists he’s never heard of whizz him by. His eyes pick apart every one. Blue almond branches all twisted and nutty brown. Not the one he needsthough-

“Ballerinas.” He hums to himself.

Tutus and plié’s and all that shit. Eyes speedily scanning the walls. Flicking around in the way that makes him look manic. And then-

He sees it. Inconspicuously tacked to the wall. Mouldy mustard walls on a drab background only punctuated with the milky blue light of ballet dancers. He grins as he shoves the paper back in his pocket.

His eyes flick from that poster to the door opposite. Shabby old thing. The old sign on it looked weathered. Bold printed letters that read ‘Storage.’ He bites his lower lip in a smile.

Bingo, baby.

He’s at the door like a flash. Twisting his head around shoulder to shoulder to see if there’s anyone. Hair whipping around his eager face.

He shoves that handle so hard and slips inside the closet, it’s a wonder he didn’t break the thing.

His eyes adjust to the darkness inside. There’s old drying racks. Shelves for storage. Old paint tins. Old cloth canvases. Rolled up painted scenery curtains from the canteen stage, bunched up to one side. Dusted in spiderwebs and forgotten. Some wash of blue dotted with snow from a Nativity scene. Some foggy green garden from a tenth grade Shakespeare play from long ago.

He steps forwards. Eyes fading comfortably into the darkness. And there you are.

You’d put watermelon lip smacker on. Fluffed your hair. Rubbed a little dribble of perfume at your wrists.

Biting your lip all nervous and fiddling with your skirt. Floundering on the spot at the end by a low bench table. The space seems to be crushing down on you both. The realisation you’re truly alone again comes stifling as a vice.

Behind closed doors and locked in shadows. Woven in between all these things, it seems a great burning crush is being harboured in the pair of your huge hearts.

“Hey.” You breathe. You almost sound nervous. You hate that you do.

In the half dark you can see Eddie’s eyes look stunning black. Big pretty tar pits that tug. His grin flicks into white.

“Hey.” He answers back.

Trying not to trip over where he stood. He’s certain you’d be able to hear the way his heart is pounding his ribs so hard, like it’s rattling against the barred window of his bones.

“Funny seeing you in here.” He comments. That flash of his bone dry wryness rearing its head. He picks his way through the dark to you. Hands lingering on his hips.

He sees the smirk it draws from you. Eyes glitter in the dim.

“Yeah. Often hang out in here on the off chance someone wanders in.” You shrugged. Humour laced your voice.

“Like a spider, building her clever web.” Eddie widens his eyes.

Swaggers nearer to you. Closing in. His stomach tightens in want with every step his legs eat up.

“Very metal. Very sexy.” He adds. Tilting his head and his smirk at you. He hears how that made your breath hitch.

“Guess that makes you my prey then doesn’t it?” You tease.

He’s one step away. Moving closer to you in that dancy-swirly way he does. Other people walk. You’d have to come up with a whole new word for the way Eddie Munson moves.

“Oh. Happily baby.” He drawls. He’s right in front of you.

Your breath is getting scarce. Lungs shrinking in your chest like weedy little deflated balloons.

The eye contact can only be described as the most insanely hot thing you’ve ever felt. Tugging yanking warm static bursting in your belly.

“You uh. You, look really pretty today, by the way.” He says so earnestly. Makes your heart squeeze and flip. Your cheeks are blood hot. Rushing full with it.

He gently places a comfortable hand over your hipbone. Eyes glued to yours to check this is ok. Every inch he covers he’ll always be checking that it fits safely into the parameters of your boundaries.

“Better than snoopy bed shorts?” You ask.

“I’m a fan of both. As I believe I said once, it’s not your clothes I’m looking at. It’s the girl under them.”

“That’s sweet.” You beam.

He slides fowards. Hips crushed to yours. You cup the side of his cheek. Feeling the slight push of stubble. His hands smoothed over your hips. Settled back on the dip of you there.

“Although- I’d quite like to see more of the girl under them too. Key word being, under.” He flirts boldly.

“Stop talking already and kiss me, Munson.” You laugh.

“See, your cunning plan of lying in wait worked, Ms. Black widow. You got me…”

Because even when he’s zoning in to kiss you, he still has to make noise about it. Of course. He’s like a heat lamp that never shuts up-

You shut him up indefinitely - or for who knows how long - not very long you bet - when you slant your smiling mouth across his.

Keeping him there as you smile against his mouth. Hand cupping the back of that wild haired head, the brain inside that seemingly that never stops churning.

Maybe you could make it still and calm for just a little while-

Eddie moans into your mouth and fully wraps you closer. Arms crossing over your back. Fully seating you inside the safe bands of his arms, crushed in the enclosure of his chest.

You stumble back and you pull him in with you. Arm around his neck and brushing that DIO patch. When you pull away to gasp for air, he wastes no time. Nosing at your neck to make your knees quake.

“I missed you like, an insane fucking amount, pencils.” He says inbetween mouthing at your jaw and under your ear. Kissing and sucking. Biting gently and soothing with his lips.

Your heart is slamming for attention in your hipbones. You’d let it slip from your memory how magical this boys lips are.

The night after he climbed out your window, when you woke up in the morning, alone. That hit hard. Of course you didn’t expect him to stay. But half of you wondered.

For just a second you pawed at the pillow next to you. Fingertips sinking into the worn old cotton. Still clinging with the scent of cigarettes and apples. Your chest swallowed up your heart cause- you just ached after him. Such a loud messy ball of kinetic energy that made such a pulsing groaning absence when he wasn’t there.

You wanted to just listen to him breathe down the phone to you. Spend hours and hours wasting time listening to the shuffle and shift crackle of the line and his manic laugh down the other end. Just making him break into a smile turns your whole day on it’s head. Tips you inside out and throws you round.

You can’t love him small. Or quietly. And you’ve never realised that before now. And that emotion is running into you now, headlong, like a fucking freight train.

“I missed you too.” You say. Clutching at his shoulders like you needed him to keep you rooted to this earth.

And your heart clenched cause it was so true it hurt. You’re almost in agony with it.

Sensing the neediness in your voice, he wraps you up in a kiss again. Each other’s spit skated on your lips.

It’s filthy and simply glorious.

“How much did you miss me?” He grins. All playful and toying with you even though your all wrapped up into him. Seeking quantifiable terms.

You pull his face in again and kiss him in a way you hope comes across as suitably needy answer.

This damn much, you dope.

Thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Fingertips sliding into his hair. He huffs in pleasure with the dirty way you kiss. Eyes rolling back in his head.

You’re kissing him open. Licking into his mouth. Finding his tongue with your own in a way that gets him hooked.

“Eddie.” You whine against his mouth. Almost whimper his name. Pressing it to his teeth.

Okay. His heart may actually fucking explode. Top of his head is gonna pop off like a champagne cork.

His hips roll onto you. Long slow roll. Languid smooth like bourbon. Pressing the start of a very hard erection into your belly. Stiff against his zipper.

His hands slip down your waist and he claws into the cheeks of your ass. You give him another one of those delicious sounding whines.

“Fuck.” Comes tumbling out his mouth when he realises he was grinding shamelessly into you. He shifts to pull back to say something-

“Shit-fuck- sorry, I didn’t uh mean to-”

He’s not going anywhere. Your hands yank into his lapels and then there’s this moan from you that spills into his mouth. You speak the words to his mouth. Sharing the same air. You give him a tangible direction he can follow.

“Fuck Eddie. Don’t stop.”

His knees almost give way. Thankfully, he’s got you to lean into.

“Mmm god fucking fuck, pencils the things I wanna do to you…” He mumbles. His voice dipping low and breaking with need as he grinds those hips into you once again.

“Yeah?” You smile when he ducks to hungrily suck at your neck again. “Why don’t you tell me about those things. I’d love to hear them.”

You cup his head. Let him wander all over you. Mashing your lips to his with no musicality. All hunger. But just anything anything anything for that graze of friction.

You reel him in and you’re winding your pelvis in a circle against his. He almost trembles with the pleasure of it. He groans into your lips and devours your mouth as you push your hips together.

“Filthy things. Wanna grab your tits and lick your nipples. I-oh Jesus. I wanna, hmm, finger you until you wet my whole hand, baby. Can’t get enough of you. I wanna get you off again and again.” He sighs.

His reward for his filthy wants is your hand sneaking to the front of his jeans and cupping his stiff bulge. His whole body jerks like a live wire shock.

