#1. read the whole fucking book and PAID ATTENTION

[legobiwan]

"First, let's get something out of the way: a human's ability to grasp reality is painfully limited. You don't even have free will! Don't believe me? Okay, rip a dollar in half right now. Didn't do it? Didn't think so!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"PS: Look what I just ripped in half! Suck it!"

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I love Stan so, so much for this.

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (Part 9)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things 📍 Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like her smutty💦

Part 9 - Shiny Things

Ephi moves in, and Ruth reads you like an open book.

「Warnings/Promises: HumanAlastor x Fem! BurlesqueReader, Reference to domestic abuse of non-reader character, fucks, crows, swans, emotions be emotioning, so many birds, I don’t think reader is Aromantic I think she’s just stubborn, Cliff diving is just a joke do not follow people off cliffs, everyone is kicking reader’s ass in some way, my apologies to parts of Texas but not Texas as a whole」

Long time no see ! My head wasn’t in the right space for this story, and my head was also literally not doing well. But! Reading glasses helped since I’m writing on my phone like 7 inches from my face. the goal is Wednesday updates~ there’s about four parts already written so we’ve got a month of runway 👌🏼 Wednesday mornings are ‘God, That’s Good’ by @macabr3-barbi3 and nights are ADIF!

🎶 last time on A Doe In Fall 🎶 : you came home from your first week staying officially at Alastor’s to find your estranged sister waiting on your stoop.

this isn’t sexy but just like minors come on, MDNI? This blog is a sex shop

It’s not that you hated your sister, it’s that you resented her. You could love someone and not like them an ounce… but unfortunately when she left so did your familial love. Which meant all that held you together now was distrust and an obligation to a dead woman. 

“So things didn’t pan out up north?” You waved her into your apartment, agitation apparent in even the gesture of your arm. 

“It’s peachy! Just need to lay low a bit.” She said it with a chipper voice while looking around your apartment like she paid for it. “Wow you weren’t lying about the no money, huh? Talk about a shoebox.”

Charming. 

“Well, Ephi, you’re welcome to leave.” While you didn’t understand the name it wasn’t your business to question what someone asked to be called. Especially considering your own dual identity. You may have disliked the woman but human decency still hung to the bones of the relationship you called your sisterhood.

An obnoxious chuckle, “Nah it’ll do! Just the one single bed?”

“Why would I have more than one bed?”

A deep sigh from her, “Still last to be picked by the fellas, sis?” Her hand passed over your dresses hanging in the open closet, “The ugly duckling was always your favorite story.”

The fine hairs rose on the back of your neck, a cat’s hackles moving as the anger bristled through your body. You opened your mouth to shout all the ways you were not the ugly one in the room, hand already in the air to direct her attention to the dried, hanging flowers covering the far wall. How many people threw flowers at her feet? How many proposals were shouted to her? Wedding rings slipped off fingers and into pockets for her? 

The air in your lungs went flat as a small fire of embarrassment rose in your gut.

How could she so quickly reduce you to a little girl again? Taking the bait for a fight you couldn’t win, because she wasn’t listening to anything but her own voice. Biting the inside of your cheek, your hand fell back to your side.

“You can take it. I’ll just be by for clothes now and then. Been staying with a friend closer to work.” Flipping through your mind you tried to catalog your valuables. What did you absolutely need to not turn up missing?

Ephi sat on the bed and crossed her legs in her best imitation of a lady. “Staying with Mister Fancy Pants?” A smile that reminded you of your childhood. A smile that said, “I won’t tell mom!” Right before turning and running to your mother’s ear.

“No.” 

A giggle two octaves above her usual tone, “Sure, okay! No skin off my back.”

You took your time to gather the items you had forgotten first, then the items you didn’t want her to have. Unsure how exactly to tell Alastor why a week into sharing his home officially you were already redecorating, you left that for your future self to figure out. The first item was obvious.

An angel statue your mother kept on her nightstand. You wrapped it in some newspaper, trying not to look in her direction. 

Your sister chased dick like most people chased liberty. Something she shared with your mother. Which was her right, but it rubbed you the wrong way how she would always forget everyone else in her life when she had a man to call her own. A fair weather friend, at that. 

“How’s Howard?” The dick that took her away so many years ago.

She abandoned the lady act and rummaged through your cabinets, “Who’s that?”

Right.

A gold coin on a necklace. You slipped it inside a sock. 

“So, then, who is the man of the hour?”

Ephi began opening the dresser drawers, poking here and there. “Whaddya mean! I am an independent woman.”

You weren’t sure that had ever been true. While your mother had drilled it into your skull to never place yourself in the need of a man, she always seemed to throw her heart (and house keys and purse strings…) at the feet of any man willing to love her. 

“Love” her. 

There was no love in any of that. A common problem of confusing love with any and all intense emotions affected your mother and many others.

Slashed furniture is not adoration. Breaking windows is not a love language. Bruises are not affection.

Your hands ran down the bag’s shapeless sides. Without thinking, you smiled. Adoration. Love languages. Affection. You had them and the knowledge of their secrets all to yourself. 

Secrets you didn’t need slipping out. Secrets your sister couldn’t hold to save her life, or yours for that matter. You hurried around the room grabbing knick-knacks and photos and jewelry. Alastor would be at work soon, you wondered if you should call to warn him. This time not about a hot headed flatfoot but a nosey sibling.

You’d tell him later. No reason to talk to Brenda again. Quickly your leather bag got full and heavy. What was supposed to be a casual foray into sharing a home already turning into a full on move. 

Everything you needed and a few things no one ever would, because damn would Ephi pawn them the very second she needed something, were safely zipped away. Any plans to relax at home before work were abandoned and you just marched to the door. 

A random memory flashed behind your eyes,  washing Alastor’s hair in the tub until the water ran clear. Why now? The only memory shared in your apartment. And it was an awful one. But, it had Alastor. That gave it value. 

“Hey, if any men come by looking for me you just don’t answer, okay?” You forced your face to relax, to show the sincerity you worked so hard to keep to yourself, “Please, Ephi.”

Her smile widened past unnaturally white teeth, no money for a room but clearly cash for peroxide tooth gel, “Ooh, why? Little sister make some enemies?”

Why couldn’t she just fucking agree?

“My job sometimes attracts crazies. I don’t tell them where I live but occasionally they figure it out. They’ve gotten violent before so…just don’t answer the buzzer. They’ll say they’re damn near anyone to get you to let them up.” You stopped the nervous twisting of your bag’s handle, “Boyfriend, boss, detective. They've tried it all.”

“Aww, sis. Look at you.” She leaned her full figure against the open door frame, arm raised up like a pin up. Ephi was always effortlessly enchanting when her mouth was closed. “Stalkers? Mama would be so proud. Finally learning how to catch a man’s attention.”

The tears that stung your eyes were inspired partly by anger and partly by pain. They came so suddenly you could only laugh in response. 

“Lovely to see your new name hasn’t changed you, Ephi. I’ll be back occasionally. Don’t steal anything, no strangers over. Spare key is in the bowl by the door.” 

“Oh hey!” 

You turned back.

“I do need some cash. Until I find work.”

The numbness blanketed you with a chill. 

“I’ve got like, three bucks. Is that fine?”

Why did you ask that? You knew she could very well say it wasn’t fine and you’d be obligated to offer to get more. Atleast, that’s what you’d have done when you were younger. How easily you both slipped into old roles. Or perhaps she never grew out of hers. 

She mulled it over, “Yeah that’ll be fine.” Her hand came out and waited for the bills.

An open palm waiting for your money.

You pulled the folded bills from your wallet and set them in her hand without touching her skin. 

“Thanks sis!” She turned and closed the door before you could reply.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The other dancers shot you a look when your bag jingled and clanked as it hit the floor, you wincing as you remembered the ceramic figurine.

“You…. going somewhere, hun? The detective got you on something?”

A quick shake of your head. You hadn’t considered the optics. Luckily it was early enough the room wasn’t very busy. A few select missing women would have pried for more information. Your hands fidgeted, unsure what to do. On the way in you saw some newer talent getting their feet on stage, maybe watch them? Too early for make up. 

A loving voice from Ruth, always a savior, “Cigarette?”

You melted at the offer. Alastor wasn’t a fan of the smell so you were slyly cutting back. 

She popped a sun bleached folding chair open and set it in between you both as a footrest. So many broken and ruined chairs littered the sides of the dingy roof, you were shocked she found a good one on her first try.

“Alright, tell me what happened with that detective. Do I need to go rough up a city employee?” Ruth leaned back and settled into her chair with a creak and a whine of the wood.

You needed a second, eyes flitting around as she handed her cigarette for you to take a drag. What could you say? What did she already know? You’d not spoken about it since she helped shoo him away but the appearance of half your belongings haphazardly stuffed into a bag clearly had her alarms going off. 

“So remember the guy who came by for me? Tall handsome one.”

She nodded enthusiastically, “Yes! Of course. Don’t forget a name like his. Or face.” She whistled like a crude man trying to get a woman’s attention in the most annoying way.

“The detective thinks he did something to Tommy. That he was jealous. Which is ridiculous-,” you felt a nervous energy slip down your arms. 

An abrupt laugh, “That string bean couldn’t open a heavy window. He didn’t do shit to Tommy. What a stupid thing to say.”

Did she notice how much you’d been holding your breath? A deep sigh as you let it go. “Exactly! He doesn’t even know about what happened that night with that guy and Tommy’s arrangement; it’s too mortifying. Anyway, the detective has been hounding me about it. I don’t wanna cause trouble.” You ashed the cigarette and held it out for her, “Stuff is still new with him and me, so I didn’t tell the detective his details or work anything. Why would I? So he can harass him too?” The words all tumbled out so quickly. A faucet turned too far to the left.

“Fair.” A few passes back and forth in what you hoped was a comfortable silence and not an indication she was piecing together things you needed to remain unlinked. Finally, “Didn’t realize you two were still seeing each other. Longest one you’ve kept for awhile now.”

Looking up, you marveled at the view of the open sky. Not a cloud in sight. A smile crept across your face, the heat of the sun warming you from the inside out. The slightest chill to the air warning you of Fall. “Yeah.”

She asked what made him so special and you didn’t know where to start. “The obvious,” you began. “He’s so-,”

“Clever.” “Handsome.”

You’d spoken at the same time, her attempt at soothsaying failing miserably.

“Clever, Ruth. He’s very clever. Handsome men are a dime a dozen. But he’s sharp as a tack.” She rolled her eyes and waved her hand around for you to go on. You let your mind toss out the shiniest examples. “He’s so skilled. He knows how to hunt and take apart animals. He can fish. Cooks like a dream. He knows how to clean clothes well and how to use a washing board.” 

“Useful.” She mused. That isn’t what you meant. You weren’t trying to list off his features like a new appliance. It was just— impressive. He was well rounded.

“And he’s terribly kind. He’s always,” how to say it delicately, “going out of his way to help others solve their problems.” That seemed accurate and vague enough. You chuckled to yourself, remembering him at the kitchen table, “His face lights up so bright when he’s talking about his hobbies. Like, I can see his soul glittering behind his eyes and suddenly I’m just as interested in whatever he’s talking about as he is.” You let your eyes close around the mental image of his surprised face every time you complimented him. But they shot open when she began giggling, “What?”

“You’re in looooove,” her foot kicked yours, “I know that look. Head over heels already. Talking about him like he made the fucking stars.”

Wide eyed and stunned, was it written on your face so plainly? “Oh don’t say that. It makes me so uncomfortable. We’re just enjoying each other's company.” When she moved to give you the cigarette again you didn’t take it. “All I was saying was—,” fuck, what were you saying? That he was special? “He’s a very nice person to spend my limited time with. It’s a finite resource and all.”

With a shrug she took another puff, “What’s to be uncomfortable about? Falling in love is a wonderful thing, hun.”

Was it? Honestly, had she ever considered how much damage came with loving someone? It was putting your heart outside your body. Letting someone else carry it around and just praying they didn’t hurt you, or get hurt, or go off and die and take your heart with them. Why would anyone willingly do such a silly thing?

“Cheesy. And kind of creepy. Falling? How do I get back up if things go south?”

You’d successfully avoided emotional attachment to nearly every lover you’d taken. The way women seemed to get struck down dumb by any old John or Jane just wasn’t appealing. Love was for fools. The weak. The dependent.

Or, so you had whispered to yourself as you pretended to not be home when suitors came knocking, as you avoided ringing phones, as you apologized and slid out of restaurant seats after awkward dinners. 

“If you fall hard enough, you don’t get back up.” She said it like it was a good thing. “You’ll love them forever, even if you hate em.”

That was the problem, too. How could she not hear that as she said it? All loss of control of your own heart and emotions was simply bad. People do irrational things for love.

You shivered, “That sounds absolutely horrid, Ruth.”

“Aah,” she dismissed you with a raspberry blown between her lips, “For the right man, you’ll find yourself enjoying the trip down!” 

“Nah, I’m not fan of heights. No dick is worth that.”

“Is that all men are to you? Sex?” She guffawed, taken aback by your comment. Which was odd, given it was Ruth. 

But, Yes.

Well. No . But — he wasn't a man. He was something different. The exception to the rule. Alastor was different.

Or, fine. 

Yes, he was a man. 

No, you didn’t see them as just sex. It was easier to say people were just pleasure and not stop to think about life any other way. Things got complicated when you added another person. Life became sloppy and uncontainable. If you stopped and considered the lives behind the people you used to lead on and let go before things got too difficult, you’d just wound yourself. It was easier to stop at sex.

When you could. Which you could, before. When sex was a token you traded back and forth with someone. But Alastor didn’t accept that currency. You couldn’t hand him your body and get brief but lovely companionship back. Your value had to lie elsewhere, the things you set before him and the wonders he had to offer were much richer in their worth than what you’d ever had before. 

Sometimes it felt like you slid him a penny and he handed you a quarter. You found yourself scrounging up the petty coins of your worth and trying to save them up for him. Practicing your makeup, learning how he liked his coffee, remembering all of the things he said he hated and loved. Attempting to stop smoking. Every act was another shiny offering for him. 

A crow scrounging the park grounds for glittering trash. Not very swan-like, you thought.

“You really don’t think you’re falling for him?” Ruth put out the cigarette in the coffee can beside her. As you turned to argue with her you saw her face full of amusement and incredulousness. It was rhetorical.

The argument withered and you could only pout, everyone that day seeming to catch your tongue, “I don’t wanna think about it. I’ll get scared and run away. He’ll figure out how little I have to give eventually. If anything more is gonna happen, it’ll happen. I’ll just… let it. Why ruin it with… saying childish things.”

“You’re naive but that’s okay. Enjoy the honeymoon stage while you can.”

Your eyes rolled, “What if he doesn’t feel the same? Why embarrass myself.” When you sighed the weight of just how heavy and true that sentiment was resonated in your stomach. Telling him you were falling in love? Alastor was a killer. His passion was singular. What good was a dame to him? No, worse than worthless. A liability. A witness. A weak point in the walls he so carefully crafted. If he knew you were in love with him he’d just end things sooner than they would have naturally.

“Dontcha wanna know if he’s a waste of that precious time, then?”

You cackled, choking on your spit. Alastor? He was the most worthwhile thing you’d ever encountered. Time with him suddenly had …. Value. That fucking word again. But time with him, it was slow enough to be deep and rich, but so fleeting you already felt a mourning mood for how much closer you were to the end.

You could only shake your head, “Wait, Ruth, didn’t you get divorced?”

“Shhh that doesn’t count!” She rose and stretched her long arms up to the sun and then out to the horizon, “Plus that’s how I know what I’m talking about! After the honeymoon phase? You’ll be arguing about laundry and wishing you were strangers again. Fighting about children and lawncare.”

As your finger nervously came to your mouth, teeth cutting into the nail, you considered how if Alastor complained about laundry and you could argue back with the comfort of knowing neither would simply leave, that’d be….nice. The safety of being honest without the fear of the other person giving up on you. Was that love? 

And did that matter at all? 

You’d thought earlier you knew the answers but now, when someone else said it, you got scared of those words. 

Ruth must have put a spell on you. As you and a bevy of others danced in line on stage, arms over shoulders and legs kicking high enough to show cheek and jiggle the soft skin of your thighs and stomach, you felt butterflies in your gut. Alastor would be picking you up in a matter of hours. 

A few men sent you drinks, which you repaid with a wink and a kiss blown across the bar before downing the liquor. It was the usual routine. You hadn’t felt nerves to see Alastor quite like that since sheepishly picking out “comfortable” shoes.

Alastor’s eyes widened when he took the bag from you, not noticing your attempts to avoid making eye contact. He let out a chuckle, his best attempt at stifling the joking question, “Already moving in?”

He realized quickly enough that wasn’t a good joke. Not when he finally looked up and saw your stare was distant. 

“Everything okay, dear?” He walked to open your door for you, and you nodded a thank you and an affirmative.

Should you rip off the band aid? Should you just say it and see what happens? 

When you turned to look at him and blurt out a confession, you were stopped by the profile of his face. What a gentle face. A lovely jaw. Even his bones were better than other people’s. What were you doing in this man’s car? What little pieces of glittering trash were you about to toss at him on a random Friday night?

No, in the books you read, confessions were always grande affairs. Fireworks and dinner parties and passionate kisses in rain storms.

You’d have to put a little effort into this. His brows rose as he clocked your staring. Eyes on the road, smirk pulled to the right, his hand came to rest on your thigh.

He deserved something much better than whatever you had to offer. Something unlike yourself entirely. 

The drive home, and yes you let yourself linger on the word instead of shoo it away, you watched a deer jump across the dirt road just past the bridge. 

“The bucks chase the does. It’s part of their mating ritual. I guess it’s not unlike the ‘playing hard to get’ some women like. The longer the chase, the prouder the buck to snag his prize.”

You laughed, “Women don’t like it, I don’t think. Well, some do I am sure but… If we don’t do that then people think we’re easy. We need plausible deniability. If people learn we put out we can claim we didn’t really want to and save some face.”

Alastor grimaced, “Gross.”

Unseen, you nodded and turned to watch the buck leap after its doe. 

“Kind of funny, you chased me down, didn’t you?” Alastor’s comment pulled you back to him.

“Oh yes. That makes you my doe.” Your arm came to rest against the car door, the trees slowly rolling by in the darkness. “Reminds me of the small freckles across your shoulders.”

“My mighty buck!” He fawned, in jest, pretending to collapse into your lap. You shoved him back up and behind the wheel proper. “Well given the chance, I’d chase you for miles.” His hand flexed on your leg.

“To Texas?” You asked. Your usual end point.

“Further.”

“How far?”

“There is no limit. I’d … run right off a cliff, head first, if you were waiting at the bottom.” He took his hand back, needing both to hold the wheel. What he said hit him harder than he had intended. Was it too much? A tad too dramatic? A nervous clearing of his throat, followed by an awkward laugh to put more space between him and the confession. 

The idea of you making Alastor chase you was ridiculous. You enjoyed the games you played with others, but you were never meant to be caught. If you wanted that, you’d just…give yourself. As you had done with him. Only him. The first and last person you ever wanted to give yourself over to in any sense. “And if I just… lied down and let you catch me? Would that make me a poorly earned prize?”

“Nope! That’d make me a lucky duck. And make you quite smart, if I do say so myself.” A wink. “Why run from such a catch like me?”

You landed a smack on his arm, light and playful. 

A truly comfortable silence settled in, just the sound of the car trembling over the rough road. The newest model Ford was still as loud as the last, but luckily you were far from others. 

The words had lingered like smoke, and you felt the need to address them.  

“Don’t actually do that though. If I run off a cliff or something stupid, don’t you dare follow me.”

