#it's one of the best pieces of Dutch literature

[geschiedenisish]

Oeh.... difficult choice.....

I probably identify most with the Phaistos Disc, but that is mostly because of its role in A Discovery of Heaven by Harry Mulisch. So I have a little bias towards that one. ;)

✨ tag yourself ✨ but with Aegean Scripts! Mainly Bronze Age, with a sprinkle of Iron Age (Cypriot Syllabary).

[cowboyfromh3ll]

OKAY BESTIE I'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE

It's John's turn this time.

The reader is Dutch's daughter still.

Dutch starts dating John's mother, and they have a dinner to introduce the kids. (They're 18 ans 23 but) since Dutch is serious about this woman, he wants her son (who still lives at home... also maybe has an emo band but thats besides the point) and his daughter to meet each other.

Cue another stereotypical porn scenario, except this one of the Stepbro variety

I absolutely loved Cola.

Have you heard the song "She keeps me up" by nickelback? (Ik nickelback is kinda cringe but this song 💋👌)

It reminded me of this prompt because one of the lines is:

"Funky little monkey, she's a twisted trickster.

Everybody wants to be the sister's mister

Coca cola, roller coaster

Love her even though I'm not supposed to."

MX

(StepBro!John Marston x Dutch’s Daughter!Reader Smut)

WOOOO MY GOD this was sooooo fun to write and it's one of the best pieces of literature I have ever written. Enjoy.

Warnings: Stepcest, age gap, unprotected piv, reader is a pervert with a wild imagination

You had a near giddy sense of optimism at the thought of that day's coming events. The lust was like an IV drip in your veins, spreading through your body rapidly enough to make you feel lightheaded from excitement. You tumbled out of bed and pranced towards the bathroom like a deer frolicking through a field, though with your hazy state of mind, it felt more like dragging yourself towards the bathroom with the helpless awareness of someone realizing they’d been slipped a drug. You swung open the door with such great ferocity you thought you might rip it off its hinges if you weren’t careful.

You tried to take relief in the surging water of the shower, cranking the handle the furthest you could; the bathroom filling with steam within minutes. You stood underneath the water, watching the way each droplet drummed against the bottom of your tub hypnotically. You thought of the boy you were hours away from meeting in an introductory dinner, your father informing you he was named John. From pictures your father had so graciously shown you, you knew he was your type. He looked considerably older than you, though not by too much. Young looking enough that people wouldn’t give you questioning looks if they saw you walking together in public hand in hand, or perhaps sharing a milkshake; seductively licking the whipped cream off the corner of his mouth before dipping your own finger in the fluffy confection.

His skin looked nearly wet in the picture your father showed you, standing next to his mother in some outside area (You barely remembered what she looked like, far too focused on him). The oily lubricants of sweat caused his hair to cling to his forehead; the effortless feather of his side-swept bangs that were just slightly too long framing his left eye. You’d imagined that if you pushed them back, the path of his shining forehead would be exposed. The thought alone made your heart quicken as if he had just stripped naked in front of you. You went on to imagine that after pushing back his bangs, you’d lick his forehead; likely tasting of the sweat on his inner thighs and the crevices of his torso.

You smiled at the thought as you slathered the syrupy body wash across your breasts, hoping your skin would ferment with the scent and create an intoxicating alcohol in the air. You began to imagine John inhaling the rousing fragrance of your cherry vanilla shampoo as you massaged your scalp; the result of accidentally leaning far too forward next to him while he showed you something on his phone screen, a swath of velvety hair brushing against his nose as he tried his best not to deeply inhale you. You soon became so dizzy from your own thoughts that you clumsily supported yourself on the shower wall before sliding down. You extracted the shower head from its holder before turning the notch to a narrow stream of high pressure and holding it between your legs the same way a medic would put an oxygen mask on a patient slipping from consciousness.