“I want all of that.” You tell him. Matching him step for step in this desire. Your fingers spread out, cupping the whole length of him. Palming his balls too. The pain of it being through the denim is like a half sensation and to his shame it turns him on more.

“You got me thinking filthy too. I’ve dreamt about what it would be like for you to work your dick into me. Stretch me open.” Cause he feels girthy. Maybe you could have a flip side to this freak nickname. Sex freak.

“Shit.” He whines.

Closing his eyes against your neck. Ringed fingers wrapping right around your wrist. You got him almost drooling down your collarbone.

“Fuck baby, yeah. Touch me.” He murmurs desperately.

Guiding your hand to rub against his cock even harder. He almost choked when you fiddled and clunked with buckles to get his belt undone and slipped your hand inside. Stroking over the barrier of his underwear. His hips rutted to you.

You met that rhythm with winding thrusts and roll of your own hips. So damn good.

“You can touch me, too.” You tell him.

Oh god. You’re a dream. He’s dreaming. Slap him awake somebody-

And then before he can ever register fully what’s happening, you take his hand and slip it right up under your skirts.

Rest in peace to his little senseless head. His brain may aswell be melting out his ears by now.

“Damn. okay. Fuck.” He bites his lip all swirling with nerves and excitement.

He was never one to deny a lady in distress. And when you place his hand right over the crotch of your sopping hot cotton panties, he can’t quite believe his heart is still ticking. His breath shudders through his throat.

His stomach physically swoops like it’s riding a tilt-a-whirl when he scoops his fingers under the barrier of your panties and finds you so slick and hot. He runs two fingertips through plump gummy lips and his dick has never been this hard- he swears.

You gasp out when he sinks those fingers deeper.

“Sorry.” He pants. He stops. Desperate black eyes shining at you. Spit coating his raw pink lower lip. His rings must have been too cold against your pussy.

“It was a good moan.” You promise in a purr. Your nipples are skipping with electricity. So hard they fully ache for touch. His fingers felt amazing. You urge him on.

He slithers them deeper, curling up and slotting deep. Muffled his moan against your shoulder. Your hand cupping his balls. Those were pretty damn big too.

He feels drunk. Pumping his fingers into you, this feels better than any damn high he’s had.

“How do you- what do you like?” He manages to ask as he eyes the way his hand is bumping through your panties and your skirts. Rolling to your pussy in a comfortable pattern. But he needs to find out what it would take for you to cum.

That fact he’s so excitable, and yet still wanting to know what it will take for your orgasm, makes you clench down on him.

He bites his lip at the feeling of your pussy suddenly strangling his fingers. Shit that was hot.

You reach for his hand. His pressure was heavenly, but you fine tune the angle of his fingers. Sinking them deeper, getting him to curl them just a little more-

Then he finds that spot that makes a yelp fly out your mouth.

He smothers you with a smug kiss to shut you up. He does not wanna get caught by a teacher in a dark closet with his fingers halfway up your pussy.

“You wanna get us caught honey? Cause I sure as shit don’t. You got an orgasm to give me.” He grins with newfound confidence making him brave.

He slows and curls and stretched his fingers. Sloppy squelches begin to get louder and louder. You’re getting his fingers wetter and wetter. It’s addictive.

“Like that?” He asks, sloppy hot against your mouth. Tongue sticking your lower lip.

“Fuck yes.” You pant. Face screwing up into ecstasy. Brows pulling up in the middle. Mouth dropping open. Eyes rolling up.

You widen your legs and let him finger the hell out of you. And holy god it was so good.

You can feel the callused tips of his fingers decadently flicking that godforsaken spot deep in your walls.

The way his rings add an extra jolt of friction and another layer of texture against the mouth of your cunt. How you must be getting those things on his fingers so wet cause you’ve never been this sloppy or loud before.

Granted you’ve only done this to yourself a few times. You’ve achieved the main goal of course- to cum. But this is so much more pleasure somehow. His fingers are bigger and he’s taking the time to explore and learn you. It’s ridiculously sexy of him.

Your hands grab for him. Whining for more, for that extra touch that is guaranteed to get you there, you take his other hand and push his thumb into the soaking folds of your mons. Guiding him to find your clit.

When you gently swirl the pad of his thumb around it, you cry out loud again and it makes him throb in his jeans. Hips thrusting forwards to him.

His stomach clenched and knotted in want knowing he’s making you writhe in bliss on the ends of his fingers.

“Take what you need honey. So fucking pretty for me. Bet you look so pretty when you cum. Couldn’t stop thinking about that.” He kisses up your jaw. Cleverly using his thumb and two fingers to drive you insane.

He’s fully ready to admit he’s thought about you flushed and naked and sweaty in his stained bed. Maybe those wet stains would be from you.

He lived with you inside his eyelids at night, picturing you naked, as he was desperately squeezing and tugging his own cock and just trying to imagine the way you’d sigh his name and the way you’d taste on the bed of his tongue.

How it would feel to have you in your hands and knees for him in his bed. Nails on the wall scratching down his band posters. Cock buried so deep you’d hiccup sobs with it. His hands clawing your hips and ass as he slammed you down on his dick and felt you cum around him, shrieking his name like a curse, toes clenching.

Something shredding loud and filthy, A little Sabbath maybe, playing on his stereo to mask the broken sound of your cries. As he curled over your back and worked his cock into you.

“Eddie.” You whine for him. Voice a weak gaspy stutter. Spreading your legs around his hips as he stands closer. Pressing right in so he can kiss you.

“So wet for me baby. Think I’m gonna get my wish of you wetting my whole hand aren’t I?”

“Yeah- yeahyeah.” You can’t nod fast enough. Poor baby he’s got you drunk on the thrust and drag of his fingers.

He can’t help it. You’re frying his brain. He has to kiss you. Wants to swallow you while. He needs touch. Needs.

He wants your nipples grazing hard on his hot tongue. Soft tits mashed in his face. Your pussy he’s cupping in his hands. Your ass. Your lips. He fully needs every part of you cause that’s just the way he wants to love you. Love you to strangling death.

Your cries intensify. You’re close. Drawing closer.

“Oh god please say you can come over to my place one night. Please, pencils. I can’t take it if you don’t.” He mumbles against your open moaning mouth. Kissing you and shoving his tongue in your mouth.

You push yours to meet it dumbly. Nodding. You break away to gasp.

“Okay- don’t stop. When?” You manage to scrape together the braincells to ask.

“Whenever you want I don’t care, oh-shit you’re so hot.” He felt you squeeze down on him.

You’ve got him so good he’s babbling. “Whenever. Come over whenever. Stay the night. Stay the whole weekend. Stay forever-“

“Keep doing this and kissing me and I’ll never leave.” You say as you clash for a kiss again. Bodies rocking.

“I can do that.” He mumbles inbetween heavy breaths. Huge great smile on his lips.

Both Eddie’s hands working you so cleverly. You will say this for the boy, he may hate school, but he’s damn sure a quick study.

He doesn’t know what’s louder. Your moans, or the sloppy squelches he’s fucking out of you.

When you start to tremble and clap your hand over the back of his, his eyes don’t know where to land. He drinks in the way your face twists into an expression that almost looks like pain.

“Close. M’so fuckin close.” You warn him. Your voice is wounded.

“Shit. You cumming?” He checks.

Your answer is in the form of a cry. You can’t even form the words. They don’t make it out your mouth. You can only cry and shudder. The shape of his name ready to come out your mouth as you clench and clench-

Eddie mashes his mouth to yours. Hungrily kisses you though the shaking whirling torrent of your orgasm.

He drinks in your delicious whines and kisses your lips raw whilst you cum hard on his hand. His thumb slowly swirls to a stop on your clit. Wringing out every last burst of pleasure that he can. Ceases the hard thrusts of his fingers.

You did wet his hand after all. He can feel your slick coating his fingers. Some splashed down on his palm between the webs of his fingers.

He doesn’t even care that he didn’t get to finish. Watching you tumble headlong into bliss - because of him - was more than enough.

“Damn.” Eddie watches in rapt fascinated pleasure as you struggle for breath and your chest heaves.

The ends of your fingers tingling where you clutched his scratchy denim shoulders. Your head shot to little floaty scrunched stars and noisy crunching static.

“Holy f-“ Eddie cuts you off. Smears into your mouth with a kiss that takes all your remaining breath. Sucks it right out your soul. Brings his hand around your back. His soaked fingers rest against your thigh.