Alastor just laughed, wasn’t that what you were doing for him already? Diving into hell for some inexplicable reason after Alastor. He wasn’t expressing some lack of self preservation, he was merely letting you know he’d reciprocate the fall. You hadn’t made him run after you, but instead seemed to just….rest your neck between his canines. And trust. 

If you were to go to heaven, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. It was too late to redeem his soul now. How far was heaven from hell, anyways? If the devil survived the plummet perhaps he could scale the walls of his enclosure and breach the gates.

Though, as he thought about the idea of heaven, he considered how happy his mother would be to meet you. To take you from her would be as cruel as heaven taking you from him. 

Maybe he could make a plea. To just be able to see you from below. 

But if the knowledge you were happy and safe was all he had, he’d be a richer man in hell than he’d ever been on earth. It’d be enough. 

He’d just need to broadcast his radio waves a little further for your listening pleasure.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

[randomkduck]

catdow revival au chapter 5: Oh… Good for her.

Sorry for how long it took to release this chapter. Wound up sick and then life hit me with a brick (hey that rhymes!). Anyways! Here it is! And the rest of the fic has been finished, now it's just about posting it. Which might be over the course of a few days just so that I can remember to actually do it.

Anyways, please enjoy!

Shadow looked around the house. Boredom begging to be somehow released.

Red and Green were out of the house, likely for a few days. Vio was cooped up in his room with the door only a crack open and his nose buried deep in a book.

Blue was around. But he was a kind of typhoon of activity. Switching from making food to cleaning things around the house to reading to making food again to exercising. Never giving one thing more than 20 minutes of focus.

