mr smudge

The class swarmed inside and took their seats at random, rather than what had been assigned. Your normal seat was taken, and all of your friends managed to avoid this class, so you claimed an empty seat in the back.

Some not-so-hushed murmurs managed to catch your attention as you waited for the day’s substitute.




They were talking about Mrs. Harrison, of course, but that didn’t matter. They were just rumors. You were sure that she was fine.

“Hello, class,” the deep baritone was commanding and had an added hiss to the end of the sentence. Your gaze fell to the source, finding who could only be Mrs. Harrison’s substitute.

About half of the class had the decency to quiet down and listen.

He ignored the chatter and continued, “I am Mister…your teacher…and…but don't…” In spite of your ears straining to catch his words they were drowned out by the rest of the room. Eventually, the substitute stopped talking and simply stood at the head of the class with his hands behind his back.

He gave an aura of danger and conceit, but it was overlayed with hospitality and respect. At least…You think? It must have been the way his suit crinkled or the angle at which his head was tilted, but something told you that this man was more angry than he was letting on. That his patience was dwindling.

Even so, he held out like that for about ten minutes until the last person had been shushed and all eyes were on him. He gave a tight lipped smile.

“My,” he hummed. “Ten minutes. Class,” he shook his head. “I am disappointed.”

The student in front of you mumbled under his breath, “Who cares?”

It was faint enough to where you had trouble hearing it, but somehow the substitute must have caught his words. He slowly, purposefully took planned steps in your direction until he stood next to the student.

You were surprised when his gaze fell on you, “Is he bothering you?”

You shook your head.

“I’m pretty sure he’s bothering you,” he smiled. It was charming, but the situation made it unusual. “Just say he is if he is.”

The words may have seemed as though he was making sure you weren’t being distracted, but he managed to use them to convey what he wanted: If he says anything else, let me know.

You swallowed and didn’t dare move. All eyes were on you. What do you do? Should you do anything? His dark eyes seemed empty, but still warm. Was the warmth false? What do you do?

The lights flickered briefly, causing the class to chorus in a simultaneous sound of shock, and just like that the substitute was already halfway back to the front.

“Now,” he took the chalk from the board.

He straightened his suit and rolled his shoulders back, looking quite proud of being himself. “Shall we get started with-”

Just like that the door opened. A blond woman shuffled in brushing the remains of rain from her skirt. She had a teal binder tucked in her arm and a hurried disposition about her.

“Sorry, about that class,” she chirped. “There was a car crash on the way here. On such short notice, too,” she whooped to show her amazement.

You looked back to the board, the previous substitute gone. You would have thought he was your imagination if it wasn’t for the rest of the class’s confused conversations surrounding you.

The chalk on the board read Mr. Dark. And a smudge of what was the rest of the chalk, pressed into the green surface.

anonymous asked:

History teacher Bellamy Blake has a globe on his desk and books galore. There's a map of the Pacific on one wall, with the flag of the Philippines hanging on the other. He wears glasses, a button-up with the sleeves rolled, and a smile everyday. His classroom is a little cramped with 20 desks, but it's worth it for being five steps away from the sculpting studio. It has definitely nothing to do with the pretty blonde art teacher, who has the colors pink, blue, and purple dyed into her hair.

he’s either the absolute best or the worst depending on who you ask; his rep of being engaging and mostly laid back precedes him which is why a lot of people come in thinking it’s gonna be an easy a and then they’re shocked when he assigns an essay on the effects of neocolonialism on the first day. still, he’s mostly loved by everyone because he may be a bit of hardass when it comes to work, but he knows what he’s doing; he has a way of having seemingly normal conversations in class and then when you leave you realise you know almost everything about the war of 1812

and then there’s his thing with the new art teacher.

(they firmly deny that it’s not a thing but it’s to no avail; highschoolers believe what they want to believe)

it starts when clarke- ahem, ms griffin-wink-you-can-call-me-clarke-wink- shows up on the first day. it’s a small town and no one has ever seen or heard of this woman, the one with as much colours splashed in her hair as there are on her skin. she’s from the northeast, her degree from harvard and somehow she ends up here in virginia, teaching in art in sleepy old ark. it’s a mystery that nancy drew probably couldn’t solve.

their feud starts of small, a terse whispered conversation in the hallway watched by almost two dozen eager eyes. clarke likes to play music while her students work, claiming that it helps nurture creativity, and mr blake does not appreciate the noise. she agrees to turn it down a bit and he goes back to his class.

but ark’s walls are thin and he can still hear the muffled sounds of pink floyd while he’s trying to teach the civil war.

and that’s how it starts.

they’re always unerringly polite, throwing compliments like knives at each other in the hallways, but sometimes when there’s the odd student lurking around after school they hear the real conversations about how mr blake is a stick in the mud with a hard on for the civil rights movement and how clarke wouldn’t know professionalism if it punched her in the face.

it’s the most interesting part of the school year and when it comes to sort out timetables for the new term, almost half the school wants in on art and history classes.