“Fucking drenched me.” He noses into your cheek. Kissing down your jaw. He can’t resist your neck and he doesn’t. You’re sure the burning patches of wet on your skin are some pretty decent hickies.

“Not my fault you’re a quick learner with talented fingers.” You smug into a lingering peck you place on his lips.

He wiggles them into your thighs. He really was dripping. Wetly slapping your skin. “Pure magic.” He smirks.

You sag forwards into him. Ease the strain in your burning thighs.

“I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact I just made the hottest girl ever, cum in an school storage closet.”

“Not your average Friday?” You sigh. Teasing.

He pinches your thigh for that. “Menace.” He chuckles into your neck. Holding you close. Sighing in bliss as he lays his nose into your hair and smells that coconut scent again. He’s dreamt about that too. Everything about you is delightful and he’s dozy drunk on every essence.

“So. Any plans tomorrow night?” You ask as he kindly pets your pussy one last time.

Draped your panties back to their rightful place. You bite your lip as he brushes his fingers against you through them. You were more soaked than before.

“None at all. Well, a bank heist. But that’s not til next week.” He plays.

“Your place? Scary Movies? I’ll bring pizza and beer.”

“Fine. But I’m buying the pizza baby.”

“You just made me cum. Pizza is most definitely on me.”

That draws an amazed and blushy laugh out of him. “You sure you’re real?” He checks.

“Definitely. I am no mirage.” You answer as you reach your hand around that skinny trim waist of his and cup his ass through his back pocket.

You bite your lip with glee. It makes him smile and his hips jerk into you.

“Alright. Alright. Damn. Menace. What am I getting myself into here-“ He wonders.

“I don’t know but I really like where this is heading.” You admit.

“Yeah? Me too.” He looks at you and his grin slowly climbs across his cheeks. So sweet.

You tenderly look at each other a moment and it’s like the whole rest of this world can go get fucked.

“Had you better get back out there before someone notices you’re missing?” He asks Pointing his thumb to the closet door. After fumbling with his fly and his own belt.

“Shit. Probably.” You answer glumly. Sighing as you untangle yourself and get used to your weight on your own two feet again.

Eddie smooths your skirts down. But you think it’s a cheap and yet sweet excuse to cup your ass some more. You chuckle with it and he slings your body forwards into another kiss.

Waddling you both across, joined to the door. Swaying side to side like penguins. Hands in his hair as you kiss him again. Leathered arms wrapping around your waist.

He pushes you up against the back of the closet door, kisses you so deep. It makes you smile. One more. Just one more.

“Call by around 6.” Eddie offers.

“You bet.” He pecks you so sweetly for that.

“I think you got drugs in these lips of yours you know, Pencils.” He says when he can’t pull away from making out with you. Rolls his hips into yours naughtily.

“Corny, Munson.” You smile. But you won’t pretend that compliment doesn’t make your stomach sizzle.

He scoops you away from the door and you twist to open it. His mouth sneaks to your ear. Chin resting on your shoulder.

“Tell me it’s stuck and we can stay in here for hours.” He sneaks his hands up your thighs again.

“You’re terrible.” You twist back.

He grins with lusty lidded eyes aimed your way.

“That’s not what you said five minutes ago sweetie.” He preens. Chest all puffed up with the fact he made you orgasm.

You jiggle the handle and it crunches and swings open with a creak.

“Rats. Foiled again.” He curses.

You step out into the hallway. Out the shadowed clutches of the closet. You peer around checking the coast is clear.

You creep out with Eddie a hairs breadth behind you. Chin on your shoulder. His hands comfortably on your hips again. Watching the sway of your bare legs and cute skirts.

A sudden voice to your left made you both shoot out your skin. Eddie yelped again. Leaping to pull you close but then realised that would probably be inappropriate in front of a teacher.

His hands slipped for you and then waved jerky in the air and fell away. Awkwardly fidgeting to his sides.

“Shouldn’t you both be in class?” Came the sudden and dowdy interjection.

Mrs. Clary, the ninth grade art teacher stood looking at the pair of you with suspicion through her gold rimmed glasses, linked by a shimmering chain around her neck.

She wore ankle length skirts and a brown cardigan over a beige blouse. A short sweep of a nutty brown bob streaked with silver framed her frowning face. A little frumpy in her appearance but she was a complete stick in the mud. You certainly didn’t miss any of her classes.

“Mrs Clary.” You answer her with due politeness.

She’s busy frowning at Eddie. “What are you doing here, Mr. Munson?” Her eyes narrow. Mouth pinched at the puckering corners. His rep around the school was well cemented as trouble.

“Just-“ He floundered and his head hopped around seeking for an answer.

“… came to help this lovely art student here get something out the…closet.” Is the best excuse he can come up with.

“Get what?” She presses. Looks from him to you.

You dig your nails your hand to keep from bursting into a smile. Your face is itching with the need to not laugh. You chew your lip so hard. Hoping the lie isn’t etched over your face.

“Something. Uh- really heavy. From the very top shelf.” You jump in to defend him.

“Yes. That’s better.” He shook his finger pointing at you. Then he lays on the charm real thick.

“I was wandering my merry innocent way past and I wondered if she might need help.”

He meets your eyes and how you don’t lose it, you’ve no idea.

“Mmhmm. Yep.” You agree quickly.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Mrs Clary asks. Clearly unimpressed.

“I sure as hell did.” Eddie beams like a letch.

You snicker.

“Back to class right this second.” She warned shrilly. Barking her order.

“Yes, commander.” He bows. Saluting.

You scurry away and Eddie shares a look with you before he goes. Being shooed away like a disobedient loping stray.

An ear splitting wolf whistle echoes down the corridor. It made Mrs Clary leap into the air in fright. Clutching her chest.

You look over your shoulder, with hot cheeks and catch the sight of that maniacal grin splitting his face. You can’t help chuckling.

Mrs Clary sighs in sheer moody irritation. “That boy is nothing but trouble. Steer clear.” She snips at you.

He wiggled his fingers in a silly wave and a wink as he dances out the doors. Hair flapping behind him.

If this isn’t love then you’re an absolute fool.

🕷 It may be of interest - but there’s a next part now 🕷

#eddie x female reader #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #stranger things season four #i would die for this man #punkwrites #super freak series #eddie munson x original character #eddie munson my beloved #eddie my boy #eddie my beloved

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tittysuckersworld · 3 months

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my fem soukoku headcannons because i am the only one who is right!!(lies- but i do want to argue some headcannons i have so lets goo)

dazai having short hair durring pm and then growing it out once shes free. 1 to represent her distance from her past but also to show as a disconnect from the mafia(like has it at more inch below sholders than usual chin). pluss because i have my i want healthy realtionships with things headcannons it could also be a thing she can take care of sometimes to self care a lil. forced self care. you will be ok. gun to your head you have no choise. last 2 arguments for this point are 1 the pm design i really like for dazai has short hair-(ty ty kokoasci) but lastly the growth could represent her growth as a person. being good takes time ans lot effort and having that as physical metaphore could be neat. mabey only so long because she has cut it again when struggling but keeps trying. idk! think the metaphors with long hair could be more funky~

yee mabey karaoke at some point a lil, but i head cannon they would still be arcade mostly girls. i dont exactly understand why karaoke or shoping over arcades- like why change? its a good show of character with them being directly competative. unless they shoplifting videogames i dont exactly wanna hear- idk idk girls can just. like games. thats normal

another dazai point because im normal. she use binder at least in pm and sometimes in ada times because i gave her big badonkadonks(to torture chuuya and be a menace) and those can get in the way of combat. not also gender fuckary things for em nope no what are you talking about- also last dazai thing quick. for me i think she prefers to wear skirts and probably dosent wear a white skirt. cause. yknow- i dont wanna explain pls just understand-

last last dazai thing then will go more chuuya. i do not think fem dazai is a 'seductress'. i dont even think dazai can really flirt. to not get too much into thick of it, you know how for movies theres a scall where a movie can be enjoyed if its really good or really bad its then good? thats my theory for rizz. dazai has negitive rizz you cant change my mind

chuuya!!! i dont have designs for 16-18 for her yet but i still have design notess. so fem chuuya to me has a side shave. i would have gone full masc with the cut but it felt like she would have mid length hair to play around with to me? chuuya like fashion and its the same character so why not have same passion with fem design. also did it and shirted side most hair gose on for fem chuuya to better distinguish one from the other.

also! to me fem chuuya wears pants- its most useful, dont have to have any hassle when fighting or riding her bike. just all in all pants make more sence with how she would live. she also wears minimal make up, just enough so she herself can have fun with it. dazai also wears make up but only a lipstick given to her by oda. its a sorta pale rose color and transfers onto everything. kunikida is this close to killing her for that.

oh glob ive stayed up too late writing this- uhh um um i have so much more so if wants more rambles(not actually i will ramble more you have no choise) then ask pls pls wanna talk about these gals so so much and have others opinions(just pls- begging treat women as people with em-)

#bsd #dumb rambles ignore me-#bungo stray dogs #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #fem chuuya #fem dazai #fem soukoku #ssk #soukoku #there bare minimun tags if wasnt caught by filters than im sorry-

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taeyeonschild · 9 months

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╰┈➤ ❝ [straykids as fanboys] ❞

—————————————————

pairing: no pairings. they don’t actually know you

genre: fluff, point form hcs

contains: uhhh…. fanboys!

cw: none

A/N: i like this idea a lot, but i didn’t really now what to write for some of them…. hopefully this is somewhat decent? but i have more stuff coming out soon, which i am a lot more confident with!!!