Shadow watched him for awhile, and then thought it would be fun to try and keep up with him.

~~~~~~

I started when he moved back to his corner. There was a yoga mat with various instructions on it for how to do different stretches, and various doodads around that seemed to be for muscle??? Maybe??? Blue made his way over, and I followed. 

He did a stretch, I did my best to mimic it while still a cat. He lifted one of the doodads, I lifted a book or something else heavy and within reach.

He didn’t really notice at first. Having not paid a single ounce of attention to me for almost the whole day.

He’d reach down and pat my side whenever I walked in front of him, but that was about it.

I didn’t really know what to do while he finished whatever cooking/baking (I don’t really know the difference) project so I just circled for a little while.

He seemed to notice that (and the intense eye contact I made) but didn’t comment on it beyond a grumble of “weird ass cat” and a soft smile.

It was when he went back to cleaning that the problems arose.

Oh mercy be upon the soul who decides to reveal all the dust under the chairs by accidentally becoming a feather duster.

I trotted up to Blue, feeling extremely grumpy because I knew there was no way I was cleaning this up by licking it. No way. I refused before I’ll refuse again!

At least until Blue tried to get me in the bath. 

Which, for 1: No. For 2: No . And for 3: NO !!

Are you kidding? Getting me all soaked and soapy and having to air dry like some rat crawling out of a sewer? No thanks. I’m good.

“Come on! I need to get you cleaned up before I can clean up the dust and dirt everywhere else! I will not stand to have you running around when you're all dirty.. And… UGH!!!” I managed to jump out of his hands, running from the room and up into Vio’s room. Where I hid under his bed.

Vio had a lot of weird stuff under there. Lots of books that I’m pretty sure he had room for on the shelves. Boxes of papers and notebooks and notes. Other boxes with other stuff I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know about.

Okay, hiding under Vio’s bed was scarier than the bath by a long shot.

Vio seemed to agree with me, because he dragged me out from under the bed with a look of pure horror on his face.

“Blue! What are you doing to the cat??” He asked, sounding a little tight, like he had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

What the fuck does he have under his bed????

Blue at least looked apologetic as he lifted me out of Vio's grasp, He’s trying to give me a bath, that’s what! “rrrrrrowww.” He gave me a pointed look, I gave him a grumpy one back.

“Sorry! I was trying to give him a bath!” Blue apologized, an awkward smile on his face as he started to pet me.

“Maybe find a different way to do that then? Because I really don’t want him in my room.” Vio at this point had gone back to his usual calm, cool demeanour. Which was annoying. Be real damnit!

“Why? What’s in your room that you don’t want him getting into?” Blue asked bluntly, narrowing his eyes.

Vio froze up, and then glanced at his bed, not answering. 

Alright, setting that aside in my head as another thing for later.

“Vio-” Blue tried to ask again, looking about as suspicious as I felt.

“It’s nothing, okay? Green had it in his had to teach the little rat how to steal my stuff, I really don’t want him making off with my notes or research!” Vio spat out, like he had to get the excuse out before Blue could say anything.

Blue didn’t look impressed. “The research that keeps you cooped up in here more days than it doesn’t? The research that looks a heck of a lot like messing around with shit you shouldn’t be?” Blue accused, then shook his head. “You know what, have fun with that. Just make sure you’re room is clean, I’m deep cleaning the house today.” He ordered, carrying me out of the room. 

“Stupid jerk. I wouldn’t want poor Shadow in there anyways, he would just collect more dust and dirt and bacteria not even known by science in there!” Blue grumbled under his breath, bringing me back into the bathroom.

I was too busy thinking about how I was gonna break in there again to struggle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of Shadow’s day was spent with Blue. Who had stopped being a tornado of doing stuff, and had sat down to read a book.

Shocking turn of events, I know.

At one point he got this frustrated look on his face and set the book down hard beside him. Thankfully on the opposite side of him than Shadow had been snuggled up to.

He folded his arms, staring straight ahead in annoyance.

“Row?” Shadow looked up at him.

Blue glanced down at him. “I don’t need to explain myself to a cat.” He said.

“Mrrrp.” fine, Shadow set his head back down on his pause. Ears perking up as Blue decided he did need to explain himself to a cat.

“The main character is just… ugh??? She just makes me wanna-!” Blue gripped at the air like he could strangle this imaginary character if he believed hard enough.

“In book one, she wasn’t so bad. It was like reading my own thoughts on a page and the only reason I even continued through the book, and she got the cool ass reward for her good deeds with getting to actually have a more feminine- oh uh, she was born male but is a girl -not completely removing her being born male but she still got- and now in the sequel??? It’s like the author forgot everything about her character! He wrote her as being this baddass nuanced woman, and the moment she transitions fully she’s like… half the character she was before and-!” Blue slapped his hands over his forehead and dragged them down.

He nodded, not getting any of what he was saying but still wanting to be supportive.

“I miss the character who gave me my awakening, where did she go?” Blue grumbled.

Shadow paused. Blinking.

Wait what.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone would you? I’m not ready for them to know.” Blue grinned, knowing full well that Shadow couldn’t tell anyone shit.

BLUE’S A GIRL???? Shadow stared dumbly at him… her???

Blue just set, him down and went back to petting him. Seemingly not noticing the poor cat's brain frying.

He shook his head, causing her to flinch.

Blue’s a girl… good for her.

[soleminisanction]

The thing I keep coming back to, now that I've wrapped up the first part of "Batgirl, Repentant" and am starting to outline the second, is how much the book's hyper-focus on Steph hamstrings the story I think they're trying to tell.

I say I think because obviously I can't read the writers' minds so for all I know they taped the random lip service about hope and justice and fighting for the little guys onto the Stephanie-love-fest in a half-assed response to criticism, but I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt and believe that when the first arc ends with:

And that gets followed up two issues later with Steph telling Damian:

I want to take them at their word that that's what they're going for. But it's not the story they tell at all because, for all the lip service paid, there's not a single plot point that actually backs those themes up. Every single narrative element is instead 100% oriented around Stephanie, her feelings, her desires, and her ambitions, none of which involve helping or protecting other people.

Batgirl's first appearance in issue 1 isn't about bringing hope or protecting anybody, it's about, "Ooooh, who is this mysterious new Batgirl who's such a badass but looked down on by The Man for being a little chaotic? Ta-da, it's Stephanie Brown!!"

When she talks about promises being made to her mom (by which of course I mean lies, she's just lying to her mother) or the supposed "promise" she didn't actually make to Tim Drake, it's all framed as unreasonable expectations that other people are piling onto Steph's shoulders, without so much as a second thought for how the person she supposedly made these promises to might feel.

When Cass leaves her the Batgirl costume, it's not with requests to carry on the legacy or protect Gotham in her absence or even to look out for Barbara, it's all about Cass's relationship with Bruce (as though that was ever her motivation!) and then "Now the fight is yours, Stephanie" while she vanishes into the rain in her underwear. Like Batgirl is a toy she's letting Steph have her fair turn with now that she doesn't want to play anymore.

When Steph thinks about the symbolism of the Bat and of Batgirl, it's not about how it can be a symbol of hope and protection in the darkness of Gotham, it's about how it makes her feel powerful. Even when she worries about messing up it's framed as, "Nothing I do ever ends well" and "It's just a matter of time before I get caught," not concerns about the harm her previous attempts that "didn't end well" wound up doing to other people.

And despite the fact that there's a riot going on in the next few pages, she's not inspired to go out and help with that, but to assist a single dumbass cop who got in over his head.

And then again when Babs shows up to chew her out in the next issue, it's all about Steph and her safety. "You already died" this and "You have a death wish" that. Barbara Gordon, the original Batgirl, only gets to talk about the symbolism of Batgirl as it relates to Stephanie Brown -- "Wearing that Bat on your chest might scare off the smaller thugs, but you're literally asking, no, begging for attention from more dangerous criminals. You're a mark for anyone who wants to make theirs."

Again, even the fact that she fucked up in the past and hurt people is framed around Steph -- "The last time you tried being helpful, you accidentally brought Gotham to its knees." And while Steph pays lip service to "doing this instead of sleeping" because she "thinks it's right," she doesn't ever elaborate on what exactly is "the right thing" she thinks she's doing, and it's not like she's gone out to protect people. You can't even argue, like you maybe could with the street race, that she's doing a flashy display to show ordinary people there's someone on their side -- she's beating up random goons in an isolated chop-shop.

Then of course there's the fact that nothing about Scarecrow's whole Thrill plot makes any sense because he's not being written with any kind of coherent villain motivation, it's all just being done to set up moments for Steph. Why do some of his goons decide to spike the punch at a random college party and then run away at just the right moment to make themselves look as suspicious as possible? Because Stephanie's going to be there and they need to hook her into that plot.

And when Steph argues with Babs later about why they should work together to solve this case, does she express concern about her classmates or her university, or even point out that Barbara isn't working with an on-the-street agent like she has in the past and hey, maybe you'd be a little less stressed if you had someone to share the load?

Nope. It's just "I'm just as much a part of it now as you are!"

To say nothing of my eternal, teeth-grinding frustration over Barbara's characterization. "I'm only being so hard on her because I'm jealous that she's Batgirl and I'm not anymore." Fuck all the way off, Bryan Q. Miller.

This whole thing is so bad that when you get to the climax of this arc -- when they've tracked Scarecrow and his goons to their creepy hospital lair -- the stakes aren't that anyone is in danger, or that there's any chance that Scarecrow might be able to escape in the next five minutes before the police arrive. In fact, if Steph's actual motivation was to make sure Scarecrow saw justice, it would've been a better strategy for her to stay outside watching the exits so she could jump him if he tried to make a run for it.

But she doesn't do that. Because the actual stakes for the climax of the first arc are that if she doesn't swing in and beat the shit out of Scarecrow right the fuck now, the police will beat her to it and then Stephanie won't get the credit for saving the day.

They even try to clumsily raise the stakes by implying that Scarecrow works for Black Mask, a plot point that goes absolutely nowhere because -- whoopsie -- Black Mask is dead at this point and has been since before Steph came back to life. He only ever showed up again as a Black Lantern in Blackest Night, at which point Ivy fed him to a plant.

(They did not fix this in the trade paperback version BTW, I checked)

There's some effort to turn Steph's fight with Scarecrow into something more by having him spout some weird nonsense about how he's controlling people with drugs because, "Nobody truly has a choice little girl" while she represents free will fighting back against attempts to take it away, but that's seriously hamstrung by the fact that writing is all over the place.

Like, at the start of Steph's big dramatic speech, she's all but arguing against the concept of free will, echoing an earlier classroom discussion I've bitched about before, saying that people (by which of course she actually means herself) stay when things get tough "Because we don't know how to do anything else."

But on the very next page she poses the question again and answers it with... frankly complete nonsense.

Because the point isn't actually 'control vs. free will', the whole thing -- all of the forced, misunderstood philosophy that fills out this entire arc -- is actually just repeating the same question Babs was asking earlier, this time in metaphor -- why does Stephanie keep throwing herself into danger, why doesn't she just quit?

And her answers, apparently, are, "because this is who I want to be" and "because I don't know how do anything else." Neither of which spare even a passing thought for anyone but herself, which is kind of a problem if you're trying to present Batgirl's mission statement as bringing hope to the people around her.

Then there's the bit about "facing your worst self," which refers to slightly before this, when Scarecrow drugs Steph with Thrill (a move that makes no sense in-universe because again, Scarecrow is only here to set up set pieces for Stephanie and has zero internal logic of his own). What Steph sees during that sequence is her ex-boyfriend and previous identity tearing her down and telling her that she's not good enough to be a superhero, which implies that her 'worst self' is self-doubt, or possibly "letting other people make you doubt yourself." Again -- all about her, with other people framed as nothing but obstacles to her happiness.

And just to remind you-- she has no actual reason to be here. She's not "saving the city," the city is not under threat. She's not doing anything heroic by throwing herself into this fight. She's only doing this because she wanted the credit for saving the day. That's the only stake the story ever establishes.

It's like there's this standing assumption that she must obviously want to be superhero for selfless reasons, therefore they don't need to bring that up ever and can just focus on how much she wants to be one and how noble it is that she's willing to fight through pain and hardship to be one.

But that's just not how it works? Maybe if you were still writing for the Golden Age when the storytelling was simpler and characterization was optional, but not in 2009. Part of the purpose of a solo book's first arc is to establish/re-establish the core hero's motivation and, if it's changed, explain how and why.

Just as a contemporary example -- Red Robin sends Tim Drake off on what's literally a personal quest and spends its first arc establishing how he's darker and more alone than he's ever been before... but it still opens with him rescuing a kidnapping victim, reaffirming that, whatever he's going through and whatever he has to do to accomplish his goal, he's still, at heart, a hero who will put his own needs aside to protect an innocent. That's also the role that Tam Fox essentially plays in the second arc, giving him someone to protect even when he's isolated from the normal push and pull of the DCU.

Whether you're approaching Batgirl (2009) as a new reader who's never met Steph before in your life, or as someone who read her previous material, there is nothing in this first arc, or those that follow, that establishes her motivation beyond, "I want to be Batgirl and I won't let anyone tell me no." She'll occasionally say she's being selfless and heroic, but it's not backed up by her actions or her thoughts.

Perhaps the most blatant self-contained example of this "It's all about Stephanie and obviously she's a perfectly selfless hero so we don't need to bother establishing it," mindset comes in the denouncement of the first arc. They recreate the vow in the dark -- not the most iconic scene in Batman history but still one that's well-known, a moment that goes all the way back to the first appearance of Robin, when Dick and Bruce vowed an "undying oath" to fight together against crime and corruption and never to swerve from the path of righteousness, symbolically committing themselves to act as a light in the darkness and protectors of the innocent.

Batgirl (2009) recreates this scene... by having Barbara vow to support Stephanie Brown and only Stephanie Brown in everything that she does "for as long as she wants it" so she "won't go out alone" and end up in a chair like Babs did. Meanwhile, Steph's response boils down to, "Oh yeah totes me too," because, according to the book, she doesn't need to take an oath, it's just completely self-evident that she's already made her right choice and will obviously continue to do the same forever and ever, no doubt about it.

Two extra little details scattered throughout:

Through the entire series, Steph is constantly doing this obnoxious humble-brag thing of, "I'm Stephanie Brown, and I'm just a normal girl tee-hee" over images of her doing badass Batgirl things that are obviously supposed to be ironic, and she always uses her full name. The trade paperback version is literally called, "Batgirl: Stephanie Brown" because there's nothing else to say about this story. Tim Drake: Robin didn't use his full name this much and it was actually in the title.

And that's not even getting into how often they waste entire pages on splash images of just... Stephanie. Not Stephanie doing anything special, just, Stephanie, and we're supposed to be very awed and impressed by her because she's Stephanie Brown and she's Batgirl now wowie wow wow.

That one tiny little caption box in the upper-left corner of the last page of the storyline? That's literally the first and only time that the concept of "Batgirl makes sure everyone gets home to see tomorrow" is ever mentioned.

This his is all just the first storyline. This same pattern continues on into the rest of the book, only getting worse as they add in other Batfamily member guest-stars for Steph to show up and prove wrong, and stock civilians who do nothing but shower her with praise and adoration. The tiny little sprinkles they offer up of, "Oh yeah I'm doing this to bring hope to the people of Gotham!!" just don't compare to deluge of "Steph gets to be Batgirl because she wants to be Batgirl, that makes her the coolest motherfucker on the planet, and if you disagree you must be sexist."

---

TL;DR (and sorry this got so long) -- Bryan Q. Miller et. al seem to be either under the impression (or want to give the impression) that they're telling the story of Stephanie Brown, the plucky young girl who never gave up on her dream of being a superhero no matter the haters or setbacks she faced, and how seeing her succeed despite being so average and relatable inspires other average people to have hope and fight for a better tomorrow.

But the story they actually tell is of Stephanie Brown, a teenage girl utterly obsessed with becoming a superhero to the exclusion of all else, including her own well-being, future, and relationships with her friends and family, apparently just because she likes the way it makes her feel, has no self-control and can't imagine herself doing anything else, who is applauded and cheered for this by everyone she meets, save for a small handful of haters who are just there to be proven wrong, beaten up, or both.

The first could've been a good-ish story -- ish, because it doesn't actually engage with Steph's previous characterization, but that's a different post -- but it's just not the story they told.

[mac-cheez]

My Guide to Surviving the Waynes

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I finally finished the ending!! Don't expect an update soon I have no idea when the fancy will strike again and the TMA brain rot is real rn.

Pt. 1 Pt. 2

---------------------------------------------------------

Dear Diary,

I was wrong. SO WRONG. You’d think rich people, especially adopted rich people, would be at least a little sane, but no, they’re not and I have no idea how to deal. It’s only been a couple days since my last entry and so much has happened. So here’s what I’ve learned:

Let’s start with the first incident that happened roughly 10 min after my last entry. I had just finished when Tim offered to meet me in the coffee shop outside of the library (he was picking me up from campus)(Alfred was busy). When I walked in I saw him about to order and walked to the side to wait. He looked at the menu for roughly 0.2 sec before looking the barista dead in the eye saying “I’ll have a Vanilla Cold Brew with seven shots of espresso.”

The barista laughed and joked “Damn you want some cocaine with that?” Then he just said, “Sure that too.” and fucking walked away? He didn’t even give his name he just paid and went straight to the pickup area. The most concerning part of that story is that they fucking did it! And he drank the whole goddamn thing without batting an eye! I was highly concerned for his well-being the entire drive home. (I really need to talk to Mr. Wayne about a rental)

What’s even weirder is when we walked into the manor Dick was just hanging from the chandelier. It was sans rope and more acrobatic, but still concerning considering how tall the ceiling was. I’m still not entirely sure how he got up there, but I just walked away hoping to find my sanity once again.

The rest of the day went relatively smoothly with the normal amount of yelling and death threats (still can’t believe this is reality). The next day something actually nice happened while I was off from college and heading to the kitchen for lunch. It was a Friday so most of the house was either at work or school, and it was pretty quiet (thank god). When I walked in one of the others was in there cooking already (Jason I think?). I decided on a sandwich since he was currently using the stove and it was going smoothly till I got to the pickle jar. For whatever reason that thing was tight as hell and was going nowhere. He looked at me and after my fifth try (and many curse words) he held out his hand. I handed the jar to him, and he opened it without trouble.

“I loosened it,” I said trying to hide my embarrassment.

“Uh-huh,” he said distractedly. We sat in awkward silence till I noticed one of the books from the library on the counter. It was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Sign Of The Four. I asked if he was reading it and he said yes. I asked him if he’s gotten to the twist yet and he looked at me puzzled.

“You’ve read The Sign Of The Four?”

“Yeah, not my favorite Sherlock Holmes Novel, but still good nonetheless,” I said not paying attention, “Are you reading unabridged or abridged?”

“Unabridged,” he said, “you into the classics?”

“Totally, I love a good Victorian mystery or gothic horror novel,” I replied.

“You?” I asked.

“More of a Jane Austen fan myself, but I can respect those choices,” he said thoughtfully.

“I’ve never read her works, but if I have a chance I wouldn’t mind trying,” I said. He looked up at me somewhere between excitement and bewilderment.

“Would you like some recommendations?” He said cautiously. I said sure, and he immediately went into a long speech about Jane Austen and her novels. By the time he was done my sandwich and his ramen were long gone. By the end, I had a list of books to read and a new reading buddy to rant about books to. We’ve hung out intermittently since then, and honestly, it was the sanest thing I did all week. However the sanity didn’t last long.

Many other incidents (too many to write) all culminated in this afternoon, when I finally caved and decided if this was my life, it might as well be documented for (at the very least) the enjoyment of others. It was fairly quiet (first clue) and my morning class had been canceled so I was just sitting in the living room doing some work. Everyone else was out and I was about to leave for my 2:30 class when suddenly someone smashed through the window and a smoke bomb was thrown. I honestly thought it was Tim or Jason being weird again, but then the smoke cleared and there was just a bunch of dudes in Green suits with question marks. They looked around and saw me pretty quickly and immediately pointed whatever weapons they had at me. Eventually, some other ones came in the room and said the house was empty and “Wayne is nowhere to be found.” They started arguing till they finally concluded that if none of the Wayne’s were here, I must be the next best thing. Honestly, I can’t even blame them, and at this point I just let it happen.

They put a bag over my head and put me over the strongest one’s shoulder. I was in a car for about an hour before I was potato sack’d again. Once I was placed down, the bag was taken off my head, and I saw that I was in an abandoned-looking warehouse. I saw some more of the brightly clothed men off to the side arguing, one looking even more ridiculous than the others. The extra ridiculous one finally gave up talking to the others(henchmen maybe?) and walked (more like strutted) over to address me.

“Hello guest of Wayne, may I ask your name?” He asked rhyming for some weird ass reason.

“Vic?”

“Ah yes but what is it’s whole, for a half shall not know?” He said lilting his voice… ‘whimsically’?

“What?”

“Your designation that all might know.”

I just continued looking at him with apparent confusion not knowing what the hell is going on. After a minute he hung his head and spoke normally.

“What is your full name?” He sighed.

“Oh! Victoria Blanc,” I said.

“Ah! And what is your relation to the name of Wayne?” He said trying again with the talking in circles bull.

“Look dude usually I could appreciate….. Whatever it is that's happening, but I’ve had one hell of a week so…….”

“Oh come now it couldn’t have been that bad.” He said dismissively.

“Alright bet! You might wanna sit down this is gonna take a minute.”

Once he sat I started explaining everything that had happened since I’d moved to Gotham. As I was explaining more and more of the “henchmen” started joining the crowd.

“He chased him through the manor with a sword?” Riddler asked (at least that's what one of the others called him).

“Yeah, and apparently this is a normal phenomenon,” I said exasperated.

“And here I thought I was crazy.”

“Oh, no this is probably the most sane thing that's happened to me all week,” I said hand waving (They untied me after a while)(I asked nicely).

I was about to continue when suddenly three figures jumped down and got into fighting positions.

“Let her go Riddler!” Said the one in Black and blue(and maybe a bird?)

“Oh, she was free to leave a while ago.” He said casually to the masked people.

“What?” said the one in red.

“Yeah, we even offered to get her away from that mad house,” said Bob.

“Mad House?”