(admin offers bellamy blake a bigger classroom in the new wing on the other side of the school. it can hold up to forty students, has one of those smart board things, and the air con doesn’t take a good a fifteen minutes to kick in.)

(he declines and when asked why, he just shrugs. ‘i like smaller classes,’ he says, and then goes back grading essays.)

that might be a reason, but more than a handful of people notice the quirky comic style drawings that he’s pinned to the bulletin board at the front, and clarke is far less subtle, telling one of her seniors, ‘oh, bellamy bought it for me,’ when they asked where she got her ‘if ain’t baroque, don’t fix it’ mug.

and then if that wasn’t enough, it turns out that mr blake sometimes gives clarke a lift home because she only lives a block away from him with her cat, frida. it’s practically too much for a bunch of teenagers to handle, and almost all the freshmen believe that they’re going to get married.

‘oh please, actual human emotions are far too complex for me to achieve,’ she says when questioned about it in class one day. unlike mr blake who just glares them into silence anytime someone dares broach the topic, clarke chatters away freely, uncaring of who’s listening.

‘don’t stop at that,’ bellamy says, leaning against the doorway. his sleeves are rolled up as usual and his hair doesn’t look like it’s been combed in three days. he flashes them all a hint of a smirk, once again reminding them why clarke and mr griffin are the most frustrating couple in school for a number of reasons. ‘a lot of things are too complex for you. like remembering to pack lunch.’

he throws a brown bag at her which she catches singlehandedly. ‘turkey on rye. something that has more sustenance than peanut butter ritz crackers.’

‘hey, it has all major food groups covered: carbs, fats, and protein,’ she says

bellamy just twists his face and pushes off the wall, heading back to his class, and clarke calls after him, ‘thanks for lunch hunny!’ causing the tips of his ears to turn red.

honestly, they’re both terrible at keeping this…. whatever a secret, and far too good at it since there’s no concrete evidence.

(of course, jasper jordan insists that he caught them making out in a janitor’s closet one time, but first of all, jasper has a reputation of being sneaking out of class to get high most times, and secondly, why would they make out in a janitor’s closet when mr blake has a car?)

so that’s how mr blake and clarke became one of ark’s biggest won’t they/ will they couples while continuing to flaunt their relationship in everyone’s face. is that one of bellamy’s dress shirts she’s wearing with leggings, or is it just an oversized tunic? is that lipstick smudged on mr blake’s collar, or is it a drop of ketchup from his lunch? did clarke lean in to mutter something in his ear about exams so their students wouldn’t have a chance of hearing or reading her lips, or did she brush a kiss to his cheek?

no one knows for sure, and no one probably will ever know, because clarke and mr blake don’t kiss and tell.

questbendyfangirl  asked:

So fregin bored.... Why doesn't Mr. Smudge next to you talk to me? It's like I'm talking to a fregin wall, ain't that right, poster? The insanity is showing.... I need friends.....

Who? (am I that tired that I have no clue who that is)

unseelieprinces  asked:

[imagine this is ellen and i’m ellen so you’re the guest star] k so how do you feel abt people shipping Mr. Noodles and Mr. Mustache from [reads smudged writing on hand] Voretron: Legionnaire Defense

honestly? i’m Very Tired of crack shipping in general, but the concept of them as a serious or a silly ship is very cute

Smelling-rumple-leatherpanstu prompted: “Rumplestilskin in allergic to Belle lipstick. Thank you very much.”


Rumpel honestly didn’t notice the mark until he was shaving , but once he noticed it, the irritation wouldn’t go away.

Belle’s brow furrowed when she saw it, running her delicate fingertips over the sore spot on his cheek, her touch soothing.

“It’s nothing,” he reassured her. “Just razor burn.”

Belle raised one eyebrow, because they both knew that he’d never had razor burn in all the time they’d been living together. Still, there was a first time for everything, so Rumpel wasn’t overly worried.

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