Bangchan

➙ he is quite famous in your fandom for his youtube channel, where he records covers of all of your music.

➙ you interact with his covers quite often! he tries his hardest to remain calm, and casual, but internally he is freaking out!

➙ fans constantly request collabs, you’ve seen it requested so much that you’ve actually considered the idea! maybe one day you will work together! (at least he hopes so)

➙ he is a huge supporter of everything you do. fans who don’t know you personally, would probably think that you and chan are friends

➙ he is very active in the community, and he interacts with you on a fairly regular basis

Minho

➙ he doesn’t hesitate to spend money on you

➙ he has many of your albums, and merchandise, but he rarely ever talks about you.

➙ people will go to his house and be stunned by the posters on his walls, since they never even knew he was a fan before.

➙ he’s not embarrassed by it, he just prefers to fanboy on the inside.

➙ (if you make any asmr content) he seems like the type to listen to it at times when he’s super tense, to help him relax, and sleep.

Changbin

➙ he goes to every concert, and somehow, ALWAYS shows up on the dancecam

➙ his face has been seen so many times that fans start to recognize him

➙ if your music ever plays on the radio, or in a store somewhere, he immediately drops what he’s doing and drops the whole routine

➙ does he care if people watch? NO! why should he 🤷‍♀️ it’s only embarrassing if he messes up the choreo, (which NEVER happens)

Hyunjin

➙ he knows EVERY SINGLE ONE of your dances. he might not even know the words to your songs, but you know as soon as he hears that beat drop, bro becomes a dancing machine

➙ he is likely a part of a dance group

➙ attends random play dances, and gets so excited when one of your songs plays

➙ hyunjin totally posts dance videos online, he likely has a youtube channel solely for that purpose

➙ he even posts slowed + mirrored versions, to help teach others the choreo.

➙ he might also be a fan artist, but i feel that he’d be a bit of a perfectionist about his art, and would be too scared to show any of it online… :(

Han

➙ something about him gives off editor vibes

➙ i think he’d have a tiktok account, solely for edits of you/your group

➙ he spends hours on AE producing mouth watering edits

➙ he’s got quite a decent following aswell

➙ you interacted with his account once, and he FREAKED. he swears it was the best moment of his life

➙ MAYBEEEE secretly writes fan fiction???

➙ but even if he doesn’t write it. he DEFINITELY reads it…. (we’ve all seen the clip where he seemed to understand the term “omega”….. meaning he HAS read fan fiction at least some point in his life.)

Felix

➙ lix is a super fan, and he is proud to be one. he’s not ashamed, why should he be? 🤷‍♀️ he thinks you’re cool, and if other people have a problem with that, that’s not felix’s issue to solve!

➙ he has binders full of your/your group’s pcs

➙ he trades online for rare ones

➙ he has every version of every album you’ve ever released, and he keeps them proudly displayed on his shelf.

➙ his walls are covered in posters of you/your group

➙ he giggles when he hears you mentioned, and would jump on ANY opportunity to talk about you and your music

➙ he is BROKE because of you

Seungmin

➙ he pretends not to care about you, in fear of being teased by his friends, but secretly he is a HUGE fanboy

➙ he has secret accounts on social media, where he can follow you, and interact with content related to you/your group, while still remaining anonymous

➙ he has a few of your albums, but he keeps them hidden underneath his bed

➙ his pcs are his prized possessions, but when he has people over they hide in his sock drawer

➙ when he hears your music in public he often catches himself accidentally nodding his head, or tapping his foot to the beat.

➙ he is quick to defend himself, before he is even called out for it “i just like the music that’s why i’m dancing. i don’t even know this song.” what a liar

Jeongin

➙ he goes to EVERY meet and greet. he’d drive hours just to attend

➙ you’ve seen him so many times that you remember his name. it almost feels like you are friends at this point

➙ he’s always super respectful, so it’s exciting when you see him at different events.

➙ he likes to bring you gifts which you always appreciate.

➙ he has gained a large following online for posting about his interactions with you. and you always repost his videos! (which makes him cry tears of happiness).

➙ he also likes to post unboxing videos of all of your albums! (if you are in a group) he gets so excited when he pulls you! his followers love to see his reactions.

#stray kids #kpop #bang chan #lee know #changbin #hyunjin #han jisung #lee felix #felix #seungmin #jeongin #stray kids reactions #stray kids headcanons

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kitty-agere-fics · 3 months

Text

SKZ Agere HCs

Request Info - - - - Masterlist

CG!Chan, CG!Minho, CG!Changbin, Little!Hyunjin, Little!Jisung, Little!Felix, CG!Seungmin, Little!Jeongin

Based in an OT8 setting :-) (NOT PROOFREAD)

Littles

Hyunjin

Age Range: 4-6

Favorite CG: Chan

Favorite Nickname: Little Artist

Loves to color

^He has coloring books everywhere

He is very protective of said coloring books

^But he will occasionally share with Felix

Plays with Felix and Jisung sometimes

^Definitely prefers drawing over playing

Loves to try to mimic drawing tutorials off YouTube

Bedtime stories is his favorite part of the day

Makes a lot of pictures for Chan

Jisung

Age Range: 1.5-3

Favorite CG: Minho

Favorite Nickname: Kiddo

Jumps at loud noises

Very shy

Most of the time won't talk

^Not that he's non-verbal, he just chooses when he wants to talk which isnt often

Likes to play with Felix the most

Always stimming

Has to be carried by Minho all the time

^Will not walk/crawl on his own

Felix

Age Range: 2-6

Favorite CG: Changbin & Chan

Favorite Nickname: Sunbeam, Cuddlebug

Loves piggy back rides from Changbin

Mostly will speak English

^Korean frustrates him

Always wants cuddles

^Especially before bed/naps

Likes to play with Jisung

Likes to color with Hyunjin

He tries to be independent

^Something usually goes wrong

Very, very giggly

Jeongin

Age Range: 0-2

Favorite CG: Seungimn

Favorite Nickname: Baby, Little One

Babbles non-stop

^Even if no one's in the room

Always has a paci

Needs Seungmin to sing to him to go to sleep

Carries his FoxI.Ny plus everywhere

Cartoons fix everything

CGs

Chan

His Little: Hyunjin and Felix

His CG Title: Daddy

Big hugs and cuddles all the time

Keeps every single picture that Hyunjin colors for him ^He has a binder full of them

Reads bedtime stories ^And does the character voices

Tries to get Felix to speak Korean

^Usually gives up when Felix starts getting frustrated

Minho

His Little: Jisung

His CG Title: Eomma

The only one who understands Jisung when he doesn't want to talk

Tries (and usually fails) to get the littles to eat healthy

^It's not his fault that they only want mac & cheese and dino nuggies

^Changbin is the real reason they eat healthy

Plays ASMR videos because he has no clue how to calm down anyone when they cry (idk i just feel like he'd get so confused when they cry)

^But it works, so no one really cares

Changbin

His Little: Felix

His CG Title: Papa

Carries Felix everywhere

Always trying to make the littles laugh

^They all laugh whenever he does aegyo

Gives the littles candy

^But only if they behave and eat something healthy ^Even if it's just a snack

Seungmin

His Little: Jeongin

His CG Title: Dada

The only one who can calm Jisung down when he cries

The master at translating babbles to normal words

Plays with the littles a lot

Always buys a lot of toys/coloring books/little gear for the littles

^Not that the other CGs don't, he just does it the most

Tells jokes a lot

^The master of puns and dad jokes

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feyspeaker · 4 months

Note

Picked up two prints! (And a sticker!)