“Yes, it's almost criminal how they act in that house, you bats should really get on that,” ‘Riddler’ said chidingly. 

I didn't really understand why he called them bats since they all looked bird-themed but I didn't bring it up because honestly, weirder things have happened at this point. They agreed to look into it, albeit very confused(and almost offended), and said they still needed to take me back.

“Fine,” ‘Riddler’ sighed heavily, “ but Vic, sweetie, if you need somewhere safe to stay in Gotham I have plenty of friends who will keep you safe while you finish your degree.”

“Yeah, kinda tempting, but I don't think my parents would like that very much, and they are paying for it so…….”

“Very well, offer stands in perpetuity, to Arkham yes?”

“You're not gonna ask a riddle or…..” said the one in red and black.

“Usually I would but honestly I’m far too concerned right now to care.”

After that, they handcuffed him and the other goons (kinda unfair but i guess they did kidnap me) and walked me out to one of the police cars so I could go back to the manor. They offered to drive me but I've seen enough motorcycle crash scene pictures to put the fear of God (thy name is friction) in me. When I got back Mr. Wayne was in the foyer with Alfred and immediately came over to make sure I was ok.

“Yeah, I'm fine Mr. Wayne, honestly I’m more worried about the class I missed than the kidnapping,” I explained.

He seemed concerned by that but had a phone call right after that he needed to take. Alfred walked me to my room (I think to make sure I wasn't concussed) and I just kinda went back to writing and here we are. Can't wait to see what fresh hell awaits me in the coming week……….. Maybe I should've taken Riddler up on that offer.

[gellavonhamster]

random thoughts on Nightbreed after reading Cabal and watching the Cabal Cut of the movie:

okay, first of all, the Cabal cut is not the version of this movie that I would recommend to, like, a random person who just wants to casually enjoy some movie. It's made of bits of the theatrical cut and various unused footage/deleted scenes some of which don't even have any sound. It is, however, a much more accurate adaptation of the novella than the theatrical cut, not just in terms of what was included or omitted, but in spirit. It also is available on Youtube, by the way

I feel like the main difference between the book and the movie is that the movie presents a much kinder view of the "naturals" than the book. Decker's victims are paid more attention so that their horrifying deaths hit harder (that family at the beginning of the movie is really sweet), the old guy that Decker tries to extract information about the Nightbreed from clearly knows about them but doesn't want any harm to come to them, and, of course, there is one (1) good cop. I cannot help but think, cynically, that the latter is in order to make the movie appeal to a wider audience (not that I didn't like the character)

the character designs Fuck Severely - even more than I remembered from the theatrical cut, probably because the extended cut has even more background characters. I want films about fairies that make them look like that - weird and off-putting and sensual (Rachel is beautiful but strange, Peloquin and Shuna are not beautiful but they are sexy). The book's ambiguity of what some of them are supposed to look like is even better, especially in case of Baphomet - he doesn't even look the way a human mind can truly comprehend - but that is, obviously, not an option for cinema

Boone's story, allegorically, is about finally becoming a happier and more fulfilled person after coming to terms with your sexuality and surrounding yourself with people who really get you. Father Ashbery's story is about internalized homophobia/transphobia, and in the movie specifically, about not being able to overcome it, I guess? At the end of the book, he wants to find the Breed because "he wanted the [God's] touch again"; at the end of the film, he hates Baphomet and the Breed for transforming him. But then again, the movie avoids direct mentions of his queerness (I was pleasantly surprised by how overt it is in the book). Lori's story is about becoming an ally to your local queer community after your partner comes out and then realizing you might not be cishet after all

I don't remember the theatrical cut in all detail - it's been years since I watched it - but I can tell it definitely doesn't let Lori shine as much as the novella, much of which is told from her POV, and the extended cut. I didn't really like her in the theatrical cut, but now I'm like Lori my best friend Lori

the sex scenes in the novella are, hmm, pretty funny at times, but I've read some Stephen King and it could have always been worse

I think the blue guy with horns and the pale guy with tentacles (?) in his stomach are dating

also, pretty sure the theatrical cut didn't have Narcisse flirting with Ohnaka, hehe.

speaking of, I really liked the interactions between Narcisse and Lori in the book when they drive to break Boone out of the police station. In general, he's a fun character, annoying but in a loveable way.

Peloquin is a less prominent character in the book, and iirc he doesn't interact with Lori at all, while in the movie he kind of threateningly flirts with her several times. I wonder if that, like adding the good cop and making the theatrical cut more of a slasher movie, is part of making the movie follow a more traditional pattern, in a way. Here's a heroine and a man she loves and here's another guy who's not quite a love interest for her but lowkey a possibility of one. Which is interesting considering the whole queer allegory and that Peloquin was the one who bit Boone

I love the scene in the book where Babette lets Lori see her secret hideaway and there's a handmade doll and her collection of stones and other children's treasures 🥺 I think her animal form is the only case where the book description ("a wild cat of some kind, perhaps, but that the skin resembled deer hide rather than fur") is less weird that her movie appearance. If I was Lori, I would've probably been scared to pick that creature up.

might look up some supplemental materials that provide more information about the lore/the characters later - this is such a fascinating universe, and while the book reads like a complete thing, the movie feels like just the tip of the iceberg.

[4awny]

Sp Study Headcanons that literally nobody somebody asked for:

Kenny:-

actually listens and pays attention in class

but literally cannot study at all if cartman is there

would rather race cars and start fires than study

easily distracted

is kind of 🤷🏼‍♂️ whatever when its exam day

legs spread as far out from the desk as possible

likes to watch other people stress out from the back row

grade? B. people under estimate him

Kyle:-

disgustingly prepared

gets stressed out a lot tho

like when people won't shut up

therefore prefers to study alone

the closer he is to the final exam > the more moody he gets

permanent 😠 face

blames cartman for distracting him

i mean yeah. he does that a lot tbf

is up all night studying despite knowing sleep is just as important

fear of failure maybe?

OK I could go on here

grade? A. predictable. the hard work paid off

Stan:-

doubts himself the whole time

king of procrastination

not completely his fault, always busy doing shit for ppl

thinks he's totally prepared

opens up the first page of the exam paper

immediately forgets everything he ever knew

🤯 lost af

oh wait he does know something

comes out feeling like he let himself down

grade? C. all gd my guy

Cartman:-

this kid will not acknowledge an exam until the day before

then panics like hell

and kyle told him so too

looks over to each friend as if to say HELP ME when everybody opens their paper

obviously no one helps him lol

like? man should have listened

cannot concentrate, thoughts racing, over thinking

leads to inner meltdown

struggles to submit anything worth a pass due to the stress

acts like it was the easiest exam of his life

OK enough lore

grade D. just about.

Butters:-

surprisingly good with numbers

brings a pencil sharpener into the exam hall

and like 4 extra pencils too

is pretty confident

real cocky too. smug is the word

bc he the only mf to actually enjoy exams

looks over at cartman with a 👍🏻

gets a 🖕🏼 in return

grade B+. kid is no dumbass

Craig:-

should probably try harder

doesn't even care about grades

kinda does actually

"let's just get this over with" as he rolls up to the exam hall with his hands in his pockets

😒

pretty average student

writes 'fuck knows' for questions he doesn't know

having good common sense helped him massively

grade? B. nobody knows how he managed it either. mystery

Tweek:-

a lot of pencil tapping

relies on a lot of caffeine

...obviously

sweaty palms

forever looking around at other people

reads the question 10 times

then 10 more times

still doesn't understand so writes nothing.

goes back to the 1st question halfway through

adds ???? next to his answers

doctors handwriting. barely readable.

grade? it's a D. rip

Clyde:-

"test? what test?"

moderately studies...

for the wrong exam

writes notes on his hand before the final

chews gum throughout

It annoys tweek, who can hear it from 14 seats back

always the first to finish

because finishing first means he's better than everyone else

🤡

spends the next half hour doodling circles all over the desk

only cares about the party afterwards anyways

grade?? big fat FAIL

Tolkien:-

actually knows his stuff, bc he covered literally everything

apart from that 1 subject, but he didn't care about it anyway

reads a lot of books, loves literature

sleeps well, eats well

helps his mind combat pre-exam stress

feels pretty confident on exam day, but hides it well

doesn't want his friends to think he's a nerd or anything...

Grade? A+++++. total NERD

[redmenacelives]

Good Omens 2: Has anyone broken down the songs playing in the record shop yet?

Soooooo, I've got Good Omens 2 playing in the background yet again while cranking out work for my own bureaucratic overlords (and thus am mostly just picking up audio), and I noticed that when Aziraphale goes into the record shop in the first episode Lesley Gore's You Don't Own Me is playing. Now I'm on the second episode, and this time when he goes in You Don't Have to Say You Love Me by Dusty Springfield is playing, and my little ADHD addled, dopamine chasing brain is trying to figure out why they were picked and if they mean anything. Does Maggie just really dig the 60s (I mean, that is kind of her whole vibe) or do the lyrics have some deeper meanings for the story?

You Don't Own Me is basically a fabulous "fuck off, you are NOT the boss of me and you can't tell me what to DO and you can't tell me who to DATE and I like having a life so I am going to HAVE A LIFE, thank you very much" song (which could easily apply to either of our ineffable idiots and their feelings regarding their respective head offices at the beginning of season 2, or--if you are down with the "Maggie is Book of Life Fanfiction Penned in by the Metatron" hypothesis, Maggie and the Metatron's narrative). But I'm maybe leaning more into the former just because of the second record shop song.

You Don't Have to Say You Love Me is--look, if you haven't ever listened to it, or just never really paid attention to the words, maybe go and pull it up on YouTube and also give the lyrics a little read through. I'll wait right here.

Done?

OKAY, so now that you've acquainted or reacquainted yourself with that little ditty--like, COME ON. THAT incredibly dramatic and over the top and heartbroken and pleading song sure does seem to slot nicely into the end of season 2, right? Right. I'm definitely not just slowly slipping into conspiracy theory-type-finding-random-connections-that-aren't-really-there insanity, right? Or, again if you are going with "Maggie isn't real, Metatron just has her playing real on TV," maybe we've got this song because Maggie is at the "And Here is the Complication that Must Be Solved" part of Metatron's fanfic. I AM NOT SLOWLY SLIPPING BENEATH THE WATER IN THE COVE OF INSANITY, RIGHT?

I am positive that we only visit the record shop one more time in season 2 (when Crowley pops in) and I'm not sure what song is playing there yet, but my little connection seeking brain is whispering "three visits, three songs, Neil Gaiman knows a bit about the rule of three" and "I bet it's a big old Clue about next season OR about what the deal with Maggie is" and now I'm obviously going to have to find out what the song is and analyze it to death, but also I'm just really curious if 1) I HAVE LOST MY MIND, GOOD OMENS HAS FINALLY BROKEN ME, or 2) if anyone else has gone down this same spiral and if so, what did THEIR Good-Omens-obsessed-connection-seeking-brain come up with?

I've gone full crackpot, haven't I? Whoops.

[mermaidsirennikita]

Top 10 Reads: Q1 2023

Wow, the first quarter of the year is over! I hate being here, but we're still alive and when you're still alive there's still hope and yada yada yada. Keep breathing!

This is probably the longest I've gone without a reading slump. I feel like part of this is due to personal progress, as slumps often correspond with mental lows for me, but part of it also likely due to me embracing audiobooks. Curse everyone who said I'd like them being right the whole time!!!

Anyway, I liked a lot of books over the past three months. In fact, I loved many of them. For my monthly wrap-ups, I don't limit myself; I just list every book I rated 4/5 or above. Here, I challenged myself to stick to the ten that made me happiest. Some of them... are not out yet. But hey, what're you gonna do?

My only other rule: no repeat authors, and no listing them in order. I think I do have a #1 favorite out of these books, but I don't want to rank novels in order of preference.

Hotel of Secrets by Diana Biller.

Dude. This one took me by surprise. I'd never read Diana Biller before, and I was blown away by the richness of the setting--late nineteenth century Vienna--and the attention paid to the cast. A lot of good romances don't have great supporting casts; this one does, and they add to the fabric of the love story.

But at its heart, despite the somewhat ambiguous title, Hotel of Secrets is a true blue, swoony romance between a jaded woman consumed by keeping her family's hotel afloat, and a virginal spy who's always been able to keep feelings at arm's length... until he rescues her. Several times. The build up of tension between these characters is hot, it's romantic, and it's just so fucking satisfying when it boils over.

Lush Money by Angelina M. Lopez.

The best contemporaries are the ones that go full daytime soap, in my opinion. And by God, does this book go balls to the wall daytime. A ruthless billionaire heroine! A prince hero with a genius IQ and a devotion to GROWING GRAPES. A sex/marriage/baby deal!

This book has a lot going for it--a truly unique, "problematic" heroine who can't make herself commit to love, a slowburn punctuated by how intensely hot and heavy our leads get within the first few pages, and such a strong sense of the telenovela that you can vividly picture it playing out in your head. (Except. A lot more graphic than most telenovelas. Shoutout to the scene where our hero gets caught with his head between the heroine's legs. By the paparazzi.)

Mafia Madman by Mila Finelli.

Who was I before reading Mila Finelli? I don't know, and I don't care. Every book in her Kings of Italy series is an absolute killer (about killers) and you should read all of them ASAP. But Mafia Madman, for me, is the creme de la creme. It immediately soared into my top favorite reads ever, and I've had to physically stop myself from picking up my paperback and rereading my favorite scenes again.

It's just got everything--an absolutely insane hero, a heroine determined to break him as much as he's determined to break her, sex scenes that will melt your brain, and a deeply, highly satisfying grovel that gave me everything I could have asked for. For all that it's over the top and sexy and deranged, at the core of this story is two emotionally injured, twisted people finding each other... and realizing that they can't avoid being vulnerable with one another. No notes!

Then Came You by Lisa Kleypas.

I could have also included Again the Magic here, as I read both this year--but I wanted to stick to one. Then Came You is such an unsung hero of Kleypas's backlist, and not just because it features Derek Craven: The Early Years (though that is certainly a bonus--he's such a sad little baby in this one). The hero bUYS HER A BEAR in this book. Plus light bondage! What more can you ask for?

Then Came You is the kind of classic enemies to lovers story that built the foundation for Kleypas's later enemies to lovers classics like It Happened One Autumn. He's cold and mercenary and stubborn in his refusal to love, she's passionate and rebellious and the only person who can get under his skin. This woman literally shows up to a ball dressed to look like Eve--naked, but with a snake running up her body. And does he lose his shit the way you want? Even more so, actually. Not for nothing, but the setup is that he's courting her sister and she's trying to ruin the match. Yes, it does do that much, much better.

The Dragon and the Pearl by Jeannie Lin.

If there's one thing reading Jeannie Lin taught me, it's that Tang Dynasty China is the perfect setting for historical romance. The heavy rules of etiquette, the political strife to raise the stakes, those stakes forcing a capacity for ruthlessness. Here, she gives the perfect villain romance--bringing back the hot, scarred warlord just in time for a kidnapping plot that will render him completely emotionally overcome for a badass heroine.

But our heroine isn't a sword-wielding badass. She's a former emperor's concubine, renowned for her beauty and perfectly cultured. She wins with mind games and charm, and she's all too aware of how dangerous her hero is. The book is the story of two iron-willed people bending for each other, and falling prey to the worst thing that can happen to a couple of badasses: LOVE.

Something Spectacular by Alexis Hall (out 4/11/2023, full review to come).

I've become a huge fan of Alexis Hall's approach to historical romances. They're funny, they're super queer, and they are very, very romantic. Something Spectacular piggybacks off the laugh-a-minute Something Fabulous, giving us a story that is even more unique to the subgenre, and just a bit angstier, with a couple of nonbinary leads who connect over living in the gray of their binary society, before forging an emotional connection that.... did make me cry.

I also want to call out how hot this book is. One thing I've noticed about queer historicals especially is that they often sort of... soften the sexuality of their characters. Cut the passion in favor of good vibes. Which I get! But here you get the angst and you get the longing and you get exactly why Orfeo is renowned for their skills (beyond singing) across all of Europe. God, they're... a lot.

The Secret Lives of Country Gentlemen by K.J. Charles.

You know, initially I rated this book a 4.25/5, which is a very strong rating for me. I think I will actually go back and raise it, because I can't get this book out of my head. It's the marshy setting, the criminal element, the rich cast of characters, the "fine?"/"FINE!" push-pull of Joss fuckin' Doomsday and Gareth, a flop who is as relatable as he is messy.

Plus, the setup of this book is so original? Our heroes meet before it really kicks off, become hookup buddies, part on bad terms without knowing each other's proper names, and reunite when one is blackmailing the other in a court of law? Throw in a heavy dose of family drama, hot Illicit Affairs, and so much secondhand embarrassment I could've maybe died on the spot, and you have a winner.

Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway.

This year, I got into Grace Callaway--and I'm so glad I did! Her books are fun and adventurous and super sexy... sexy in a way a lot of historicals aren't right now, unfortunately. They embody what I want out of a historical romance: high stakes love with a bit of wackiness and a hint of humor, plus bodice ripping.

What makes this book a bit more than all the others for me is the emotionality. All of Grace's books that I've read have emotion, but Pippa and Cull have true bittersweet angst. They knew each other as young teens; they had a near miss; and in the intervening years, they both endured such real trauma and loss. Pippa is more world-weary than many of the other Callaway heroines I've read, and Cull worships her but is also so deeply afraid of being rejected by her. When they get down, they get DOWN, but when they're emotional with one another there's an aching tenderness to it. Also, he has a flute and a gang of child soldiers. So it is wacky.

The Notorious Lord Knightly by Lorraine Heath (out 6/27/23, full review to come).

Lorraine Heath's Counterfeit Scoundrel began her Chessmen: Masters of Seduction series in a way that was elegant and romantic, but not quite as insane as a standard Lorraine Heath. I wondered if she was toning it down a little. Well, wonder no more, because her next release has the high drama we love from Lorraine, as well as great, passionate romance between two people who loved each other five years ago and love each other still.

What makes this book is the interplay between a hero who is truly, deeply sorry and truly, deeply in love, and a heroine who wants to hate him so badly but just can't bring herself to put her heart into it. There's a Secret (or several) and there are laughs--but the plot of this one is less Big Plot and more fabulous character work and hurt feelings and sore hearts and I loved every word of it. Lorraine Heath just knows her fucking shit.

The Queer Principles of Kit Webb by Cat Sebastian.

I'd read (and greatly enjoyed) The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes; but this book is where the magic happened for me In Sebastian's Highwaymen series. Put together a snarky lordling and a smitten--if rough around the edges--ex-highwayman, plus sex and class commentary? You have a winner.

Cat Sebastian's books are always funny, but this is, like, Benny Hill madcap hijinks funny. They're always emotional, but the wounds here somehow hit deeper. They're always smart, but the social commentary in this one is both clever and real. And you have the classic "they're in love but he's too hurt by the world and life to admit it", which is always a banger. So, so good.

[comicbookhyperfixationtime]

OK. What would be your storm reading/watch list for anyone who wants to get to know the character? It can be anything, across all movies, TV shows, and comic book continuities. What are the things you need to see in order to get to know Ororo Monroe

Hey, my first ask! Thanks!

So, great news for Storm fans; it's kind of an open secret she's Chris Claremont's favorite character, which means there's plenty stuff out there about her. Small disclaimer; I like Storm, but she's not my favorite, and the X-men were kind of on my periphery for a long time, so I can't say I've seen everything she's been in, or paid much special attention to her in the stuff I did see.

First off, you can just read Chris Claremont's OG Uncanny X-men run. Storm joins the team in Giant Sized X-men #1 (1975) and, I'm pretty sure, remains a member the whole way through until Claremont's steps off in 1991. Even when she's not an active team member, such as in the current stretch I'm reading through, she's still a featured character. Claremont freaking loves Storm, he gives her all the attention she could possibly need to be a layered, complex and entertaining character.

If you're looking for the full Storm experience but don't want to read almost 20 years worth of comics, watch the 90s X-men: The Animated Series. 90s X-men is a perfect adaptation of the comics, and when I say "perfect adaptation" I don't mean necessarily the best X-men stories, its schlocky as hell and looks cheap (affectionate). I mean they stay as true to the source material as possible in terms of tone, the storylines they adapt, the art style they use, etc. With the caveat that, since the cartoon was produced in the 90s, the 90s team roster is featured even when adapting older stories (yes Gambit and Jubilee, no Kitty Pryde, Nightcrawler or Colossus!). Storm is present though, and while she may not be given quite as much emotional depth (because schlocky kids cartoon), her personality is still very much Storm.

The other two X-men cartoons are X-Men: Evolution and Wolverine and the X-Men. Evolution's Storm is close enough to her comics counterpart, but she's not the focus and doesn't get a ton of screen time. I don't remember Wolverine and the X-Men's Storm at all, which isn't a good sign (to be fair I focused exclusively on Liam O'Brian's Nightcrawler 😳). I don't think she showed up for long and from what the internet is saying, the writer's couldn't figure out what to do with her because she was too powerful for their storylines, so they kept finding ways to get her out of the picture.

I've only seen one live action Storm but I doubt either is a good adaptation of the 616 character. No shade to Halle Barry as a person but her performance as Storm is wooden as fuck. To be fair, she doesn't get a chance to do much except look cool, do superpower things and spout exposition dialogue. And I know the reboot Storm has some big changes made to her (plus, she's only important in Apocalypse, in Dark Phoenix she's sort of set dressing).

Haven't read any modern comics with Storm in them, can't give my opinions on them. DON'T READ ULTIMATE X-MEN. NOT BECAUSE THEY'RE DEPICTION OF STORM IS SUPER BAD BUT BECAUSE ULTIMATE MARVEL JUST SUCKS IN GENERAL. EXCEPT MILES MORALES HE CHILL.

[kingdomlostnpcs]

Eiji was so damn bored. He already read his whole book. He just wanted to test his shit out. Hearing the affection from the people down the hall did intrigue him.

Getting closer the sweetness has making him sick. It gave him too many fucking memories of his beloved. A person dead because of monsters like them. And maybe for a moment he decided to back away.

But only a moment. For you see Eiji had nothing to tether him beyond the balance. His grandmother paid so much attention to that sorry excuse of a sister. But he will be one to restore the balance not her. Starting with the vampire and tribrid in front of him.

If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.

Eiji thought about this as he raised the hand with the book in surrender. "Didn't mean to hear anything.Have a bit of a navigation issue" The cyrotech pointed to his sunglasses was preparing his other hand with the syringe. A trick the doctor taught him. He pretending to stumble and place his hand on the fist. "Your hand is so tense let me just..." He placed his fake dominant hand on one fist and then used the actual dominant hand in adminster the syringe under the vampire's wrist. 3...2...1.

He pretended to keep looking forward eyeing the tribrid from the corner of his eye.

"Do you feel less tense now?"

@hellonexrth ---> @devouredxmuses

Heath laughed, his arms stayed wrapped tight around her waist. "Stay away from Hope, got it." He nodded. Part of him wondered if there was anything the two of them could do for her, now that Ingrid had her humanity back on. Maybe it would be easier for Laurie to bring her back from the edge. They could think about that later, though. This time, this moment, it was for them and them alone.