Just so you know, I would legit pay for, like, a collection of your prints in a size somewhere between the mini and 11x14.

Like, I just want to put a *bunch* of them in a binder and just look at it sometimes lol

thank you so so much!!!! ;A; I have considered other sizes, but I live in a tiny place and my printing room is already full of too many sizes of paper/mailers/tubes/etc for what I do offer. I will keep it in mind but the sizes I have now are probably going to be pretty set for now.

About to go off on a tangent, so apologies for hijacking your sweet ask.

honestly this is still so crazy to me, thank you. I have been illustrating for years and years now, but really only found proper footing this year after taking a huge break from commissions and just hammering in what I really want to do with my life.

I've always preferred rendered painting but I felt like the market was so saturated and that I'd never be able to make a living doing it. Many of my older followers will know that for a couple of years I was really on this digital watercolor kick, doing more stylized work. It was extremely grueling despite being faster, bc I forced myself to work entirely on 1 layer with no eraser. It was faster for me to do and felt more "lucrative" as far as timeliness, but I was not very happy doing it, and did a lot of rendered painting studies in my free time, it was basically my "fun time" where I was doing one style for work and a totally different one for private pieces. Literally, I would be painting realistic block of cheese as my downtime.

I was so convinced that stylized stuff was what people wanted, and I have had boxes and boxes of prints I've bought and thrown away because they didn't sell.

Now that I am doing the kind of art my heart wants to do, I am so much happier and completely overwhelmed by how there are actually people who want to art I make for myself on their walls.

This is probably coming off so random but I've been thinking about it a lot, it really is true that you HAVE to paint what makes you happy. If you try to box yourself in to what seems the more "marketable" I promise you are going to be miserable. (Never stop challenging yourself, though. seriously.)

I have never been happier about the art I have created in the last 6 or so years of doing this professionally than I am now that I just said "fuck it, I am tired of painting anime-ish stylized stuff because that's what's in." It's like I've been forcing myself to jam a square block into a circle shaped hole for years. Not to mention that doing line art on literally over a thousand pieces (yes, I've counted, absolutely insane; comic artists please take care of yourselves) for years has well and truly fucked my hand up permanently, I fear.

Other artists, please listen to that little creature in your brain that's telling you it doesn't like painting anime girls or cats or thick chunky line art because that's what you think is popular. If painting nothing but hyperrealistic swords is where you heart is happiest, just do it and stop forcing yourself because I promise there are thousands of people out there who want to see your swords. Just make sure to throw in some jewels or filigree or whatever every once in a while to keep yourself challenged.

Sorry again for hijacking your message, I just am regularly blown away that somehow people actually like my art now that I like it. (Not that my older pieces are regrets btw, I think every single thing you paint no matter the style is worth its figurative weight in gold)

#ask

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enarei · 11 months

Note

I'm sorry, but I don't believe you have even a rudimentary grasp on feminist theory, and could benefit from an education.

maybe you're right, and you're welcome to educate me (like, genuinely, I would probably enjoy that). I would appreciate if you were a bit more specific with what of what I've said makes you think that, because I believe the gist of my argument is very important if not to feminism broadly, to a model of feminism that is capable of incorporating trans women without stabbing them in the back within its critique of patriarchy —namely that there isn't one intrinsic, "natural" female/woman identity or trait that invites misogyny, it's a self-reifying set of relations which creates the necessity for the concept of "womanhood" to exist, performing a woman's roles and being perceived as a woman is what makes women, women, and that includes trans women, there's little more to it than that

if you wanna set yourself apart from everyone and say you're actually a real woman, because you say you are, and dissect the difference from the transfem that doesn't necessarily think of their relation to gender through the same exclusive binary lens, however that manifests in practice, whichever labels and pronouns they choose to use, then do so, but I think you'll find that gets us no closer to examining why we are actually oppressed and the ideas we have to disseminate to counter that, because that line, while important for self-actualization, isn't actually very relevant to how we're perceived, which is often the most important aspect of how we're treated by society. while we can affirm our personal identity in relationships that are both recurring and premised on mutual respect, we don't get that privilege most of the time, and people's understanding of us are based on assumptions.

it does not matter then that you ID as a woman and the other person doesn't if you never get the opportunity to say that, it's completely irrelevant. if you are both read as <genderweird person dressed like a woman & male voice>, you're both legitimate targets for modes of violence for people associated with the words "tranny faggot".

I also find this very disingenuous because it ignores that passing, presenting as our preferred gender, isn't always a possibility, likewise, the implication that "men" by necessity can't be discriminated for gender non-conformity under exactly the same rules as non-passing trans women is completely arbitrary. you don't know how other people are being read, you don't know if they're being read as a gay man or a tranny trying to hide the fact they're tranny, or something in between, how okay the interviewer is with either and where do they draw the line. you simply don't know that! we could run the same thought experiment where a trans woman is boymoding for a job interview, wearing a binder to hide her tits (something I've done countless times), using her deadname and not displaying any signs of femininity, and she gets the job and the "man" who has a panty wearing kink and maybe also presents a lot more overtly effeminate in public doesn't, because the interviewer thought she was less of a faggot.

even if the "man" may have an easier time concealing what you would call a "fetish" at work, something you can't really distinguish from a normal aspect of a person's gender expression without a degree of moralism, are trans women that are not always out, or hide their transness at their job, not subjected to transmisogyny, are they not deserving of calling themselves trans women? should we shun them and lump them with "chasers" because they are not baring their femininity full time and being pummeled for that constantly? like, where do you draw the line? and I'm not saying the guy who likes to wear his wife's skirt while she pegs him and is otherwise a massive homophobe the rest of the time gets it like you or me, but I think it's pretty obtuse to pretend the line between "binary trans woman" and "non-trans CAMAB person who cross-dresses; whose oppression should be understood under the framing of transmisogyny", can only be measured by those two points.

#gender

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not-alien-girl-v · 2 years

Note

Hello! Could I request a tate langdon x trans male reader? (Sorry for requesting tate I know you get him alot)

note: you know what you are right i do get tate a lot but the tumblr girlies have been eating him up lately so this one goes out to the transmascs and/or tate lovers. also writing this on my phone and my fat ass thumbs are not doing all that work of clicking shift so this will be all lowercase. anyway i’m writing this sleep deprived at midnight so i am going to wake up tomorrow morning and forget i wrote this most likely

warning: language probably idk i write my warnings before i write the fic and i just predict what the fuck im going to add in idk i should stop

the dead of winter makes things feel quiet. you barely hear your mom in the kitchen though you are just in the room over. it’s not snowing outside, it doesn’t do that in la, like, ever, but it would be nice maybe once.

you feel the vibration of your phone. you’re sitting on the couch and it’s in the back pocket of your jeans and you don’t want to stand up to fish it out so you flop yourself sideways and grab it. you have three notifications, and in your mind, you make a mental ranking of their importance.

3. bereal went off, though it happened hours ago and you don’t bother to take the picture because who cares

2. about 46 minutes ago, your friend texted your other friend in the group chat, talking about some concert tonight for people you’ve never even heard of before

1. your boyfriend, tate, texted about the same concert, but in this case, offering to take you with him to the show

not to play favorites, but a night out alone with your boyfriend sounds like more fun than a night with your freaky little friends. sure, they were a barrel of monkeys… in their own way, but you’d much prefer a long night in working at a puzzle with them than a raging concert.

‘?’ Tate texts again. You opened his text and he saw the read receipt but you’ve just been sitting there contemplating the meaning of life for minutes now.

‘maybe’ you reply and renter your deep thought once more. it would be fun, you’d have a good time and he’d be happy… but you have been wearing your binder for at the very least 10 hours now, and you had plans to take it off in a little bit (granted you were procrastinating) and that was something you didn’t want to deny yourself.

they say you’re not supposed to exercise in a binder, but that’s never stopped you. back in high school, you had PE 3rd period, and it’s not like you were just gonna go through the trouble of taking it off for a one hour block every single day and then put it back on once the class is over.

that’s the same now, though you don’t have a PE class, you are an avid mosher in the pit and you don’t want to be boobs flying everywhere. you don’t even want boobs at all, but top surgery is expensive, and your insurance only covers testosterone shots so you make do with what you can.