He couldn't even reference the rage he'd felt earlier in the week when she'd stopped by his office, it felt like he'd been a different person entirely back then. Emery had warned him about the dangers of erasing crucial memories, but he had been so eager to stop thinking about her, he'd barely listened.

"What happened, anyways?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. He knew Emery, and he wasn't the fighting type. In fact, Heath was usually the one to hit people on his behalf. Kind of a big staple of their friendship. "I'm not going to lie, I've never completely understood his whole mind magic thing, but I have a feeling he could turn my brain into soup." Emery was scary in a different way than Heath, than Ingrid. And Heath was glad not to be on his bad side.

Heath opened his mouth to say something comforting, but the sound of footsteps snapped him out of it, had him turning on his foot, hiding Ingrid with his body as he faced the approaching party. He took half a step forward, fist clenched. "Private conversation, man. Suggest you go anywhere else."

@kingdomlostnpcs

[theseawakes]

Glimpse of Past (Marc Spector x teen!reader

summary: Marc emphatize with you when you showed up at his door and shared your past.

warnings: child abuse, death (mentioned) (lmk if I missed anything)

request: "Could I request a moonknight x teen reader (platonic) where reader usually helps them with finding people or finding information, kind of like “guy in chair”. And they often spend late nights helping Steven, Jake and Marc not spending a lot of time at home. Maybe Steven questions it but reader kinda shrugs it off. Then one day reader shows up covered in bruises and all of them tries to find out what happened but reader doesn’t want to tell them but then reveals that it was one of reader’s parents. And Marc becomes really protective because of what happened to him when he was a kid. You can decide the ending if you want but I would love to see some Hurt/Comfort."

a/n: I'm sorry I only did it with Marc, I sorta wrote it to take set right after incidents in season 1 with reader not knowing Steven and Jake yet

Marc Spector wasn't the one who worked well with people, but he eventually got a hang of it, thanks to you.

The mercenary never intended to have someone working off-screen for him. You were a threat. You came too close to Marc's secret job for his liking, prying on his night activities and even providing proof. Khonshu was telling Marc to get rid of you, but you butted him first by signing yourself to work with him. Marc couldn't risk someone knowing his night profession, and he didn't wanna kill a child. And judging your ability to be able to uncover the whole Moon Knight thing just reveals that you could be more than useful. So work with him, you did.

Yet earning the certain Spector's trust was hard. There were more than a handful of times when you gotta prove to him that you were, indeed, more than useful for him to fully trust you. Which you consider weird because he was the one who saved you from "getting rid of."

The crescent moon turned into full then turned anew. You found yourself rather at home with Marc than at your actual house. Oftentimes, you spend days with him even if he doesn't go on missions. As much as Marc hated to admit, he does enjoy it too. He enjoys hearing your antics in the comms, he enjoys hearing you read a book of pun jokes and coming home to you spreading out on the couch after a long mission.

You left him with a note that says, "I'll be back soon" once and have never been back ever since. His worry starts to grow as high as those skyscraper buildings. It's been weeks and Marc couldn't find any sign of your existence. Nevertheless, he prayed to anyone listening to him to keep you safe.

You are, in fact, not safe

Your hand trails on the newly made black eye on your face. A wince was shown on your reflection in the mirror.

You never intended to go home. You never wanted to go home. You were going to buy something in a store when you accidentally crashed into one of your father's friends. They immediately took you back to him and he was beyond furious. He locked you in your room for days and only opened the door to feed or beat you.

He had thrown out all your electronic devices; he made sure to cut any way of communication with the outside world so you weren't able to reach Marc. You were glad you left your camera in Marc's place, it was a gift from your late brother, the one you used to spy on Marc.

Your father let you out recently because he needs help to do chores. You still get beatings if you don't do exactly what he says. The newest black eye was obtained from dropping a bottle of beer because your hand hurts from his beatings.

Sighing heavily, you looked outside the bathroom when you heard a knock on the door.

The man sitting on the armchair paid no attention to it, locking his eyes on the TV. He, however, bitterly spat, "Get the door, they're my friends."

"Why don't you get it yourself?" You whispered under your breath, thinking he couldn't hear you. He did.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Your body flinched when you heard his boots making their way to where you are. "You should be glad I let you out that room." A slap. "You ungrateful bastard of a child." Another slap. "You should be glad I even spared your life!" This one almost sends you to the floor, but his hands pull you by your collar and smash your body to the nearest wall. "You took everything from me. My wife, my son, my good and perfect life with them!"

Your body made contact with the cold hard sink before falling to the floor. Groaning in pain, you felt another thing stomping your abdomen several times. After what felt like forever, your father finally stopped. With your final energy, you look at the front door. Seeing as your father and his friends were occupied by the TV, you dashed out of the bathroom and eventually out of the house. They noticed, of course, but you didn't care, all you cared about was running away as far as you can. You run to the only place you had in mind. The last thing you remember was knocking your hand on the familiar dark wooden door.

Marc scanned your sleeping form on the couch, noting the many differences between your usual self before your disappearance and now. Your clothes looked more like it's hanging on your body. Dark spots are circling your eyes with a slight dark blue color on one of them. Your skin is littered with bruises; purple, blue, even yellow. You look so… fragile. Totally different from the last time he saw you.

The time Marc realized you were not coming back or went "missing", he tried to find you by asking people he knows who know you. He tried looking and digging for information on where you live since you never told him. But he found nothing.

When he opened the door and saw you, he was beyond relieved to know that you were still alive. However, his heart dropped the moment he looked into your eyes. The sight was too familiar to him. He swore he caught a glimpse of himself inside those E/C eyes. And that was all he needed to know about your state before carrying your collapsed body to the couch.

The Khonshu Avatar watched as your eyes fluttered open, squinting a few times to adjust the light. Your head turned to see him despite it throbbing terribly. Tears clouded your blurry vision but you could still see Marc moving towards you. Your eyes widened in realization of someone coming towards you. With a jerk, you stand up and immediately back away from the person.

"Y/N?" Marc questioned.

You looked down as your feet kept dragging you away from the man. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again. I promise! I– it was my fault, I'm sorry, I am. I didn't mean to disobey you, I didn't mean to kill them, I'm sorry, please don't hit me, I didn't mean—"

"Y/N, it's me, it's Marc." Marc tried to cut you but failed as you replayed your muttering again and again and he'd be lying if that didn't shatter his heart. "Bud, it's all fine. You're alright. They can't get you here. You're safe," he made his voice as soft as he could.

His arms gently reach out for your shaking figure. The mercenary is fighting back the tears that started to form in his eyes. Alarms blazed in his head when you tried to hit your head. As if out of instinct, he leaped to engulf you in his arms, preventing you from hurting yourself. He could still hear you mutter through your tears, "stupid me, I shouldn't have– I shouldn't –"

"Shh, stop it, Y/N, please don't hurt yourself. You're alright, I've got you. It's alright. Follow my breathing, okay? In, 1 2 3, hold it, out 1 2 3. Come on, you can do it. Again." You followed Marc's instructions, breathing in and out with him. Marc's hand never stopped circling your back to calm you down and it worked. Once your crying has reduced into small hiccups, you clung onto the back of his shirt as he rocks you back and forth. "There you go, better?"

You moved your head up and down while wiping a single tear. "Yeah," you answered. Looking up at the man, you noticed his eyes were a bit puffy too. Has he been crying? "I'm sorry, Marc."

The dark-haired man patted your head softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"They died because of me, my mom and my brother." You paused. "She died giving me a chance to live in this cruel world, and he died saving me to continue living in it. I don't need him to remind me every chance he gets that I killed them because I already live with the guilt every day."

The confession you made sent a jab to his heart. He knows how it feels to be in your shoes. He knows it all too well. When he looked inside your eyes he saw a glimpse of his past, and that was all he needed to know what happened. It was exactly what happened to him, and it pained him to acknowledge it. Marc pulled you into another embrace when your tears started spilling out again. Then somehow when he glanced at the top of your head, he saw the hair that belonged to his younger self, which only caused him to pull you closer.

"It wasn't your fault, kid," he replayed what Steven said to him on their trip down memory lane. "It wasn't your fault that they died. It wasn't anyone's."

Marc's words only trigger more tears to come out of your eyes. You tighten your grip around him, allowing yourself to break down in his arms. It wasn't after a few minutes that you had calmed down. "I don't wanna go back there."

"You don't have to. We'll sort things out later. For now, let's tend those bruises, eh?" Marc helped you get to the couch before he went to grab the med kit. When he was about to get back, you jumped off the couch.

"The scarab!" you shouted, now remembering that Marc had gone for the scarab before you were taken back to your house. The pain going through your body made you wince. "What happened to the scarab? Did you find it?"

The Moon God's avatar ignored your question as he hurried to your place to sit you back down and gave you an ice pack for your black eye. He hesitated to answer you for a moment, afraid of what your reactions might occur. "I did. I saved the world. Kinda."

"What!?" There it is, the reaction. You stood up again, ignoring the pain this time. "You saved the world!? How? What did you do? What happened?"

Marc sighed. "Will you sit back down? You're in pain."

"Please, this is nothing more than knowing you saved the world without me." You scoffed, earning a chuckle from Marc.

"Alright, fine, I'll tell you everything. Now sit back down, kid." You lowered yourself to the couch again, watching Marc start to tend your bruises. "It happened in Cairo."

-

taglist: @andromacher @pauldanos-world @atzlena @blustalker

[stxleslyds]

Also, the writers' failure to understand, every crime Jason committed had a motive. Attack other criminals? Holy warrior destined to purify the world of evil. Attack Bruce? Joker's still alive. (Oh, Jason, it's much worse than that.) Attack Tim? A parody of what he once was. He wasn't just a "bad boy". He was dangerously insane.

Hi, Anon! Yup, there seems to be a lot of things that writers have gotten confused about Jason Todd/Red Hood and the biggest one is his motivations to kill certain criminals.

Let’s be honest, Judd Winick set a golden path for the upcoming Red Hood writers. But each and every writer that used Red Hood in their stories completely missed the point of Jason’s character. All of them. It’s so incredibly wild to me that every other writer read UtRH and came up with whichever version of Jason they came up with.

Let’s list the writers that completely missed the point.

Geoff Johns in Teen Titans vol.3 #29.

Geoff Johns was one of the first to completely mischaracterize Jason, why on earth would Jason go to the Titans Tower to beat up Tim? This is not me saying that Jason would never do that because Jason thinks of Tim as his brother or a friend or the person that he can trust the most from the Bat-Clan (can you believe Lobdell tried to sell us that one?), this is me saying that Jason wouldn’t have done that because he couldn’t have given less of a fuck about Tim’s existence.

When Jason found out that Bruce had another Robin he wasn’t bothered by his “replacement” he was mad at Bruce for having another child playing hero after he lost his life as a fifteen-year-old. Jason didn’t even think of Tim as his replacement as fandom likes to make us believe, Jason called Tim “pretender”. And that was that, but to go from minimal recognition to go out of his way to beat him up at Titans Tower is a massive mischaracterization.

Paul Dini in Countdown (to Final Crisis).

Paul Dini in Countdown did absolutely nothing with Jason, I am sorry but that’s all he did. Him writing Jason was like watching a dog trying to catch their own tail. He started with a pretty basic take on UtRH Jason, then he added a bit of Jason being an annoying man with Donna, then we had the jealousy arc because apparently, Jason had the hots for Donna but she didn’t want anything to do with him and he was all angsty when she paid attention to Kyle instead of him, and then, later on, he had that whole Red Robin bullshit (I am sorry about this, but I absolutely hated that, it was so dumb, I am so glad it didn’t last long because it was just too bad), and after all that mix of just not interesting stuff he went right back to the Jason that he had at the very start. It was a waste of time, but I guess that he had to be there because he was an anomaly and all that. I just think that was DC’s first try at making Jason Todd/Red Hood something more than just a street-level vigilante and they failed miserably.

Tony S. Daniel in Batman: Battle for the Cowl.

Even though the first two did make mistakes with Jason’s characterizations, this man was the first to just throw UtRH out of the window and make up his very own version of Jason Todd. And his version was horrendous, that Jason had no problem with attempting to kill children and innocent people, he also really wanted to be Batman because Gotham needed a Batman and he wanted to be the person to wear the Cowl and he was looking for a Robin for himself.

I know, the whole concept is the perfect opposite of what Jason Todd and Red Hood were in UtRH. Every aspect of BftC Jason is based on nothing.

Jason wanting to be Batman because Gotham needed Batman is just the beginning of what’s wrong in this book. Jason became the Red Hood (in part) because he believed that Batman and his ways weren’t what Gotham needed so he made a better version of Batman with Red Hood (according to him) because Red Hood did what Batman refused to do. Another thing that is just wrong is Jason wanting, Damian, Tim or Dick to be his Robin, there is just so much wrong with this, first of all, Jason wanted Batman to stop having Robin because child soldiers ran the risk of dying at a very young age and that’s exactly how he saw the whole thing because that was what had happened to him. Second, if Jason was mad at Bruce for getting another Robin why would he now want one of his own to team up with his Batman? Damian was a child, Tim was someone that apparently Jason hated (because Jason beating Tim was mentioned in this event), and then Jason actually asked Dick Grayson, Nightwing, to be his Robin? Listen, there is no way that was Jason, nothing about him makes sense, even taking into account that Jason had beaten Tim already in this event Jason actually tried to kill both Tim and Damian (it might have been just one of them but yeah, it still doesn’t make sense).

I just don’t think that Tony S. Daniel knew who Jason Todd was, maybe he got confused but the thing is, his “villainous” and deranged version of Jason Todd allowed a villainous and deranged version of Red Hood to happen with the next writer that I will be talking about.

Grant Morrison in Batman and Robin vol.1 #3-6.

This was the birth of the villainous, deranged and bloodthirsty Red Hood. There is absolutely no trace of UtRH Jason here, not even if we are looking at the opposite of things like we could do with Daniel’s Jason. Grant Morrison wanted Dick and Damian to have a villain to match their Batman and Robin and they decided to give us a red-haired-pill-headed-red hood. Everything from Morrison’s characterization of Jason is crazy, from the red hair (hello pre-crisis) to the awful Joker’s Red Hood looking suit, everything was just weird.

I still don’t believe that was Jason, to be honest, I would rather think that version of Jason was actually a rouge Skrull that came all the way from the Marvel Universe and lost his way in Gotham City. Maybe when he made the jump between universes, he got too much information and got confused and took the form of the wonkiest Jason Todd he could come up with.

This Jason was absolutely deranged, he knew exactly what he was doing and he didn’t care if innocents died. This Jason was the one that got locked up in Arkham. This is the Jason that Dick put in Arkham for Jason and everybody else’s safety.

Dick putting that Jason in Arkham wasn’t a bad thing or something that anyone can use to shit on Dick Grayson (not on this house). This Arkham was reformed and that Jason knew that if he stayed in that new Arkham he would stay away from trouble, but here is the thing, that Jason loved trouble, so he took all the tests to prove he wasn’t insane and asked to be transferred to Blackgate (where all the Red Hood’s enemies were). That Jason didn’t ask to be sent to Blackgate because the Joker was a cell away from his in Arkham, he did it so he could go on a killing spree in Blackgate (which he did when he got there).

Skrull Jason was just bloodthirsty and nothing like UtRH Jason, he had no motive other than just killing for fun or whatever. He didn’t want to protect Gotham and he couldn’t have cared less about the drug trade in Gotham. In Batman and Robin vol.1. Jason Todd was unrecognizable. And luckily, we never saw him again.

Scott Lobdell in Everything that he ever wrote about Red Hood.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Lobdell was the king of overpowering Jason, he was the one that drove Red Hood farther and farther away from his street-level vigilante status. He continuously added more to him, he was a big deal because he was meant to take down Ra’s al Ghul, he was a big deal because he was the only human to train in the All-Castle and learned to summon the All-Blades.

This Red Hood’s morals and ideals were kind of gone, there just wasn’t any kind of interest in Jason to get rid of drugs or try to control its trade in Gotham, he just had no interest in street-level threats, everything was extraordinary in both New 52 and Rebirth. If he wasn’t in space he was in some mystical land. His friends and allies became even more and more powerful, his level of power was completely off compared to the others. His personality was ever-changing and quite honestly you could barely see the Jason that he once was.

This Jason also was very inconsistent in the way that he felt towards people (obviously because Lobdell is a shitty writer), he wanted to follow Batman’s rules and was shown as someone that still had fond memories of his life with Bruce before he died but was also willing to let those memories go, to move on? Maybe? I don’t know. But he changed his mind about Bruce and following his rules or not for a very long time. Jason was also a little bitch about Dick, and he was a little bitch because he (Lobdell) never gave the reader or anyone a concrete reason as to why he hated him so much and then in Rebirth he decided that Dick wasn’t that bad. Also, Jason went from “Willis Todd, abusive husband and father that deserved to die” to “Willis Todd abusive husband and father but he sent me letters when he was in prison and Penguin had him killed so now, I really want to avenge him”. Yeah, I don’t really know why that happened and like most of Lobdell’s arcs and stuff it was never really completed or well thought out.

Lobdell’s Jason characterization was a mess for ten years and that’s the prime reason why Jason is a character with no solid background, story or future.

James Tynion IV in Red Hood and the Outlaws.

Tynion’s Jason Todd was a hero, he was like a mini Tom King Batman. Everything he did was right and there was just no way that you could bamboozle him. This Jason was able to hold to Blades that drained his soul as well as hosting the Untitled in his body (that were able to drain his soul too) and on top of all that he completed his journey of the Chosen One by making those ancient martial arts moves that he learned before he was Robin even though Talia hadn’t been able to master it yet.

Scott Snyder, Tim Seeley in Batman Eternal and Batman and Robin Eternal.

A mess, this was pure New 52 levels of bullshit and they all just wanted to push the “Batfamily” and while Dick was gone, they were trying to make Jason fill the void that Dick left in Batman events. It didn’t work at all and all they did was mess around with Jason’s characterization more.

Geoff Johns in Three Jokers.

I have talked enough about Johns’ takes on Jason Todd and Red Hood, but let me tell you something real quick, if a writer thinks that the best they can do with a character is make them give up their morals/ideals for an unrequited love interest, then they can keep that idea for themselves. Geoff Johns wrote a book that was absolutely not needed and then proceeded to butcher every characterization that he could, Three Jokers was three issues long and he managed to add more trauma to Jason’s torture, push the narrative of Jason being at fault for his own murder and make Jason’s motivations to be the Red Hood weak enough to make him want to give up his work for a woman that he barely knows (and doesn’t like him at all).

Joshua Williamson in Future State: Red Hood and Robin #5.

Now, with Williamson I have issues only when he writes Jason, not because his stories are bad, don’t get me wrong, I would have completely enjoyed FS: Red Hood if it weren’t for the completely unnecessary Rose/Jason side plot he had going on. Jason was clearly working undercover for some people that he hated working with. He had to arrest or kill “masks” (vigilantes, just like he “used” to be) for the Magistrate.

His ideas were pretty solid, Jason did the job but he never killed the masks and actively didn’t trust the Magistrate but he was working there to tear them apart from within, and that’s amazing if Williamson had given us Jason Todd/Red Hood working undercover to dismantle an organization I would have been really happy.

But that’s not all he gave us, even if I just forget about his failed attempt at giving Jason a relationship, I can still see that Williamson is the kind of writer that wants (or is just following DC) to make the “Batfamily” happen no matter how dumb and out of place it looks in comics’ canon. So, I am a little bit weary, any writer that leans too much towards making Jason and Bruce work together and become a family makes me want to scream, but I do understand that is just me, many people want those two to be buddy-buddy, I, personally, would love to see Jason kick Bruce in the balls and tell him to lose his number.

Chip Zdarsky in Urban Legends: Cheer.

Ah, yes, I remember the days in which I thought that this could have been something good. Well, I was utterly wrong and I suffered all the way through this mini. I feel like now I can safely say that Zdarsky only wanted to write a Batman book but DC told him, “Hey you can write Batman but it has to be within a Red Hood story, but don’t worry, you don’t have to know much about the Hood guy, just come up with something and write Batman around that”.

I know that’s what happened because I read that story and all we got from it was horrible characterizations for pre-Robin Jason, Robin Jason, Jason Todd and Red Hood. I don’t know how he did it but yes, he managed to mess it all up.

From Jason not really wanting to be Robin and acting recklessly every step of the way, to secret desires of a perfect family with Bruce and so many other people that he couldn’t care about, Urban Legends: Cheer is the perfect book to avoid at all costs if you believe that the concept of “Batfamily” is the biggest lie, DC is trying to profit off this time around.

Zdarsky also nerfed Jason in ways that I thought DC only wanted to nerf Dick Grayson. But I was able to see that I was wrong. Zdarsky’s run also pushed some of the most disastrous narratives that DC really wants readers to believe like: Robin Jason wasn’t good at his job, he was too reckless and ultimately his death was his own fault. Yay! I want to cry!

I will give Zdarsky two points for at the very least showing that Red Hood wants to protect children and that he has a huge issue with how the drug trade is controlled and abused in Gotham City, it had been a while since we had seen that aspect of Jason’s Red Hood make an appearance.

-

It’s just too many writers completely missing the point of Red Hood’s character or simply writers agreeing to destroy Jason’s uniqueness in the DC Universe so DC (as the publisher) can further push the abomination that is the “Batfamily” in comics’ canon.

I do agree with you Anon when you say that Jason isn’t just a “bad boy” but I also don’t think that we can call UtRH Jason “dangerously insane”. Personally, I will only use that last description for BftC and Batman and Robin Jason, those two were dangerously insane indeed.

UtRH Jason was very meticulous in who he wanted dead and who got to live. He entered Gotham’s most dangerous world and he had to make a big entrance, he invited the eight most prosperous street dealers to a meeting, showed up with the decapitated heads of each of their right-hand men and an AK-47 and said:

“I am offering you a deal. I will be running the drug trade from now on. You will go about your business as usual. You will kick up forty percent to me. That is a much better deal than the Black Mask will give you. In return, you will have total protection from both the Black Mask and Batman. The catch? You stay away from kids and schoolyards. No dealing to children, got it? If you do, you’re dead.”

This was Red Hood! Red Hood wanted to control the drug trade in Gotham because he knew that Gotham is far too corrupt and filled with drug lords for him to just want to eradicate drugs from Gotham. If he had tried that he would have been a dumbass, but he wasn’t. He didn’t want to start a gang war and get innocent people killed because of it, he wanted to set the rules of his new Empire and he had to start with the street-level drug dealers, from there he grew until he became a major pain in Black Mask’s ass.

We went from Jason wanting to control the drug trade and take over Gotham’s underworld so people like Black mask couldn’t have people work for him (or being dependent on him) when they were still in high school or were in a vulnerable position, to Jason fighting a war for a mystic land because he was their “Chosen One”. DC really wanted to do something grand (yet boring) with Jason instead of sticking to a street-level vigilante that could have become a Drug Lord to control the drug trade of a city that is so filled with crime and corruption that it can’t be saved by anyone.

Batman doesn’t eradicate crime, he “controls” it, puts a blank it over it, lets it nap up until it wakes up once more to make more mess.

Red Hood had other plans, certain criminals didn’t get to nap, or, better said, they would get to nap forever.

So, no. I wouldn’t call that “dangerously insane”, I will call that “vigilante that believes himself judge, jury and executioner” of a city that is drowning in crime and corruption.

Anyway, I hope you have a really nice week Anon and thank you so much for sending me this ask!

[slasherrabbitmadness]

Bo Sinclair x Female Reader

THIS is a NONCON fic. Please don't read and then get shocked at what you read. You are reading this at your own risk! You cannot get shocked at the content here if you are sensitive to NONCON and read anyways. I am not responsible if you choose to still read this and it's upsetting. Also, there is Forced Breeding included! Read at your own risk.

When I get an AO3, I will be posting this there.

Underthecut - NSFW, NON-CON, Cheating -forced- Oral -Female receiving- Forced Breeding/Forced pregnancy, Degradation. Tagged as Dark Fic

Sinclair Brothers College AU Part 2 Part 1 is here!

Bo will never forget that morning. Never forgot your angelic face buried into his brother's chest, Vincent's face buried into the top of your head, nose nuzzled into your hair.

His voice had hurt for the three days after all the screaming he had done, his knuckles bruised for weeks after he and Vincent drew blows.

He could still hear your screaming, this shrill piercing scream for him to stop. To stop hurting him, to stop hurting Vincent.

Not one scream for him, his well-being.

Bo left the room with a bruised lip and ego.

The image of you comforting Vincent, rubbing his knuckles, kissing his cheek burned in his head. He replayed it over and over.

Bo couldn't get over how everyone seemed to approve of the whole ordeal.

That friend of yours had come running up to you, congratulating you on finally getting with Vincent. Even her tall British boyfriend paid a compliment.

His own friends even poked fun, how stupid he was not to see Vincent slowly making his moves. Vincent and you at the Dairy Queen, you at his art show, how both of you spent hours at the library.

How'd he miss all that?

Bo walked into his dorm, slamming the door behind him as he whipped off his hat, he frowned as he flopped onto the bed. back against the wall as he took in the room.

The large varnished bricks painted a light blue, years of new coats of paint chipping off in the corners. The yellow fluorescent light struggling to light up the room, no doubt the same light from when the dorm was built.

Bo took in his brother's side. Neat, save for a few books littered around, a few on his desk, three on the floor, two on the bed, and Y/n's cellphone.

Bo shot up, eagerly rushing over to Vincent's bed, hands immediately on your phone. He held it in his hands, smirking at the pink phone case with a bear's face on the back. He swiped his thumb over the screen, he grits his teeth at the image of you and Vincent on your home screen. Vincent held his arm around you as he kissed your cheek.

"Putz," he mumbled to himself, Bo's thumb lingered over your lock screen. He pressed in the four numbers, "Shit. She must have changed it." Bo looked up, going over what your new passcode could be. The old one was the date you and him started dating. Bo made sure it was that, and that way he had access to your phone whenever you were careless enough to leave it about.

Bo smiled as he knew what the passcode was. If his brother was anything like him, he'd be just as possessive, "Ding!" Bo tapped his foot in excitement as your phone opened up, he went right to your gallery, brows turned down in disgust.

Picture after picture of you and Vincent. Some tame, others, Bo whistled at the picture of you sucking off Vincent. He hated it, seeing your pretty little face lavish his brother's cock, but for Bo, it was easy just to picture his own in its place.

Another photo, you with your legs spread, hand over your mouth, embarrassed as your pussy was covered in Vincent's seed.

Bo groaned, "Little fuckin' whore." He pressed his feet into the ground, steadying himself. He was taken back to when he'd do the same to you, make you beg for his cum to coat your needy pussy. He licked his lips as he could hear your little whines and begs.

"Cum on my pussy, Bo." Fuck and you sounded so perfect.

"Cum on my pussy, Vinny." He cursed as your voice played over in his head. Hating how easily he could hear your sweet voice be so dirty for his brother.

Bo kept scrolling, his stomach churned, cock-stiffening as he scanned more and more pictures.

Videos, ranging from thirty seconds to two minutes in length. He pressed one, the image of you riding his brother played immediately.

"Oh, Vinny, your cocks making me feel so full." Bo groaned, he turned up the volume to hear the vulgar slaps of your ass against his brother's pelvis. "Oh, Fuck Vinny." Bo watched as you fell onto Vincent's chest as he lifted you, fucking up into you at a fast pace.

Bo watched till the end, his ears burning as your moans and whimpers wafted through the shitty phone speaker. He palmed his erection as he watched Vincent cum deep in you, his brother's disgusting grunts and growls had him snarling.

Bo's eyes remained on the screen. They widened as Vincent pulled out, carelessly spreading your legs open to the camera, both your face and Vincent are not visible, but your pussy was bared. He watches as his brother's seed leaked out of you, hearing Vincent mumbling at what a good little princess you are, how you were made to used, made to be a good little cum dump.

Bo shook, knuckles going white as he held the phone. Your whimpering approval of Vincent's words, how Vincent scooped his cum back up into you...

Bo snapped out of his anger as a text popped up,

-Hey, meet you at the library, I'll only be able to study briefly, I have a surprise shift at the hospital.-

Bo tapped it, immediately taken to your messages with Dan.

Everything between you and Dan was mundane. Study dates that often included Herbert and just random memes.

He exited out, looking over all the people you've been texting. Your texts with him deleted, he huffed as he continued. That girl dating the tall British guy. That weird Billy kid, Freddy, your mom, your boss, and Vincent.

He sat down on his bed as he went through the texts. Some of the texts were mundane, how are you, I'm good. I love you and can't wait to see you.

Bo froze, laughing to himself, leaning back onto the bed as he read the recent texts,

-Remember those awful cramps I've been having? My doctor said it was birth control. I'll be going off it for a few weeks and will be getting that Implanon thing.-

Bo checked the date, "Two weeks ago." he said to himself as he kept reading.

-So bad news, I won't get that Implanon thing for another month.-

-That's okay. We can keep it safe for now. One day though you'll be off that stuff ;)-

Bo shook his head, of course, his brother would be on that train of thought. Getting you pregnant. Watching your belly grow with babe.

Bo seethed, hand running down his front, cock pulsing at the image of you, begging for his cum, asking him to impregnate you. Your belly swelling with the Sinclair seed, his large hand rubbing over you, kissing your cheek, amazed at the changes in your body.

Your tits swelling, begging for Bo to ease the ache in them. Cock stiffening as he suckles on your tender tits.

Bo's attention was snapped back to reality as the door's handle justled. He quickly exited out of the texts, turned off the screen, and threw the phone on the bed, burying his face into his pillow, grunting as his cock angled into the bed painfully.

Vincent stepped in, sneering at his brother. "She forgot something, I won't be long." He mumbled, hand going for your phone.

"Y'her lap dog or some? She can't come get it herself?"

"I don't trust you alone with her." Vincent gave your phone a once over before grabbing a few books, "I'll be gone tonight, I work late, so you can invite that 'cute' girl from the bar." Vincent coughed as he finished his sentence.

"Yeah, yeah..." Bo eyed his brother, pulling his pillow closer into his face.

"You didn't touch this, did you?" Vincent waved the phone around, giving it a once over.

"Why would I touch her shit?"

Vincent shrugged his shoulders, "Bye," He opened the door, "Oh, and Lester is inviting us to a barbeque, he expects you to be there."

Bo flinched as his brother slammed the door. He sat up, freeing his cock, the images of you and Vincent still in his mind, the image of himself pushing Vincent away to replace Vincent's seed with his own...

"The library..." he said to himself, the image of you at the library, pushed over onto one of the corner desks, hidden away from everyone, his cock buried deep inside, pleading with him to cum inside.

Bo gripped the base of his cock, squeezing to let more of his precum drip out, watching as it fell along the side.

"That'd look a lot better in the place it belongs."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Vincent stood in front of the campus library, he ran his hands up and down your sides, pinching your ass when he dipped low.

"Vinny!" He playfully pinched his arm, kissing his cheek as you giggled.

"Can't help it, you're so cute." He kissed you again, tongue wrapping around yours, he pushed you closer into himself, your moan being suppressed by the kiss.

You reluctantly pulled away, "I gotta meet Dan. I need his help with my paper. Thanks for getting my phone."

Vincent nodded at you, kissing your cheek again, "I know, I don't want you near him, either."

You nod into his chest, inhaling his scent, linseed oil, and his farmer's market shampoo. You hum as he begins to sway you back and forth.

"I gotta go, see you tomorrow," He pulls away, hand rubbing over your cheek, his eye taking in your sad ones. "Be safe getting home."

"I will!" You shared a kiss goodbye as you excitedly entered the library.

You waved to norman at the front desk, he briefly looked up to give a small smile before returning to his large ornithology book on his desk.

You grinned and waved as you caught sight of Dan. He was in his scrubs with his Starbucks in his hand, smiling at you.

"I can help you for the next hour before I gotta go," He began as you sat in front of him, "Then I got my shift an-"

"Yes at the hospital, I know I know." You sat and opened your books, Dan grabbing one to flip through it, scanning for the important passage,

"Here, you'll want to start here, copy it, and then grab two more sources from the encyclopedias. Has to be from the books, not online."

You rubbed your temples, "Yeah, that's, a lot to take in."

Dan chuckled, "That's the advanced course for you."

You tapped your pencil on the paper of your books, "So, you hear about Brahms and his girl? The fight they had!"

Dan perked up, brown eyes filled with wonder.

The two of you immediately filled your time with gossip, the mention of Brahms's girlfriend and Billy was the only thing being studied.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bo strolled up to the library, "Twenty minutes to closing..." He shrugged his shoulders as he entered.

He looks around, the lights dimmed, the desk lamps off, save for the few remaining students.

"Can I help you?" Bo snapped his head to the thin, pale man at the front desk.

"Ah, yeah, where are the books on, like art and stuff," Bo looked at the nameplate, "Norman." Bo fumbled with his hands in his pockets.

"In the back," Norman gestured his head behind him, "In section eight hundred to eight hundred and fifty. Don't be long, we are closing soon." Norman sneered as he shuffled the papers on his desk.

"Yeah, thanks." Bo shook his head, as he caught Norman giving him a once over.

Bo clenched his fists as he heard Norman mumble "I don't even think he can read."

He made his way around the library, ducking behind the rows when he thought he saw you, any girl that resembled you had his heart clench in shock.

"No, Vinny, I can't talk right now, text it to me instead." Bo froze, his feet heavy, your voice was curt, he heard you grunt, knowing you just hung up on his brother.

Bo followed the voice, finding you tucked away in the private study area, the tables up against the walls, the lights were severely dimmed, Bo wondered how in the hell you could see the paper in front of you.

He carefully watched his steps, inching slowly behind you, grateful you were distracted in the book, grateful you secluded yourself so far away from everyone else.

A wolfish grin spread over his face, standing over you, he leaned in, hands snaking over you, rushing to silence your mouth,

"Hey, Sweets, miss me?"

Your blood went cold, eyes bulged, you attempted to turn but Bo held firm.

"Miss me? Huh? Ah, maybe you need to look at me first." He whispered into your ear, placing a feather-light kiss.

You retched away, guttural noises being silenced as Bo put a hand around your neck.

"Ah, no no, c'mon now, that any way to react to me? C'mon sweets, you used to beg me, beg me not to leave you, cry whenever I missed a date, moan for my cock to make you come." He chuckled as you squirmed in his arms, the chuckle turning into a soft laugh as you reached for your phone.

"Grabbing your phone for me? How nice of you, Sweets!" Bo whipped you around, slamming you onto the table as he chucked away the books, thankful they didn't fall onto the floor.

You began kicking at Bo, the panic making your blood run hot, giving you a surge of strength.

You knew Bo, knew how much stronger he was, knew you couldn't fight him off. The look in his eyes as his body leaned forward onto yours, chuckling off your kicks.

"Ah, hey, calm down," Bo squeezed on your neck, kissing your cheek as you sputtered out a whine, choking as you gasped for air.

Bo grabbed your phone, your eyes burning as he easily tapped the four-digit code to open it, he went right to the gallery, opening up the video of you and Vincent, "Look at you," The video played, Bo held the phone to your face, forcing you to look, "Taking my brother's cum in your slutty little pussy. Fuck what a good whore you are."

He exited out of the video, going to your texts, "So bad news, I won't get that Implanon thing for another month." He read aloud as he shook his head, "tsk tsk, and I bet you are still fucking, even when it's not safe. I mean, if my brother's anything like me, he won't wanna wrap that shit up."

Tears pooled in your eyes, slowly falling along the sides into your hair. Your eyes pleading with him, 'don't do this, please.'

Bo huffed as he pulled down your skirt, panties coming along with it. He took in your pussy, licking his bottom lip as he caught a glance at your shaved pussy, thankful that his brother has the same taste as him. "You look so good, that pussy nice and clean for me, gonna look good with my seed spilling out."

"I'll let you breathe properly if you promise to be quiet, can you do that for me?" His baby blues stared into your eyes, you wanted to hurl as you saw a sick softness to them.

"I'll, b-be- go-good." You choked. You gasped in sweet relief as bo removed his large hand from your neck. Your phone in his hand was held to your face as you realized he was filming.

"You better open up these legs for me, little whore like you should be used to spreading her legs, hm? Taking my brother's cock while dating me. Well, you can have my cock again, and I'm gonna make sure you'll never fucking forget this. Like I'll never fuckin' forget waking up to you." Bo placed the phone down, propping it up against your books, "With cum dripping out your pussy in Vincent's arms."

You looked away as you heard Bo's belt clink his zipper coming undone, "I can easily scream,"

"Scream? ha, the place is practically empty at this point, who's gonna come as you scream? 'Norman' I can tell he's already too self-absorbed to care for another." Bo leaned down, his breath hot over your cunt.

"Please don't, Bo please, I'll do anything!"

His signature cocky grin spread over his lips, "Oh, you will, first, I get a taste of this," He plunged his tongue in, a soft moan as your taste hit his tongue, his eyes looking up at you, then to the phone.

You squirmed as your walls involuntarily pulsed around his tongue. You squeezed your eyes shut, hips shaking as he flicked his tongue over your clit.

"You taste so good, fuck better than I remember," He sucked hard, laughing as you whimpered. "See, little slutty body like your can't help but react."

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, Bo's large hand roaming your body, dipping under your shirt, sliding under your bra to squeeze your breast.

"Fuck it feels good too, remember how you used to beg me to suck on them?" He pinched your hardening nipple, "Look at the camera." He cooed.

He dipped two fingers into your heat, making you groan as he pressed down and sucked hard on your clit.

You breathed heavily through your nose, fighting the urge to let out a wanton moan. Tears flowed as your hips voluntarily bucked into Bo's face, his tongue sending wave after wave of euphoria through you that not even Vincent could manage.

Bo shook his head, a raspy moan muffled by the lewd noises your pussy made as he fingered you. He looked up, smirking into you, your pussy clenching around his fingers, how you covered your mouth to fight back the deep moan.

You ran your hand through Bo's brown hair, he moaned, taking the action as approval for his ministrations. You pushed on him, your airy moans muffled by your palm as you came. Bo stayed latched onto your clit, suckling and flicking it, tongue deep to your cunt to lap at you, groaning as it pulsed around his muscle.

Bo shot up, licking his lips of your cream, "Ah, see that, wanna taste?" You shook your head, mouth a no. He leaned in, one hand angling his cock while the other grabbed your neck.

His tongue wrapped around yours, muffling the whine as he slammed into you, his cock stretching you out, a slight burn mixed with pleasure.

Bo wasted no time, slamming hard into you, his cheeks pink as he groaned into the kiss, he lifted his head, "Ah, fuck, needy little pussy fuckin' missed me. Ah shit, I fuck." He grunted above you, his body pressing you into the table, "Fuck, it missed me, fuck it missed me."

You sobbed under him, your mind going to Vincent, trying to picture it was Vincent on top of you, it was you and Vincent making love in the library, not Bo. Not Bo sending waves of familiar pleasure through you, his cock stretching you out.

"Please, don't cum in me, Bo, please don't."

"Wah? cum in you? Sure, I can do that, after all, your little pussy was made for it." He sneered at you, a dark look flashed over him.

You punched at him, "I'll scream."

"You scream and that video gets sent to Vincent. Doesn't matter I'm hav-having m-my way with y-you." He stuttered between thrusts, "Just a video of you getting impregnated by his older brother. He won't want you."

You sobbed as tears spilled as you turned away from him, Vincent flashed in your mind. His smile, his light blue eyes, his hands holding yours.

Your body tensed as Bo's cock felt intoxicating, the familiar rhythm, his harsh kisses, mind being taken back to you on his bed, how he'd hiked your legs over his shoulders as he pushed them onto your chest, a cocky grin as he fucked you deep.

"Bo," You whimpered, "Please," you continued "Just not inside."

He slammed harder, groaning as you clenched around him, "Feels like it wants it inside. Don't lie to yourself, Sweets."

You couldn't, the tears fell, you whimpered Vincent's name, "Hurry, Bo."

Bo couldn't hold back, your sexy little body squirming under him, your pussy clenching around him, your spent leaking onto the table, your stifled moans. "Look at the camera as you cum, look as I cum in you," He turned your head towards the phone, tears freely falling Bo licked your cheek.

His breathing, his thrusts, his cock filling you so well, his raspy praise. You stared, "I'm sorry, Vincent." You scrunched your face as Bo positioned in and out, a low groan reverberated from his chest.

Bo laughed as he came, his seed painting your insides, coating your pink walls, picturing it shooting deep into your womb, his little swimmers getting to work.

You fought back the urge to barf, his cum filling you send a ripple of pleasure through you.

Bo hissed as his breathing slowed, the realization of your nails digging into his shoulders, came to his senses. He slowly pulled out, grabbing the phone, to capture his seed dripping out of your pussy.

He wrapped his hand around your throat, squeezing, a threat. He continued to film, "Ah, look at that, good little slut getting bred. Just like she was made too."

Bo brought the camera to your face, "Say, 'Hi, Vincent!' ha" he laughed as you kept your vision off him and the camera.

"it's okay, I know you're thinking of getting that plan B. But you'll be coming with me tonight, I'm gonna make sure my seed takes." Bo released your neck, thumb running over your lips as you coughed.

"Get dressed, we're gonna get a hotel, this is from over." He leaned in to kiss your cheek, "My good girl, mine again." He hugged you as he sent the video to his phone. He laughed as he felt you shake in his arms,

"I wonder what Vincent will do when he sees this, gosh I can only imagine." He hummed and swayed you back and forth, "You'll look great with my child in you, can't wait, ah you'll be so beautiful."

[writefightandflightclub]

Somebody to love (PART 1/2): Richard Alonso Munoz x fem!reader

Summary: Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

You had been thinking about the small gesture all day. You had been distracted all the way through your shift, and then all through dinner with a friend.

Richard -your neighbour to the right- had turned-up at your door that morning, before setting off on his way to work. His visit had been unexpected, and you had opened the door in a fluster, seeing him greet you with a characteristically soft smile - just visible from beneath the thick brush of his bold, impressive moustache.

He had held them out to you - in between his index and middle finger. A small book of postage stamps.

You had simply looked at him in confusion for a moment.

“For your letters,” he had stated, in his soft-spoken voice. “You said last night you didn’t have any stamps, and I found these in my drawer, so...”

It was true. You had said that. Had forgotten you’d said it. Had barely registered running into him, since it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Your routine overlapped minimally with Richard’s -though more so since his new role in the letter room had him working days exclusively- but sometimes, you would meet serendipitously, as neighbours tend to do. Last night, in the liminal space between your work day ending and your home life beginning, you had stopped to chat with him, and -you remembered now- had made some offhand comment about needing some stamps.

The topic of letters had come up; naturally, given his new position. It caused you to mention having written some letters to your nieces -packaged up with little illustrated portraits you’d gotten commissioned for their new bedrooms. Letters which you hadn’t gotten around to posting.

And so, here Richard was. On your doorstep. With stamps.

It was a little thing. So little, it didn’t even register at the time. In fact, you had bundled him off your porch with a quick, cursory “Thanks, Richard!”, prioritising finishing your morning scramble and making it out of the door on time.

It didn’t register in the moment, no; but you were noticing it now, alright.

“-so, this morning,” you explain to your friend opposite you in the pizza parlour, as she absent-mindedly dips her crusts in some hot sauce, “there he is on my doorstep, and he’d brought me some stamps.”

Your friend, Jaz, dips her chin and slowly raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her glossed lips curling in an amused, incredulous smile. “So, let me get this straight. He brought you some... stamps, which he already had, from his house next door,” she recaps, her smile inching wider by the second, “and now you want to fuck him?!”. Her eyebrows knit together in faux concern and she clamps a hand over yours where it rests on the table. “Sweetie, we need to talk. How low is your bar these days? Exactly how dick-starved are you?”

Ordinarily you’d be more than game for the light fun she pokes at you. Would even have a smart riposte ready. This time, though, you simply huff, your jaw twitching in minor irritation at how flippant she is being. So, shaking your head gently, you pull your hand away from hers, folding your jacket around yourself, suddenly feeling exceedingly self-conscious.

“Never mind. I’m obviously not telling it right. And, wait - hold up- who in the hell said I wanted to...” you look around the parlour, voice dropping to an indignant whisper as if anyone around you would hear or care about your hypothetical sexploits “...fuck him?” Your tone is defensive, and you shift to take a masking nibble on your straw, slurping the dregs of your soda and bouncing your leg nervously under the table.

Your friend merely raises an eyebrow, with a healthy -and not entirely unfounded- scepticism, and so, you try to rein your protestations in, lest you get slammed with a “methinks you doth protest too much”.

“Okay, okay,” Jaz concedes, holding up her hands and leaning back in her chair. “All I’m saying is, it seems like you have a hard-on for him all of a sudden. You’ve lived by him for years and you’ve never noticed the guy! It’s just stamps, baby cakes. It’s just your paunchy, kindly neighbour, who gets milkshake stuck in his moustache.”

At least he’s not afraid to make a mess of himself when he’s slurping, you think idly, your eyebrow ticking up - the thought leading you in a very particular direction and sending a sudden scorching heat to your cheeks. Also - paunchy? I like a beautiful soft tummy to rest my head on, thank you very much.

Yeesh. You are not okay. Still, before you go full feral, you shrug your shoulders in partial concession, widening your eyes in innocence. “Uh huh. Sure. Yeah.” 

“Seriously?” Jaz continues, shaking her head in good-natured disbelief - blatantly seeing right through you. “Are stamps your love language now, or what the fuck?”

She’s not wrong. It is very… sudden. You’ve never felt that way about Richard before. But is it so preposterous to think you might begin to?