‘maybe?’ he texts back and he didn’t include it in the text, but you can feel a :( radiating from his end of the line.

‘tummy kinda hurts idk’ another thing, he doesn’t know you’re trans. it’s no big deal, truly, you know he’d be super supportive and respectful if you came out and nothing would change between the two of you but that doesn’t take away any of your fear of telling him. this relationship has been going on for 6 months now, and it seems like the longer you wait to say something, the more awkward it will be once you do.

‘:(‘ he texts and you frown a little as well in real life, and you put your phone on the table and walk into the kitchen. your mom is baking those little sugar cookies from target with the snowmen on them and you swear if you got close enough, you could eat an entire tray full of them.

but you’ve already spoiled your dinner enough with the potato chips you now realize you’ve abandoned in the living room and walk back to your room.

your bedroom is small yet well decorated, giving it a cozy aura, even more when you light a peppermint candle. you finally remove your binder and it feels like a breath of fresh air for the first time today. twisting your arms around, you stretch out and then put on a tank top and bundle up in your bed because it’s so damn cold out.

you put your headphones over your ears and play some random song off a playlist tate made for you and all is well in the world until you think you hear your mom screeching your name from the kitchen. of course, the second you pause the music and rip of the headphones, it’s dead silence once more, so you put them back on. there’s the noise again. if she’s really trying to contact you, she can just text you rather than test out her echolocation skills.

a moment later, she does text you.

‘someone at the door go get it’

as polite as ever, you have no choice but obey and slump to the front door, unhappy that your unwinding time has been interrupted by some rando at the door. when you open the door (albeit, grumpily), it’s not a rando, but it is in fact your boyfriend.

“tate! what are you doing here?” you don’t mean to sound so unhappy about his presence, it just comes out like that and of course you notice how quickly his eyes trail downwards on your body. you follow them too, until they land on your uncaged boobs. shit. “oh, um.”

“aren’t you going to invite me in?” he doesn’t say anything you thought he would and for that, you hold the door open for him and step aside to let him in.

“so, what are you doing here?” you ask again since he didn’t respond the first time.

“you said your stomach hurt, and mine kinda hurt too, so i thought i could come over and we could be in pain together. what do you think?” the whole time he’s been making his way to your bedroom, though he hadn’t been in your house very many times, he knew where he was going. he kicks off his shoes at the base and launches himself onto your duvet.

“you’re so thoughtful,” you crawl in next to him and hook one leg between his own, immediately experiencing the glory of his body heat.

“i tend to think so.” there’s that silence again. sometimes peaceful, sometimes deafening, because you know there’s something left unsaid. so you open your mouth again.

“um, so, about the boobs thing,” you start and pause to swallow, realizing you must look like a nervous character on tv right now.

“it’s okay.”

“it is?” you don’t dare lift your head to look him in the eye.

“of course. it doesn’t matter to me. you’re still hot,” he pokes you in the side and you chuckle at him.

“stop it, you silly goose,” you joke back and you can feel the physical cringe his body does.

“and i love you no matter what,” it’s quiet, but you hear it, muffled by your cringe minecraft bedspread. you love him too.

#ahs #tate langdon #evan peters fanfiction #american horror story #evan peters x reader #tate langdon x reader #evan peters #evan peters x you #fanfic #fluff #transmasc #trans rights

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floralcyanide · 2 years

Text

One for the Money, Two for the Show

Steve Binder x Elvis Presley x Reader Smut

>> so I've had this idea for a while now and I'm just now finishing it! I've mentioned writing this a few times on my blog and everyone seemed really excited about it, so I hope everyone enjoys this!! I stopped proofreading towards the end because my brain just stopped wanting to work, so if there are mistakes, please let me know (:

pairing: Steve Binder x Elvis Presley x reader

warnings: smut, threesome, overstimulation, nipple play (brief), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, double penetration, MINORS DNI, mentions of assassination, death.

word count: 4577

masterlist || add yourself to the taglist HERE!

If you could choose one person in the world to be your favorite, it would be your boyfriend, Steve. Despite his sarcasm and quick wit, he’s kind, understanding, and patient. Steve keeps to himself for the most part- he doesn’t have much to say if the conversation isn’t interesting to him or beneficial in some way. Until he meets Elvis, that is. The two of them can talk about anything, whether it’s business or not. They just flow naturally when conversing, much like you and Steve. It makes you happy to see your boyfriend opening up to someone else, especially someone as outgoing as Elvis. Usually, extroverts made Steve weary, but there’s just something about Elvis. And you’ve picked up on it too.

Elvis had called Steve personally to discuss a comeback special on NBC. He wanted Steve and his co-producer, Bones Howe, to help him put it together how he wanted it. Elvis’ promotional manager, Colonel Tom Parker, prefers a Christmas special as Elvis’ big comeback. But the singer has other plans. And he knows that Steve and Tom are the people to help him carry out those plans. The three of them, along with Jerry Schilling and the rest of the Memphis Mafia, had met to discuss the comeback special further. You didn’t tag along like you usually do when Steve has a business meeting, but he told you about it. You’re going to make sure to be at the filming of the special no matter what. You want to meet the one and only Elvis Presley.

It’s the day of filming the beginning sequence of the special, and you’re standing next to Steve in the production booth, which has an excellent view of the entire studio area. You both watch as Elvis makes his way to the small stage in the middle of the said studio, clad in a leather jumpsuit. He looks undeniably good in it- the leather hugs everything on his body. Everything.

“I suggested the leather outfit when we discussed the special,” Steve says to you as he fiddles with his cigarette, “We needed something raw and dirty.”

“It’s definitely raw and dirty, alright,” you say breathlessly, and Steve smirks from his seat, “But I wonder if he’s as dirty as people make him seem.”

Steve glances up at you and takes a long drag of his cigarette, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You shrug innocently, “Wouldn’t everyone?”

Steve just hums in response with a somewhat smug look on his face before focusing back on filming the performance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here’s Elvis Presley!” Bones announces from the small stage, allowing Elvis to replace his position.

Elvis takes a moment to prepare himself before grabbing his guitar. He shakes himself out and takes some deep breaths. When he’s finally ready, a shaky hand reaches up to the microphone as he begins singing Jailhouse Rock. This is his first time performing in front of an audience in years, and in just the first few minutes, everyone in the room is hooked. The way Elvis is moving and singing like he never stopped is captivating. He exudes confidence, and the audience is eating it up. Everyone in the production booth is silent, watching as Elvis’ comeback is in full swing.

“Well, that was energetic,” one of the men from the Singer Sewing Company comments, and his boss side eyes him with a displeased look. You try not to snicker from beside Steve.

Elvis plunges into the next song, just as passionate as before. You roll your eyes as the boss of the sewing company makes a few comments about how Elvis has yet to sing any Christmas songs. He also points out that he wasn’t wearing their Christmas sweater. You bite your tongue to hold back words you know Steve would disapprove of in the workplace. The Colonel abruptly leaves the booth with his assistant following close behind, assumingly going to stop the performance. You turn to go after him, but Steve grabs your wrist and gives a warning glare. You frown, sighing in defeat as you shake off Steve’s grip. Thankfully, after a few minutes, nothing happens and the performance continues.

After a few more songs, Elvis is now discussing how happy he is to be back on stage and playing what he wants to play. A smile graces your lips at his dedication and genuine love for what he does. Steve looks up at you with a proud look, and you return it, knowing he is happy to be doing this. Pride in one’s work is something Elvis has in common with Steve, as well as their love for what they do, and you think that’s one reason why they click. They understand each other.

The performance wraps up, and the stage is cleared as well as the audience. A few more sets are filmed, such as the Karate and Whorehouse sequences. Now the Gospel number was to be filmed next. Elvis is dressed in a nice red outfit and ready on the platforms awaiting further instruction.

“Bindle-” The Colonel says, out of breath after running back up the stairs to the production booth. You figure he had seen enough at this point.

One thing that pissed you off about the Colonel, other than the obvious manipulation tactics and control he had over Elvis, was the fact he didn’t have enough respect for your boyfriend to call him by the correct name. He referred to Steve as “Bindle” instead of his actual last name. Your thoughts are interrupted by Steve’s commanding voice booming through the booth.

“Cue the gospel number now. Go,” Steve demands through his microphone.