“Jeez! Who said anything about love?!” You swirl your straw in your cup, concentrating on puncturing the remaining bubbles and ignoring your friend’s peals of bemused laughter. “Look, okay? I guess you’re right, Jaz. Maybe I’m just dick-starved,” you suggest, a smile finally claiming your lips. “It has been… a little while. And the last encounter was not very... inspiring.” You wiggle your eyebrows at her and your shared laughter mingles in the space between you. Still, you’re more than a little keen to deflect, and you bounce your foot more furiously under the table in your haste to change the subject. “I just thought it was sweet of him, that’s all, but… forget it, okay? Tell me everything about your hot date with Jackson.”

As soon as the invitation is given, Jaz jumps on it. And, as you listen to her spill the tea on her latest hook-ups with her fancy man, you try really hard to focus - but you can’t help that your thoughts keep wandering time and again to a certain man. A man with the kindest, most soulful cola-coloured eyes. Your neighbour to the right.  

You’re unsure why, but you feel a little bent out of shape - a little annoyed, even- that Jaz was so quick to dismiss Richard. Particularly that she had seemed to miss the whole meaning behind his small gesture. He was listening to you. He was thinking about you. And, as you dwell further on it, you realise that maybe -just maybe- you want the kind of guy who brings you stamps, goddammit.

Shit - maybe Jaz wasn’t too far off when she said stamps were your love language after all.

And, true, maybe you hadn’t paid the faintest bit of romantic attention to Richard -for the most part- in the years you’d lived side-by-side with him... but maybe it was time to start. Maybe, in fact, it was well overdue.

***

Granted, it hadn’t struck you right away how sweet Richard’s gesture was, but as soon as it had, you started to notice everything. To remember everything.

You remembered how he pushed a flyer through your door one evening, just in case you might be interested in the latest art exhibit going on at the local rec centre. You recalled how he had duct-taped the handle of your garbage can back together after it spectacularly broke one morning, causing your trash to spill over the sidewalk. It hadn’t seemed like a huge thing at the time, but now, as you imagine him painstakingly unfurling the roll and passing it around and around the broken piece, entirely on his own steam, it takes on a new meaning.

You have begun to notice - really notice- how he always smiles and stops to chat to you, his face lighting up as if he is genuinely pleased to see you. You have begun to notice everything he has done for you, over the years, a deluge of kindness flooding your heart. Details -little things- which seemed insignificant at the time, but which weigh heavier than gold now that you reflect on them.

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

You have noticed his positivity. That bounce he gets in his step when he’s enthusiastic about something (which is always). The way his expressive, long-lashed eyes reveal everything he’s feeling whenever he talks or listens - his emotions and his compassionate heart pinned firmly on his sleeve, as prominent as his Corrections Officer badge. You notice how handsome he is; a fact which has inexplicably passed you by for the longest time. Perhaps, because of how understated he is? Not cocky and assured and alpha like the guys you’re usually drawn to.

Tonight, though, most of all, you are noticing that he’s not home, as you sit on your front porch steps, entirely locked out of your own house. You know for a fact that a couple of neighbours have spotted you there - you’ve observed pairs of curtains twitching- and yet no-one has come to your aid so far, mean bastards. You know, in contrast, that Richard would help anyone who needed it, without hesitation. And, it’s fair to say that sitting here, waiting for him to return and help you out, is certainly providing you plenty of opportunity to dwell on thoughts of him. In fact, you can’t wait for him to get home; not only because you wish for relief from the elements, no. But because the thought of seeing him actually excites you. You are looking forward to it.

Finally, thankfully, after the evening chill has long begun to bite at your extremities, you see Richard approaching. He whistles a jaunty tune as he comes up his drive, happy as usual. From his silhouette, you note that he’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and his usual ill-fitting jeans, his keys already jangling in his hand, and he stops abruptly when he sees you sat out front as though his feet are glued to the floor.

You can just about make out the smile which tugs at his lips, moments before his words do. He always seems happy to see you, and, on this occasion, you echo that feeling too, more so than ever. “Locked out?” he calls, and at the sound of his voice you stand, hopefully, clasping your purse on your shoulder, your own feet glued to the floor too.

“Yeah,” you call, throwing your voice over to him. “Waiting for the locksmith.”

You grip the strap of your purse a little tighter, as Richard takes a few steps closer, a polite but cautious smile lighting his face. “Want to wait inside?”

“Hell yes,” you gush with a relieved exhale of breath, gratefully trotting around to meet him on his porch where the security light bathes him in a halo of orange. “You’re a babe. Thank you, Richard.” You allow your eyes to gently rove over him as you approach. He’s wearing a turquoise bowling shirt, you realise. A bowling shirt with “Alonso Muñoz” stitched in an adorable flourish of red embroidery above the left shirt pocket. What’s more, he looks cute as all hell in it too. You seem to recall he’s in a casual league with some buddies.

“It’s no trouble,” he says with a warm, disarming smile, deep, pleasing creases radiating from around his eyes – and, even though you aren’t usually one to be lost for words, it is all you can do to smile back at him vacantly, clutching your purse strap tight enough that your knuckles strain.

Richard pauses too, seemingly taking a moment to remember the keys bunched and readied in his hand - as though your presence has pushed all other thoughts out of his head. “You must be cold. Let’s get you warmed up,” he says finally, snapping himself out of his stupor.

Yes please.

And so, with a bashful flutter of his long lashes as you shuffle even closer to him, Richard opens the door and guides you inside, hover-handing his palm at the small of your back.

He smiles widely as he is welcomed by his little fur ball, Lady, the white dog yipping and wagging and jumping up at his shins. Richard stoops to bundle her into his arms, the animal rasping its tongue over his shapely jaw, which he raises as he squirms away from the wet, eager kisses.

“Aw, you’re so precious, Lady,” you baby-talk, reaching out to apply fond scritches to the mop of her head. “I forget how cute you are, little bean!”

Richard chuckles with mirth, seemingly warmed by your sweet interaction with his pupper, and only when Lady gets restless in his arms does he set about plopping her down and refilling her food bowl.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Richard offers, before he briefly excuses himself, dipping away into another room and signalling he’ll be right back.

With Richard gone and Lady chowing down on her dried food, you take the opportunity to glance around the place, surprised by how at home you do feel, already, even though you’ve never set foot in here before. You’ve been in his yard before; for example, when he’s hosted block barbeques, or, when the summer sun has withered from your yard, you’ve sometimes shimmied your deck chair to be side by side with his as you languished together in the remaining patch of sun. But you’ve never been inside his home. Now that you are, you drink in the details of him, eager for any new information you can glean, and scanning over the books and paintings and photographs with particular interest. You smile as your eyes fall upon Lady’s bed, filled with a procession of carefully arranged stuffed animals and chew toys.  You are warmed by the painting of a beachy, mountain-edged, palm-fronded sunset, propped against the ‘sill.

You note that his place is homely and well-tended, and you also can’t help but notice that the place signals a rather solitary existence. One plate and one fork drying on the dish rack. A perfectly placed easy chair -for one- in front of the TV, the small couch to its side covered with stacks of books and papers, as if it has been a while since he entertained a guest. In fact, you would take a seat -make yourself at home- but you don’t want to intrude on His Seat, and nor do you wish to disturb his personal papers to clear the couch.

As you ponder this, Richard re-enters, extending a soft, flannel shirt towards you. “Here. In case you’re cold.”

You smile your thanks to him (grinning like a dumbass, actually) and you gratefully slip the garment over your shoulders, feeling instantly warmed. As you wrap it around yourself, you get a waft of fresh-scented detergent. You would never have guessed that you’d be able to recognise any particular Richard-y scent, but as the shirt’s pleasant odour engulfs you, you realise it is infinitely familiar. That it is wildly comforting.

You watch, a brief moment of awkwardness as Richard self-consciously combs his fingers through his thick moustache; sweeps a hand over his already immaculate, plastered-down curls. He looks so... neat. Controlled. Restrained. It crosses your mind that you’d like to mess him up a bit, see him come undone - of course, if he wanted.

Then, noticing your seating predicament, Richard surges over to gather up the strewn piles of mess, shifting them on to the coffee table instead. “Here, take a seat,” he indicates. “Sorry for the mess- I emptied the bureau looking for the stamps. Please. Every time I think to put it back I get distracted.”

His comment is nonchalant, but for the second time since he arrived home, you are at a loss for words, and you can only stare at him as you sink your ass down, gratefully, on to the now emptied couch. He’d gone to that effort for you? And now he’s apologising right to your face for the mess of it?

“That was kind of you, Richard,” you state, finding words again, and he shuffles nervously from shoe to shoe in response. You note that his brown skin grows increasingly flushed, with a deepening undertone of crimson as his eyes skim cautiously over you. “And thank you for letting me hang here. Promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. The locksmith should only be...” You suck in air through your teeth as you un-pocket your cell and glance at the time. “Yikes. Another hour. I’m so sorry to get in the way.”

His moustache twitches with a shy smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes all big and pretty. He certainly doesn’t look put-out, at least. “Not at all - it’s… really nice to have you here,” Richard insists, polite and sincere as ever. You are the one to feel bashful now, and you tug his shirt more firmly around your shoulders for comfort, the act serving to further fluster you and entrance him, it seems. He seems frozen to the spot again, and meanwhile, you’re now feeling overly warmed.

He looks a little lost, for a moment, as though it’s been so long since he had a visitor that he doesn’t quite know what to do with you. In the next second though, his practiced hospitality kicks in, his warm and affable nature shining through as he determines a course of action. “Have you eaten? I could fix you some dinner.”

You are hungry, you think, your tongue darting out along your bottom lip at the thought of food. Well, if he’s going to feed you, you’re not letting him do all the work -you decide- so you tentatively rise from your seat, clapping your palms together, signifying action. “Only if I can help you?”

“O- okay. Yeah. Thank you,” he nods; then, he comes to stand with his hands on his hips, thumbs to the front, causing his soft, rounded belly to protrude exaggeratedly from under his shirt. You’re not sure why that sends a very subtle flare of heat down between your legs, but it does all the same.

Meanwhile, oblivious to your thirsty inner monologue, Richard looks at you reservedly, until you smile and cross together to the humble kitchen, where, with another bashful flutter of his lashes he begins grabbing out utensils and ingredients. All the while, he moves seamlessly around you, so careful never to touch or to invade your personal space. The pronounced and careful lack of contact makes you realise, however -as he skims his body so close yet so far from yours in the compact space- that maybe you desperately want him to touch you. That you wouldn’t mind if his hand brushed your back, or lower. That maybe having him envelop his arms around you would feel as warm and comforting as his shirt – or even more so. That even, perhaps, if he pressed you from behind into the counter, his soft stomach leading, followed by his wide hips pinning you in place, his moustache grazing up the column of your neck, that you wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, the thought of his touch, and even the mere potential of it, fills you with an excited buzz deep in your belly. A thrill that you haven’t felt for a long time – at least, not quite like this.

Right now, though, you set these thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. You move around each other a little awkwardly, but thankfully, the conversation flows far more easily than your bodies. Richard’s shy and gentle, but he’s friendly. Inquisitive and interesting, and he keeps you chatting. And, so, you converse and cook together, until the resulting, homely odours waft into your nose, keeping your mind firmly on your much more literal hunger; at least, for the most part.

When the steaming food is plated up, Richard invites you to take a seat on the couch and you oblige, watching him fondly and with interest as he produces various condiments, a bottle of Mr. Chimi’s Churri sauce taking pride of place on the surface in front of you. You add a healthy dollop.

“Mmm, this is so good, thank you,” you say approvingly when he invites you to dig in, eagerly wolfing down forkfuls.

As soon as Richard has plonked himself down in his chair and balanced his own plate on his lap, he flicks on the TV – likely, more out of habit than anything. A vibrant telenovela sparks to life in the background, a particularly melodramatic scene in full swing. You smile to yourself. You recognise the show - you’ve heard him talk about it too. Even get the impression he watches religiously.

Richard’s eyes fix on the screen for a moment, and he is visibly suckered-in by the unfolding plot, his food disappearing at an impressive rate as he scoops it up to his mouth while he watches. Still, he doesn’t forget you’re there. Quite the contrary.

“It’s so sad,” he explains for your benefit, between his mouthfuls of dinner, his eyes overflowing with warmth as he turns to you. “Carlos and Adela are so in love, but they can’t be together. She’s engaged to Luis. She has to stay with him to save the family home because she already signed some papers.”

You smile, Richard’s heartfelt summary filling you with warmth. He cares about people. It’s what he does. Apparently, he’s even invested in the fictional ones. You try hard to supress your good-natured amusement at quite how invested he is; however, when his gaze meets yours once again, flicking back and forth between you and the screen, he must catch a hint of it in your expression. “Sorry,” he flusters. “I can turn this off, if you like?” he offers gently, eyes apologetic.

“Are you kidding?” you respond, with a warm smile. You’re no stranger to becoming over-invested in fiction, you suppose, and besides - you like the prospect of sharing this with him. “Catch me up some more,” you encourage. “So, we’re rooting for Carlos?”

Richard smiles gratefully, nodding vigorously in response. You like seeing him like this. In his own element, his own environment, doing things he typically enjoys. It’s nice to see him living his best life, thriving on the drama of the trope-laden plot. “I hope Carlos crashes the wedding. Luis doesn’t deserve her.”

“Yikes. You’re brutal, Alonso Muñoz,” you tease, a musical laugh lilting out of you.

You chat back and forth, an amused smile twitching at the corner of your mouth for the duration, and although Richard seems somewhat entranced by the developing storyline, he seems even more invested in you. He makes sure to listen to you, even when you’re sure you must be talking over an important detail. He ensures he fills you in on any prior plot point you may need for context.

And, while his eyes do intermittently flick back toward the screen, your eyes, however, remain firmly fixed on him. On the singular swoop of his meticulously parted, grizzled curls. On his long lashes blinking, his deep eyes shining beneath them, glinting in tandem with the light from the screen. His warm, brown skin and the lines etched in it when he smiles cast with a bluish hue, flickering light and shadow ghosting over the contours of his strong nose and chin and his heavy brow. The soft, inviting rolls of his stomach as he relaxes into his chair, and the way his belly shakes when he laughs. Of course, his glorious moustache, positively flourishing on his upper lip. Last but not least, what most gets you though, are his eyes. Eyes as kind and expressive and open as this sweet man’s heart is.

You laugh alongside him, hoping he is enjoying the company as much as you are. You could get used to this, you think; used to him. Indeed, you have no idea how you have managed to overlook this man, beautiful inside and out, until now. You resolve though, that you won’t make that same mistake again.

Eventually, the credits roll, and you thank Richard once more for the food. He carries your plate over to the sink, insisting -when you offer- that the dishes can languish there for one night. And so, instead of rising, you pat the couch cushion beside you invitingly. His throat bobs around a hard swallow as he stands before you, his feet momentarily glued to the floor; yet again. When Richard finally musters movement and takes a seat next to you, he places himself as far away from you as he possibly can on the small two-seater; out of respect rather than repulsion, you are more than sure. However, the compact space affords him little chance to keep his distance, and his clothed thigh presses warm against your own. He doesn’t make any attempt to move away though, and, equally, nor do you.

“Thank you, Richard,” you say, your voice softer and far more breathy than you intended, now that he is so close to you.

He clears his throat self-consciously, before his eyes crease with a sincere smile. “It’s no trouble. Anytime.” He sounds like he means it too.

You lean back, settling yourself deeper into the worn and slightly lumpy couch cushions. His posture, meanwhile, is still alarmingly stiff beside you, his torso upright and his hands folded formally in his lap. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say that, perhaps, you made him nervous.

“Richard, I don’t bite,” you soothe. “Sit back. Relax. It’s your home.”

He nods in concession, exhaling his tensely held breath. “Yes, Ma’am,” he sounds obediently. You don’t think you’ve ever had anyone call you Ma’am before; but you note that you don’t entirely mind it, out of Richard’s mouth. You maybe even… like it?

Anyway, outside of your increasingly feral internal monologue, Richard reaches over to flick on the soft, ambient lamp to his side -the room having grown thick with shadows- and then he is sinking back, resting his head against the couch cushions alongside you.

You turn your head and tilt your torso a little towards him. When Richard does the same, it evokes a sense of intimacy that you weren’t all the way prepared for; the rest of the room seems to disappear as you are both held in a close circle of oranged light, the TV nothing but a lulling, background hum now. “I mean it... I... I wanted to thank you properly. For the stamps.”

“It’s no trouble,” he repeats, his voice deep and resonant and close now, catching you off-guard. No trouble? Sure. Despite the fact he’d clearly emptied-out everything in his living room to find them. “Did you send your letters?” he enquires softly, his eyebrows jumping up a little.

You can’t supress the bittersweet smile which inches over your face as you respond. “I did, and I got the cutest video call from my nieces when their mail arrived.” That wouldn’t have happened. Not without him being so thoughtful. You’d have put it off and put it off. The letters would still be sat on your dresser.  

Richard’s eyes light, and he looks genuinely pleased for you, his face glowing. “I’m glad.” He smiles, revealing a flash of his cute, ever so slightly imperfect (and therefore entirely perfect) teeth. Finally beginning to relax again, his hands rest flat astride his sturdy thighs and his head lolls towards you. With his next words, his voice becomes even softer. “I can tell you miss them since they moved away. Portland, right? I, uh. I really hoped you would send those letters. I know how much they can mean to people.”

“Portland. Yeah. Wow, you remember that?” You have to admit that you are a little shocked. Richard listened to you. Really listened to you. And, not only that, but he clearly read between the lines, connecting the dots between each one of your ad hoc interactions in a way which you -apparently- had failed to do thus far.

Jaz would scoff at you right now, you know it, if she could see you becoming all shy and flustered for him.

And now you want to fuck him?

But it wasn’t only that he brought you the stamps, okay? It was why he did it. He did it, because he knew what it might mean for you. Because, evidently, not only did he notice that you were sad -about something you barely let yourself acknowledge, by the way- but he also cared enough to try to make you happy instead.

The realisation that he cares is an emotional thing, causing a slight lump to rise in your throat. It should probably make you happy, but in fact, it saddens you. It saddens you because -you realise now- you have taken for granted all this time how easy Richard is to talk to. Have taken for granted the way he has been privy to so many candid details about your life.

Richard has often been the first person you’ve spoken to when you arrived home -sometimes the only person- and you have never hesitated to share your good news and triumphs with him. Nor have you hesitated to vent, sharing the more difficult details of your bad days. You’ve taken for granted just how much of yourself you’ve cumulatively shared with him; in a way you don’t often share with anyone else. Richard has been an important part of your life all these years, without you truly realising it. Perhaps because your interactions with him have tended to exist in such a liminal, peculiar space in your day. Perhaps because you were too close to see the big picture, instead of this collection of valuable, little things.

You hug your arms around yourself. You can merely repeat it again. “Thank you. For real.”

“It’s just a little thing,” he dismisses, modestly, and you are very suddenly tired of him dismissing himself. You want him to know how appreciated he is. Embodying this, your hand darts out to grip his where it rests on his thigh, and Richard looks down at this small spectacle in mild shock; and yet, he doesn’t pull away from your touch.

“It’s not. It’s a lot of things, Richard. I want you to know I appreciate everything you do. It has... It has been a long time since anyone was so sweet to me.”

Feeling self-conscious suddenly, following your outburst of affection, you inch your hand away from his; retreating, and reining yourself back in. For a moment, Richard’s fingers twitch up from his pant leg as though they might chase yours; but then, his hand stills, settled on his thigh just as before.

Then, a crease appears at his brow. “None of your Adonises are sweet to you?”

Your nose crinkles in confusion. “My... Adonises?”

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

Your brow creases, as you try to detect whether there is any judgement or malice in his observation, but, knowing him, you are not inclined to think there is. Still, you feel there is more to uncover. He’s noticed your dates coming and going then? He thinks they’re… Adonises? He’s surprised they aren’t sweet to you?

Still, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, perhaps realising how they might be misinterpreted, that crimson undertone to his skin flares again, this time reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he wants the couch to swallow him up, and you can’t help but feel for him. “I just meant...”

“-It’s okay,” you say, swooping in to rescue him before he can start helplessly blabbering. He keenly takes the invitation to stop, his mouth suddenly clamping shut, ready to listen. And you? You are ready to talk. The words seem to come so easily around him. “I guess... you’re right. I’ve been on some dates but they...” you sigh, furrowing your brow as you try to find the words. “That’s all fine. Most of the time it’s really fun. Or it was. But... lately...”

“Lately?” Richard encourages, when you don’t go on, his voice barely above a whisper as he hangs on your every word.

“Lately, I think… That maybe it would be nice to have somebody who doesn’t just come and go. To have… somebody to love, I guess?”

“Somebody to love,” Richard ponders, his expression becoming wistful. His head begins moving up and down ever so slowly, gradually building to a more adamant nod. He smiles, but his eyes don’t crease at the corners this time. “That really does sound nice.”

It shocks you, but seeing him even a little sad, like that, has your hands fisting in the material of your skirt, as you resist the urge to reach out for him and offer comfort. You want to cup his face in your hand and kiss him senseless, until his eyes glow once more, imbued with his characteristic positivity. You want to care for him and protect him and make him laugh and spend time with him and…

Fuck.

You want to love him, you realise, and the thought scares you down to your bones. It scares you enough that you sit forwards, breaking this most peculiar tension. Changing the topic. And, abrupt as it may be, at least it works.

“What are you reading?” you ask, shrugging his shirt from your shoulders as a hot, cloying flush creeps along your skin and up your neck, prickly enough that it feels like fingertips. As you imagine Richard’s fingers dancing the same path over your bare shoulder blade, slipping beneath the spaghetti strap of your top, peeling it down, you hurriedly pick up the first book you can put your hands on, turning it in your palms without taking in a word written on it.

Poor Richard. You must be giving the sweet man whiplash.

Still, he leans forward in his seat too, sombrely taking the book from your hands and gazing down at the cover.

“Ah. It’s a bleak topic,” he warns. A deep crease appears in his brow. “It’s Night, by Elie Wiesel – a survivor’s account of his experiences during the Holocaust.”

Your expression turns grave and pinched and you nod, listening carefully as Richard recounts some of the key details. Then, together, you continue to pore through the pile, tackling each book in turn. You listen intently to Richard recount the various synopses, passionate and precise and sensitive in his summaries. It seems he reads a lot of non-fiction. Heavy reading, with many titles about the prison system, and atrocities - often both. But, you understand why it’s important to him. You are grateful to understand how his empathetic nature begets yet more empathy, as he seeks to expand his knowledge of experiences and histories different to his own. 