Elvis begins singing and making his way down the platform as the dancers start their movements, much to the Colonel’s dismay.

“No,” he says in disbelief, eyeing the performance in a near panic. “N-none of this will be in the special,” he says to the men from the sewing company.

“Can you make a note that, that should be in the special?” Steve asks Bones, leaning over the soundboard.

The Colonel and the men of the Singer Sewing Machine Company look displeased from their seats, and a part of you is proud of Steve and his headiness. Especially if it means men in power are angry.

“Okay, now let’s segue straight into the whorehouse dancers. Go!” Steve instructs.

“Whorehouse? No,” The Colonel mumbles in protest.

The new footage of the Gospel number merges into the Whorehouse number that had been shot previously. The montage plays on the screens in the production booth, and the entourage of the sewing company begins to show their unhappiness about the situation.

“Now bring in the Kung Fu spectacular,” Steve says, letting the set play on the TV screens in the booth.

“What? Kung Fu?” The Colonel is in utter disbelief.

The businessmen begin to argue with the Colonel, saying he’ll be hearing from their lawyers about the lack of Christmas in the special. They promptly leave, and you smile smugly down at your boyfriend, who mirrors your expression as he flicks the ashes of his cigarette. The pride doesn't last long. Suddenly, the Gospel dancers stop upon someone shouting and running toward them. You can’t determine what they’re yelling until they’re finally in earshot.

“Bobby Kennedy’s been shot!”

At that moment, time seems to freeze. Everyone in the booth frantically looks around at each other before hurrying out of their seats, getting ready to run to Elvis’ dressing room, where the television is. Steve stands up quickly and grabs your hand as the two of you join the others in their pursuit. A few of the dancers, some of the crew, Elvis, Jerry, and you and Steve all pile into the room and huddle around the television. You can hear people screaming and crying in the crowd as they surround Bobby Kennedy, who is lying unconscious on the ground. Tears burn behind your eyes as you grasp Steve’s hand tightly, deeply saddened by what you’re witnessing on the screen. You force yourself to rip your gaze away from the TV and gauge the reactions around you. Elvis is sitting next to the person standing directly beside you, a little hidden from sight. But you can see his eyes are red and watery when the person moves forward slightly. Your heart pangs, almost wanting to reach out and comfort him, but you decide against it.

“Steve,” the floor manager mutters, “We’ve gotta get back to work.”

Steve softly lets go of your hand and takes a few steps ahead, muting the TV before turning to face everyone.

“Listen,” he says quietly, “I uh, just wanna say that this nation is hurting. It’s lost, you know. It needs a voice right now to help it heal. We have to say something,” Steve sniffs, looking up at Elvis with tear-filled eyes, “You have to make a statement, E.P.”

“Mr. Presley doesn’t make statements,” the Colonel interrupts from the back of the room where he’s suddenly appeared, “He sings Here Comes Santa Claus, wishes everyone Merry Christmas, good night.”

The Colonel switches off the television, and everyone silently disperses from the dressing room, including you and Steve. Both of you begrudgingly walk out and head to the stairwell where you can converse privately.

“Why is this happening? Why does this keep happening, Steve?” you put your face in your hands when the door to the stairwell shuts behind you.

This was the second major assassination to happen this year alone. And the two people killed were important to you and Steve, as well as many people in the nation and worldwide. Seeing it happen in real-time makes it worse somehow.

“I don’t know, darling. This world is full of evil people,” Steve frowns, pulling you into his chest as he cards his fingers through your hair.

“Elvis seemed really upset about it. Do you think he’ll say something?” you lift your head and peer into Steve’s eyes, searching for any answers you can get to all of this. But there’s none.

“From what I know about him so far, he definitely won’t stay quiet for long.”

“I wanted to comfort him, Steve,” you say, eyeing the wall beside you, “No one was beside him. He was just sitting there alone.”

“It’s not too late to comfort him. I’m sure the rest of filming today will be easy if there’s any at all. I think he’d appreciate someone showing they care,” Steve says, grabbing hold of your shoulders and looking you in the eyes.

“How do I do it without seeming odd? What should I say or do?” you cast your eyes down.

Steve lifts your head with his hand, “You have a gift of helping people when they need it. Whether it’s words or actions, do anything he asks or anything he needs. It won’t come off as odd, I promise. We need to lift his spirits, Y/N.”

“Anything?” you furrow your brows, asking Steve a silent question.

You know Elvis is known to flirt with just about everyone, and if he’s upset, there’s no telling what may come out of his mouth. What if he needs something you can’t give? Would Steve be okay with you giving that?

“Anything.” Steve raises his eyebrows in seriousness, his eyes twinkling knowingly.

“As long as it’s okay with you,” you bite your lip.

“As much as the situation is bleak, find out how raw and dirty he really is if you have to.”

Steve lets go of you, and the two of you exit the stairwell. You walk back in the direction of Elvis’ dressing room while Steve heads back to the production room. As you walk down the corridor, you pass a pensive-looking Colonel Tom Parker. You hope he didn’t worsen Elvis’ already dampened mood. You look behind your shoulder once you pass him to ensure he doesn’t see you enter the dressing room—all clear.

“Elvis?” you call out, gently knocking on his dressing room door.

“Come in,” he says frustratedly.

You walk into the dressing room, feeling a little out of place since you don’t know Elvis all too well. It was a tad weird being in his personal space all alone.

“I know you don’t know who I am, but I just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay,” you say sheepishly, avoiding direct eye contact with him.

“I know who you are. You’re Steve’s girl, right?” he asks, staring at you through the large mirror as he leans against the vanity.

“Right,” you nod, peering up at Elvis.

He sighs, “I’m alright, darlin’. My manager is just on my case about everything,” he growls.

“I’m sorry,” you say genuinely, taking a step forward in Elvis’ direction, “Is there anything I can do?”

He slowly drags his eyes up and down your body, taking you in, “I have an idea, but your boyfriend wouldn’t like it very much.”

“How do you know?” you ask, catching onto his wandering eyes as warmth spreads to your cheeks, “Steve is obviously very open to people’s ideas.”

Elvis smirks at your words, “You are right about that. But my ideas may not be ones he would consider creative.”

You feel a burst of confidence as you move to sit down in the chair next to you, letting your legs splay open a little. You’re wearing high-waisted pants, so there’s not much to reveal, but the insinuation is still there.

“I’m sure Steve would love to hear these ideas,” you smile, “But for now, I think you need to let out some of your negative emotions.”

“And what negative emotions would I have?” Elvis takes a step towards you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I saw how upset you were earlier,” you say, seriousness taking over your expression, “And you seem more upset now that the Colonel is gone.”

Elvis leans over you, pressing his hands down on the arms of the chair on either side of you. He hums in acknowledgment, eyes raking over your body. You remain still, looking everywhere on his face but his eyes.

“Just how will you go about helping me let out these negative emotions, hmm?” Elvis says, his voice now deeper than before.

“However you need me to, Mr. Presley,” you gulp, staring up at him through your lashes.

“I need you to tell me, sweetheart. What are you offering that’s worth my while?”

Pressing a hand to his exposed chest, you push him away from you, and you stand up from the chair. You walk around behind Elvis and guide him to replace your spot in the yellow accent chair. Once he’s settled in it, you fall to your knees before him.

“I’m offering whatever you want,” you say, “But I have an idea of what you need.”

Wordlessly, Elvis gazes down at you through his impossibly long eyelashes, his pupils darkening at the sight of you pushing up his silken robe. He’s completely bare underneath it, so you don’t have to worry about removing anything. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’re always faithful to your partners and explore a fair amount, but you’ve never gone as far as having sex with someone else other than the person you were in a relationship with. You and Steve have explored your desires in and out of the bedroom, so something like this hasn’t been entirely out of the picture. But you never thought in a million years it’d be Elvis Presley you were quite literally fucking around with. However, Steve gave you permission, so you slowly moved your face closer to Elvis’ cock that’s now hard and against his stomach in front of you.

You lick a long stripe from the base all the way to the tip, where you circle your tongue slowly. Elvis maintains eye contact with you as you do so, a low groan vibrating in his throat. One of his large hands slides through your hair, his fingers gripping softly into your locks. Repeatedly circling his tip teasingly, you suddenly switch gears and take him into your mouth. You use your hand to pump at the other half of his cock that isn’t between your lips. Suddenly, a movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention, but you don’t cease your actions. The dressing room door is slightly creaked open, where you can see Steve peeking through. Your eyes don’t leave his as you let Elvis thrust himself fully into your mouth. He hits the back of your throat, and you let the hand that previously pumped him grip his thigh, your fingers massaging in time with his thrusts.

Elvis notices you stopped making eye contact with him and turns his head to see who you’re looking at. He barely can see Steve but knows it’s him watching.

“It seems we have an audience,” Elvis mumbles, his breath hitching when he hits the back of your throat at a certain angle.

Elvis doesn’t seem to mind Steve is watching- if anything, it made him harder against your tongue. The thought of your boyfriend watching as you took his cock in your mouth is erotic. You hum in response to Elvis’ comment, switching your focus back on his face instead of Steve’s. Quickening your pace, your throat closes around Elvis as he fucks your face incredibly faster. He feels himself twitch and hurries to pull out of your mouth before he cums.

“Wanna cum inside you while your boyfriend watches,” Elvis says hoarsely, his eyes hooded in arousal.

You scramble up from your position on your knees and stand there, waiting for Elvis’ command.

“Why don’t you give me and Steve a little show, hmm? Take off that lovely suit of yours,” he says, lazily pumping himself with his own hand, “Steve, you can come in for the full view.”

A few seconds pass before the door creaks open, revealing a disheveled Steve. He closes the door behind him quietly and remains in his spot behind the chair.

“Have a seat,” Elvis politely motions to the vanity chair despite the situation growing in intensity.

Steve slowly walks over to the vanity and sits down on the chair, taking in your messy hair and ruined makeup with a slight smirk on his face. You wait for him to settle before you begin removing articles of clothing at a slow pace. First, you pull off your blazer, letting it fall to the floor. Then, your blouse underneath, and finally, your pants. Now, you’re in just your underwear in front of Steve and Elvis. Your face burns from the feeling of their eyes drinking in your body.

“Take the rest off, Y/N,” Steve says softly from his spot behind you.

You slip a finger under your bra strap, pulling it down sensually as you connect your eyes with Elvis.

“You’ve got a beautiful lady here, Steve,” Elvis runs his tongue over his bottom lip hungrily, his hand still barely giving his cock attention.

“Don’t I know it,” Steve says, eyeing you from head to toe as you slip your other bra strap down your shoulder before unhooking it all together.

You shimmy out of your underwear and let them slide down your legs where the rest of your clothing is pooled. Now you’re starting to feel nervous being fully revealed in front of not just your boyfriend, but Elvis Presley as well. You aren’t used to so many eyes on you naked at once.

“Come here, darlin’,” Elvis motions for you to come to him, “Gonna ride me like the good girl you are.”

Elvis unties his robe, letting the sides of it lay in the chair by his legs as he reveals his body to you. You walk over to him and throw your legs over his hips, positioning yourself on his thighs. Taking him into your hand, you pump him a few times before raising your hips to line yourself up with his cock. You drag his tip along your arousal. You’re already wet from the fact your boyfriend is about to watch you fuck Elvis Presley. Pushing him in slowly, you adjust to the stretch as every inch enters you. You turn your head to glance behind you, and you see Steve has already untucked himself from his pants as he glides a hand along his cock. You feel Elvis hit your cervix as you take in all of him, wiggling your hips a little to get used to the fullness. Elvis places his hands on your hips, softly digging his fingers into your skin. He starts moving his hips upward, and you gasp at the feeling of him hitting your g spot dead on.

“You look so good on top of me, baby,” Elvis bites his lip as he takes in the sight of you riding him, his hair falling on his forehead as he thrusts into you steadily.

Steve matches his strokes with Elvis’, observing your side profile. The look of pleasure starting to form on your face turns him on. The whole ordeal is turning him on. He starts to think this is the best idea he’s ever come up with. You begin moving your hips along with Elvis’ thrusts, matching his rhythm as Elvis moves his hands from your hips to your breasts. He pinches your nipples, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. Steve curses under his breath, but you hear it. You make sure to moan like that each time Elvis twists the sensitive buds between his fingers every few seconds. Both men are getting riled up from the sounds you’re letting out. Suddenly, Elvis starts to turn you around in his lap, forcing you to face in Steve’s direction.

“Steve, why don’t you let your lady please you too?” Elvis says, beckoning him to come over to you.

Steve gets up from the vanity chair and walks to you where you’ve now opened your mouth, prepared to take him. You look up at him through your lashes as you grab hold of his cock, swirling your tongue around the tip. Elvis continues his quick thrusts into your impossibly wet pussy, the sound echoing in the dressing room. Steve feels himself harden even more at the sights and sounds in front of him. He runs his fingers through your hair, gripping it as you pull him into your mouth and down your throat. You let him guide your head along his length, gagging lightly when he hits the back of your throat. You feel so full, but in the best way. Both Elvis and Steve were fucking you in both ends, and it feels indescribable. The two of them match their paces, Elvis hitting the sensitive spot inside you simultaneously that Steve was hitting the back of your throat. Tears stream down your face at the overstimulation, but god, it was so good. You feel a knot forming in your stomach, and you know Elvis is nowhere near finished, and neither is Steve, so you try your best to push it away.

“I can feel that you’re close, baby,” Elvis chuckles, running his hand over the curve of your ass before landing a slap directly on it, causing you to surge forward and sending Steve’s cock further down your throat.

You groan in response, holding back your gag reflex. Elvis snakes a hand around to circle your clit, stoking the fire growing in your belly. You pull off of Steve for a moment.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whine, immediately resuming sucking your boyfriend off as you push yourself on Elvis as fast as you can.

“Cum, baby girl. Cum on my cock and let your man watch,” Elvis smirks, not letting up on his assault on your clit as he slams into your g spot.

Stars burst behind your eyes, and your vision goes white as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t stop letting Steve fuck into your mouth, and Elvis is continuing to slap his hips into your ass. If you felt overstimulated before, it was nothing compared to this. Both men don’t let up on their rhythms, still slamming themselves into you with no mercy.

“Gonna take it like the little slut you are?” Steve grips your jaw, his pace becoming faster as he nears his own orgasm. He keeps his eyes on yours as you try your best to keep them open.

You can’t nod, so you moan around him as you relax your throat and let him do with you as he pleased. Elvis keeps circling your clit with his fingers at the same he’d fuck himself into you. At this point, you’re so buzzed from your orgasm and overstimulation that you let go and let them both do what they want with you. Everything felt so good, and you didn’t want it to stop, even if you felt like you were floating. Elvis’ hips start sputtering, and Steve starts getting sloppy with his movements, alerting you that they’re both close. Steve hits the back of your throat at a different angle and cums in your mouth, and you swallow it with no hesitation. The sound of Steve letting out a guttural moan sends Elvis over the edge, his cum shooting into you in hot spurts. You lean against Steve’s stomach as he runs his hands over your hair comfortingly.

“You did so well, baby,” he says reassuringly, “So good.”

You just hum a reply, unable to move a muscle. Elvis helps you off of him, and Steve assists in getting you to stand up. Your legs wobble, and both men hold your shoulders and waist to steady you.

“Thank you, darlin’. I need some takin’ care of from a beautiful lady,” Elvis flashes a smile as he leaves you with Steve to retrieve a towel.

Steve takes the towel from him and cleans you up, and you’re still trying to snap out of your daze. Elvis offers you some water, and you graciously take it, carefully gulping it down as your brain starts to feel less fuzzy.

“I’m glad to have helped,” you smile back finally, feeling very aware of sweat and tears drying on your face.

Steve zips his pants up and kisses your forehead before gathering your clothes from the floor. He offers them to you, which you accept, and you begin to get dressed as he and Elvis talk.

“Thank you for that. It’s been a weird day,” Elvis says, running a hand through his hair as he reties his robe.

“Yeah, Y/N figured you either need some kind words or some kind actions. She’s good at that sort of thing,” Steve chuckles.

“About what you said earlier, about me needing to say something,” Elvis furrows his eyebrows in thought, “It reminded me of something someone told me once.”

Steve and Elvis converse further as you finish getting redressed. You study your reflection in the mirror, wiping at the smeared makeup under your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you let it out before walking over to where your boyfriend was.

“Hey baby,” Steve tucks you into his side, “E.P. and I are going to head back to the booth to work on something. Do you feel up to joining us?”

“Of course,” you smile, “What are you guys working on?”

“A song,” Elvis returns your smile, “A song the world needs to hear right now.”

“Then let’s get it out there.”

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