At first sight, you think it’s seemingly at odds that such a positive man seeks out such dark accounts, but it makes sense to you, in a strange way. After all, he wants to understand how things can be better. He believes they can be. You don’t know anything more Richard-y than that.

Reaching for the next title, you find it is a little different to the rest. You are reluctant to segue too abruptly from such heavy topics, keen to give them the merit they deserve, but at the same time you are grateful for a little lightness as you pick-up what appears to be a slightly trashy romance novel. You smile fondly, connecting the dots between this and the telenovela plotlines that seem to grab his attention; the way he seems so in love with love. Again, you consider how the two sides of him -the more serious and seemingly more trivial - may seem at odds, but that actually, they each reveal what is at the core of him. He is interested in people. He’s invested.

“And this book?” you ask tentatively, not even trying to stifle your smile as your eyes wander over the cover, two half-dressed people locked in an erotic, sordid embrace. You are especially keen to hear what he has to say about this one too.

“Well… Like you said. Somebody to love - right? Don’t we all need those kinds of stories?”

Your eyes glow with admiration. Whilst he’s not cocky or overly assured, no, you are coming to admire Richard’s quiet confidence in who he is and what he cares about. His integrity and his lack of embarrassment in the things he chooses to value. His delight and lack of shame in the things that he enjoys. He’s not afraid to be who he is. You think that’s wonderful.

Next, your eyes flick back to the final book on the pile, partly for completeness but also out of curiosity. You feel with each title you pick-up, you are learning something about him; and, frankly, you want to know everything there is to find out. You look at it with a start however, when you realise what the final book in the pile is.

It’s your book. It’s the anthology of poetry you’d self-published around a year ago, and sold at your local readings. You reach for it instantly, almost cradling it in your hands like a precious object. Not because it’s yours - not exactly- but because it’s his. His copy looks eminently different to the spares you still have boxed-up in your house, all fresh and crisp, spines unbroken. This one looks a little worn around the edges - well-thumbed, spine broken-in. Some of the pages are dog-eared, and various makeshift bookmarks are sticking out of it. You’ve never seen one of your publications looking so… beautiful. So treasured.

“You actually read this?” you ask, a little overwhelmed, your heart hammering, and tears spiking in your eyes.

“I read it often. I told you, I really like it!”

You stroke the cover with your palm. “Honestly? I thought you were just being polite.”

When you’d mentioned to him for the first time that you wrote poetry -specifically erotic poetry- and had invited him to the reading, Richard had looked, at first, as though he was ready to die of embarrassment. Regardless, he’d still come along - your only neighbour to have done so. You vaguely remember having spoken to him the day afterward about it, but when you think of the show itself, you can’t picture him there. Now, you desperately wrack your memory of the event, searching for him. Wishing you could recall him showing-up for you in such an important way. 

It had been such a blur, though. You’d had a lot of friends there. You’d had a date there, who, at the time, you’d thought was the be all and end all. Now, however, you curse yourself for overlooking Richard. You wish you could go back and root through the crowd for him. You wish you could bring him into the spotlight. Bring him into your arms. And yet, while you ponder all of this, Richard reaches for the book and gently lifts it from your hands, with a gentle hum. It practically falls open on one particular page.

“This one is my favourite,” he admits bashfully. “Salted Peach. I must have it almost memorised by now.” You turn to him, studying his face. His expressive eyes are full of a heat gentler and more nuanced than your words could ever hope to be, you think, as he pores over the page. Over your words.

“No way. Prove it, Alonso Muñoz,” you challenge, exhaling a laugh that is surprised and disbelieving and utterly delighted all at once.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it, but the man sets his face, both more determined and more playful than you think you have seen him so far, as he hands the book back to you. “Okay,” he smiles, softly. “I’ll give it a go.”

You hold your breath as his eyes flutter closed -so that you know he has zero chance of cheating- his long lashes fanning-out beautifully over his cheek. You take the chance to look over his handsome features, while he can’t interrupt your surreptitious study.

Then, he begins. His voice is hushed and unsure, yet the richness of it washes over you, right from the first line.

“Like salt kept on the lips,

To resist is to rust,” he begins, and your breath catches in your chest.

“Let me be an oiled thing under you, all fluid and opening smoothly

With keen, slick hinges.”

First, you are struck that he really does know it. That he really does remember it, almost word perfect. You exhale a breath in disbelief, your chest filling with butterflies.

“A ruined peach

Spilling nectar over your thumb,” he continues, and desire knots deep in your belly.

It’s not that the words are explicit – they aren’t. But something about the way he recites them -recounts your desire- makes them feel positively sinful, his voice quietly confident and subtly erotic as he recites your words. You don’t only hear the words, but you feel them, almost as if his thumb really has punctured you.

You are becoming slick already, feeling like a ruined, grateful fruit. You want to be his fruit, you think. His salted peach.

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

My... (my stone heart? Is that right?)” he interjects.

“It’s perfect,” you encourage, your voice trembling slightly, even as his grows ever more robust, and, as you bolster him, he sits a little taller in his seat, his posture proud and the new confidence reflected in his voice as he proceeds. As he grows, stiffer, taller, you become liquid, and you writhe your heat subtly against your seat. You press your thighs closer together.

Enraptured, you watch his lips and tongue move seamlessly around the words. The micro-expressions on his face, revealing how tenderly he wishes to portray them, every word imbued with care. With expression, and feeling.  

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

As he continues, you close your eyes too. You stop checking the words against the book and you let yourself feel them. You let them wash over you. You let his voice wash over you; to sink and curl into the pit of you. You squirm in place, and yet this shifting makes you all too aware of your stillness – this fixed position and distance from him, when surely you should be moving and surging and undulating on him? Surely you should be leaning in and hearing the deep yet gentle timbre of his words waft into the shell of your ear, or fanning over your skin?

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.  

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

You want to be swallowed by him. Oiled by him. Made slick.

“Or else I rust.”

You are rapt. His words -no, your words, spoken by him- melting you.

His voice. So rich, and so sensual, and you could swear, as you listen to him, that your words have never sounded so erotic. That you have never felt them as deeply as you do now, hearing them fall from his tongue and his lips. Hearing them flow from his heart, as he recites them in a way you’ve never heard them; an interpretation entirely unique to him.

In fact, listening to him, like this, lights a flame in the pit of you, a heat suffusing through you, warming everywhere. He warms you, even from this distance, and you can feel how much heat he has to give. And, on boy. You want to lap it up. Every. Last. Drop.

“I... I forgot the next part,” he adds, shyly, his confidence wavering, and you open your eyes, beginning to recite the rest for him.

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

It sounds… true. It feels right. It feels so right to say those words to him. So right that it knocks the air from out of you.

At the sound of your voice, you watch a soft, unfiltered smile appear on Richard’s face, his still-closed eyes creasing deliciously at the corners, his moustache animating with it.

“And yet you resist me; rust me,” you continue, voice full of fissures, and Richard’s eyes slowly peel open, pooling with heat. This time, unlike the other times his eyes have met yours, he holds your gaze - doesn’t drop his eyes from yours in a flurry of bashfulness and fluttered lashes. He holds your gaze and he holds you, in this moment. In this little circle of intimacy, his eyes glowing, all for you. Pooling with that heat, so nuanced and gentle, but every bit as hot as anything you’ve ever touched.

Your voice and your smile and your heart crack wide open as you continue.

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

You complete the last lines at the same time, eyes locked. 

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

Of all the swimming emotions rising at that moment, gratitude balls in your heart most intensely, and yet again, it is all you can do to thrust it towards him, your humble offering.

“Thank you,” you say, for the nth time that evening, a smile of the purest joy still splitting your face. “That was really beautiful.”  

It’s hard to comprehend how moved you are by what just happened. You are shocked. Flattered. That someone appreciates your words, that they resonate at all, makes you feel so seen. That the person is Richard is more of a treasure than you can fathom, and it causes a flood of raw, reckless emotion, joyful tears brimming in your eyes.

In return, Richard’s eyes shine as he regards you, with an admiration so deep and yet prominent that you almost shrink back from it. “They’re your words,” he impresses, aiming, as ever, to shrink himself instead.

You shake your head. You won’t have that. “No, Richard - it’s the way you recited them. I swear you should do my next reading for me. You’re so…” You search desperately for the right words, and you can’t find ones any more fitting. “…So fucking beautiful.”

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

You feel entirely caught off guard and just a little silly that you are getting yourself upset in front of him, and yet Richard’s eyes narrow kindly as you try to scrub a stray tear away from your cheek. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soothing, and in the next breath he reaches out to touch you, his hand settling over the top of yours. The gesture is a little awkward, unsure, but only until his hand is in place. After that it simply feels... right. Perfect, in fact.

He strokes you, his thumb ghosting slowly, minutely over your pulse point, sending a delicious shiver along your spine. His eyes search yours, and you become thoroughly lost in the intensity of them. Lost in a way that you don’t ever wish to find yourself again. Lost in a way that turns everything on its head - has you finally feeling found.

“I loved hearing you read. It was so wonderful. You should definitely do another event,” Richard gushes. “I’m sure I could listen to you read from this all night.” With that, and the scenario it conjures, perhaps, he looks down at his hand on yours. Maybe growing self-conscious, or worried that he is overstepping; that he has lingered there too long. Suddenly, though, you don’t think any length of time could be too long for him to be touching you.

When your gaze drops to his lips, however, his moustache bristles, and he quickly snatches his hand back to his lap. “Have you written anything lately?” he asks hurriedly, scooping up the book again, his topic change giving off the same energy as yours did previously.

You wonder if he is imagining your fingers trailing over his bare flesh now too. You hope so. Oh how you hope.

At his question, though, you exhale a small laugh, pumping your eyebrows once as your face splits in a smile. You shake your head gently. “I haven’t been... it’s a while since I was, let’s say, properly inspired by an encounter,” you explain, looking down at your hands in your lap, missing his contact already. “I’m just... Hmmph. I don’t know. It’s just... missing something. Guess they don’t make Adonises like they used to,” you add flippantly, poking light fun, partly at yourself.

Contrary to your flippancy, Richard becomes more serious. A gulp trails down his throat, and he seems suddenly frozen in place; seized up. As if he needs you to oil him so that he doesn’t rust. “W-What are you missing?” he asks, his voice lower than you’ve heard it, slightly more grit to it. His chest visibly rising, breaths slightly quickened; just like yours.

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

What are you missing? You’re not sure, but somehow you feel that whatever it is, Richard could give it to you in moments.

Still, you don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you ask him a question in return. You ask him a question feeling that, somehow, in a roundabout way, both of your questions may arrive at precisely the same answer.

“Why that poem?” you question, softly, lifting your eyes to him. “Why is that one your favourite?”

“I... I think...” he swallows again, then he whets his plush lips with a flick of his pink tongue. “It’s about longing, isn’t it? About being... lonely? About... wanting... someone in particular.” He fixes his expressive eyes on a point on the table, unable to look at you, it seems, in that moment. Still, his words are telling enough alone, you think, even without you seeing that same sentiment mirrored in his eyes too.

Now, you have another question. “Do you ever... get lonely? Are you? Lonely?”

It’s not even an assumption about him, you vaguely realise. It’s a projection. A projection of how you feel, and how you never realised you felt. It’s a desperate plea for affinity. For that longing to be understood, finally.

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

However, as soon as the question is out of your mouth you wish you could retract it. Loneliness is a solitary thing, after all, and you have no business, you suppose, wading into anyone else’s.

“I’m so sorry, please don’t answer that,” you mutter quickly, your fingers darting out to ghost along his forearm in apology, your naturally tactile nature coming through.

He drops his gaze towards your fingers there, watching them skimming his warm skin and the soft, dark hairs on his arms. He doesn’t inch away. Instead, he lifts his eyes to you, and you know the answer before he says it aloud. You know the answer as his emotions are written clearly in his eyes. Worn on his sleeve, like his badge.

The weight of his loneliness crushes you as if it was your own.

“Me too,” you admit, nodding softly, and his mouth curls briefly into a small, sad smile as your fingers continue their slow inch across his skin.

He sits in that sadness for a moment, and then, tentatively, as a thought flashes across his eyes, he brightens, just a little – looking mildly more hopeful. “Well,” he suggests, bravely. “Maybe we can… keep each other company?”

That really does sound nice.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Richard reaches out to fumble away the single tear ever so suddenly coursing down your face, swiping a line on your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything so tender as his touch in that moment. It is yet another little thing; like the graze of a match head along its box. A little act, charged, with all this dangerous potential for a much larger, blazing thing to ignite.

You nod, the corners of your mouth trembling. “I would like that.” You would like that a lot.

Richard searches your eyes, and, ever so slowly - always slowly- as if you don’t wish to scare him away, you dare to hook your arm into his at the elbow, and you lower your head until it is resting on top of his shoulder.

“Is – Is this okay, Richard?” you ask in a small voice, pleading inwardly with the universe that he will say yes. That it is.

“This is... perfect,” he responds, even as he remains stiff against you, and, given his affirmation, you curl and scooch your body, shuffling a little closer to him. Bolstered too, with seeming new-found confidence, Richard raises him arm over you, and he nestles you safely against him where you can better feel his warmth. Where, with your knees drawing up on to his lap and your ear coming to rest on his chest, you can feel and hear the quickened thud of his racing heart as he holds you. His beautiful, kind, open heart.

Your mouth extends in a watery smile as you are held by him. He’s right. It’s a little thing, but it is perfect, isn’t it?

Still, again, although you should feel light, you feel heavy. With emotion. With longing. And so, you reach for another topic change. You reach for lightness. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly impressive moustache?” you enquire into his shirt, another solitary tear slipping over the bridge of your nose and wetting the flourish of red stitching.

Giving yourself whiplash now, you smile, as Richard’s chest shakes beneath you with gentle, easy laughter.

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

“Who would actually dare?” you exclaim, as if thoroughly scandalised. “Fuck them, Richard. I like it. I like it a lot.”

His fingers trace shapes on your back. “Thank you.”

You are pleased to feel him gradually relax against you, his form melding with yours, his body becoming less stiff. Less rusted; more of a fluid thing.

“Do you… do you have a little moustache comb?”

Another chuckle. “I do,” he confirms, and you don’t know why on earth that detail settles it, but you think that he must certainly be the most perfect man on earth.

You go silent for a moment, but Richard prompts you gently - “No more questions for me?”- as if he was enjoying your mood-lightening segue. You are more than happy to oblige the sweet man by continuing, and you chew on your lip as you come up with something.

“Are you on Tinder?” A cheeky smile claims your mouth again - you’d kill to see his profile.

You’d think about the fact he’d probably never send unsolicited dick pics, but… then you’d be thinking about dick pics, and that’s one dangerous road towards Feral Town.

While you ponder this, Richard laughs again, but it’s a little self-deprecating this time. “No... I... I was for a while, but I...”

“What?”

He inhales and sighs his whole breath out again - a sad sound. His tone when he speaks is equally morose. “I’m… not sure people are looking for someone like me.”

At that, you abruptly sit up, narrowing your eyes and fixing a determined, earnest stare on him. You reach up, gingerly, moved to cup his cheek with your palm, his groomed sideburn and the plume of his moustache pleasantly rough under your fingers. You make sure he is looking you in the eyes. “Richard,” you contest, with every scrap of sincerity you can muster; and then some. “I think everybody must be looking for somebody like you.” 

His eyes are pierced by a peculiar emotion you haven’t seen there yet. At first it looks like pain, but then it levels off until his eyes are shining, with something resembling pride or gratitude. When a smile finally twitches his moustache, your gaze drops to his lips again, and you are no longer surprised by how easy it is to think about kissing him, desire unfurling in your belly at an alarming rate. A palpable, mutual longing eddies in the space between you.

You surprise yourself though, by dipping to press a sweet, chaste kiss into his cheek, rather than sinking towards his lips as you so wish to do. When you perform this gesture, his eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft, involuntary hum, the sound gathering in your very bones and setting up camp there. As you dip back from him, the edge of his moustache grazes your cheek, and you have to admit it’s sort of electrifying. You imagine how it would tickle if you were kissed by him. How it would tickle wherever you were kissed.

The lines of poetry, so to speak, are writing themselves in your mind, already. You haven’t felt this inspired in a long time, and yet, on this occasion, you want to wait. You don’t want to rush it - even though you’ve never felt the need to quell your desires on many occasions before. Life is short, after all – too short to waste. However, something tells you that Richard is the type of man you should savour. Something tells you, that you may have found somebody to love, and, you may not love often; but when you do, you love slow.

So, you pull away from Richard, and you note that his eyes have fluttered closed. When he opens them again, you know that this kiss on the cheek was the right thing to do. You see subtle tears shining in his eyes. Again, he looks pained -with first appearances- but these tears, on second examination you think, are joyful. His heart joyful yet heavy, exactly like yours. After all, when you are overwhelmed with joy all at once, with a flood of little, happy things, it can weigh you down, at first, if the measure of joy is not one which you are quite accustomed to. If you are not practised at carrying it.

At that point, contemplating joy, you are ripped cruelly from the moment, as, with the worst and best possible timing, your phone buzzes to life, vibrating against your hip until you reach to fish out the insistent device.

“The locksmith is here, Richard. I have to go.”

“Y- yeah. Okay,” he nods, despite the fact everything about him is conveying the opposite sentiment.

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.” 

He nods again, and, wanting to leave him with a parting thought (or, not wanting to leave him at all, but needs must), you have the bright idea to pick up your book from the table, thumbing through it quickly to find the page you want. A poem called The Flood.

“Recommended bedtime reading,” you wink, thrusting the book towards his chest and standing, grabbing your purse and making your way towards the door. “I can give you back your shirt tomorrow, right?” you say cheekily. “Maybe after dinner?” 

Richard stands too, following you towards the door like he’s magnetised to you, Lady trotting along too, inquisitively, her little black nose snuffling at the air.

“A-after dinner?” he enquires, confused, as you sweep out in a little bit of a whirlwind.

“Yeah, Richard,” you smile coyly from beneath your lashes, injecting some flirtation into your tone. “I owe you dinner. To make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

You arch an eyebrow at him, looking at him pointedly and smoothing your hand over his upper arm until he gets the gist. When your meaning dawns on him, he gets that adorable, excited little spring in his step. You revel in his bright toothy smile, striking and pearly from beneath the thick brush of his moustache. “I know a nice little pasta place. And there’s a great documentary playing at the Coolidge if you want to catch it?”

“Sure,” you agree, dipping forward to plant another lingering kiss on his cheek in the doorway, relishing the feel of that moustache all over again. “It’s a date.” 

Evidently flustered, and in no bad way, Richard fumbles for words and finds none, omitting a mere collection of stunted syllables and unfinished sounds in response.

You wink at him, and before swooping off, you add one final thing. “Feel free to consider the bedtime reading a preview, okay? If you’d like.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up in disbelief. You get the feeling he already knows exactly what that particular poem is about. “Yes, ma’am.” he nods, looking sweetly and longingly and adoringly after you as you sashay away.

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

You allow yourself one last long look at him before you retreat, an unstoppable smile splitting your face, and, seeing him stood in the doorway, smiling after you, only cements everything you have come to learn this evening.

From now on, neither of you will be lonely anymore. There will be no more longing. Instead, there will be a flood, you think.

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE

[narastories]

For the ship bingo:

Lord John / Stephan von Namtzen

William Ransom / John Cinnamon

Claire / Frank

(I don’t know enough about the Dresden files to send you ships so it’s just OL ships)

Aah, thank you for asking! Don't worry, I'm happy to talk OL ships. Just because I've lost my mind to DF and Sunder City, I'm still happy to chat about Outlander <3

Lord John / Stephan von Namtzen:

Relationship goals: I think this is probably John's healthiest canon relationship. I also think that part is amazing when Stephan is going a bit crazy after losing his arm and John helps him snap out of it even though he's also dealing with his own heartbreak at that point. I think they are generally good for each other.

their story is more interesting than the ship itself: to me at least. Here I mostly think how John is Percy's superior and Stephan is Webers, etc. that whole mess.

I like it in theory; in practice - it's cute but missing that special something: this is not a critique, I like my food way too spicy and my ships way too problematic

would and have read fic about them and I liked those fics

overall open to it

William Ransom / John Cinnamon:

I'm neutral + open to it: I know people started shipping them after Bees and the thing is I still haven't read more than like 1/4 of that book and even that has been overshadowed by trauma/drama/heartbreak/rage. So I don't feel like I have much to say on this ship bc I haven't paid much attention to them. Eventually I do plan on maybe somehow tackling Bees and then we'll see.

Claire / Frank:

fandom is ruining them: not as in ruined them for me that I can't enjoy them now, but as in people have really-really strange notions about who is at fault here (a little bit both of them but Claire is definitely more the villain here for me ngl). Another thing is that I absolutely hate how people keep tagging their Claire/Jamie fics Claire/Frank and then it's only just bashing Frank about how bad and abusive he is (hello??? are we consuming the same source material???). It makes it really hard to find those few and far between actual Claire/Frank fics and it's infuriating.

would/do read fic about them: I would read a hell of a lot more if not for the above problem and general lack of fics

aesthetically it's GREAT: come on, Tobias Menzies and Caitriona Balfe. Pretty, pretty people.

this ship can fit so much projection in it: I think it's romantic that they got married spontaneously. I think it's admirable that they went through a long-distance relationship period, stayed together, and tried again. I think their age difference is perfectly fine. I think they would have had so much potential had Claire not fallen through some fucking magic stones and [redacted]

I love them. I'm not super involved in OL rn as you know and I don't have plans of writing with them anytime soon but I do love them and can still get quite passionate about them as you can see.

Thanks for asking!!