You chose your outfit for the day carefully. You decided that today you’d brandish a mini baby pink slip dress, the material imperceptibly sheer; slight enough that they wouldn’t be able to discern the outline of your lacy underwear; but sheer enough that upon closer inspection, they’d be able to make out the prints of your hardened nipples and the color of your smooth breasts. For the special occasion, you wore no bra but donned a simple white cropped cardigan. Only upon entering the privacy of John’s bedroom, if allowed, would you discard the fabric to allow the cold air of the house to make a show of your hardened nipples for your target. Until you were able to engage in true contact with the man, you’d use his hungry stares as sustenance. You’d imagined John had never been with someone so deliciously supple, someone so curvaceous and tempting, that he couldn’t mask the direction in which his eyes traveled and the delight at what he was looking at.

When you check the weather for the day, your heart swelled in satisfaction at the realization of what the record high southern heat would bring. You licked your lips as you watched the news anchor on TV, almost able to taste the flavor of John’s sweat on your tongue. The piquancy would cause your mouth to water in delight, and you began to clench your legs painfully together as if to muffle the screeching desire that clawed away at the ornately papered walls of your meridional mansion.

As you shuddered, your father walked into the living room with an equally blissful smile on his face. “Goodmorning, sweetheart.” He called before walking over and planting a tender kiss to your temple. “Are you ready for tonight?” You nodded enthusiastically, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically as you realized your own excitement. In the past, you had never been particularly keen on meeting your father’s girlfriends, but it wasn’t often they had a hot son under their wing and this situation seemed too good to pass up.

The ride to their house was torturous; restless in the passenger seat of your father’s corvette as he drove down the road. Even though he was already driving above the speed limit, a part of you wanted to shove your father out of the driver's seat and drive there on your own at record speed, pushing the gas pedal to its limits. You tried your best to not bite your nails, painted cherry squares that gleamed like red vinyl; it was a habit you had ditched in the throes of your childhood. As you and your father pulled into the driveway of a quaint suburban home, all judgment you might’ve initially had left you as you remembered the prize that awaited you inside; like a parcel sitting inside an ornately wrapped gift box. You squinted your eyes against the bleached out concrete of their driveway, looking past the beat up looking 1900 Audi 100 and towards the doorway. The stone paved walkway served as an umbilical path to the inside; the bottom of your Repetto Camille heels scraping against the granular surface of their front steps, each strike of your heel against the ground a sharp reminder of what awaits you. It felt like a daydream, like you were walking a path of luminous sugar.

The rap of your father’s knuckle against the front door snapped you back to reality, and you stood there skittishly. You straightened your posture and flashed your father an enthusiastic smile which he returned. The door creaked open in front of you, revealing the woman of your father’s affections, but not the man of yours. Nonetheless, you held your smile and greeted the woman. You watched as the two exchanged kisses on the cheeks, before she turned to face you.

“Oh it’s so good to meet you, (Name)!” She stuck her hand out to shake yours, which you gingerly accepted and shook. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She went on to say, which made you smile wider.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. Marston.” You nodded, your eyes skidding to look behind her to see if John was there. A sense of disappointment began to swell within you as you considered the fact that he may not be there; he was a grown man after all, and he could decide whether or not he wanted to be present to meet his mother’s new partner. The realization felt akin to the bittersweet pain of heat leaving your genitals upon retracting your hand before you could reach orgasm.

“Please, step inside. Dinner is nearly ready.” She stepped aside to allow you in, and you did so in a sluggish manner. The woman led you down the hall, presumably to her living room. When you turned the foyer into the living room, you nearly crumpled to your knees.

There, on the couch, you beheld the love of your life. Your chest began to surge when he turned to face the three of you, at once standing in a show of practiced politeness. His awkward gait as he walked over nearly made you screech in desire. Now that he stood before you, you drank in details you weren’t able to capture from mere pictures. Healed scars almost white in comparison to his tanned, stubbled skin. The small bump on his nose as it curved to a rounded tip. The girth of his generous biceps, decorated in embellishing ink designs, not revealed in the portrait style pictures you had seen. The slight downturn of his brown eyes contrasting his rough features.

Before you knew it, he was standing before you, seemingly last in the assembly line to be greeted by him. “Nice to meet you, I’m John.” His southern drawl made you shiver, your teeth chattering as you lifted your hand to his. The initial feeling of skin to skin contact made you want to cry out; the single touch alone would’ve been enough to satiate you for the entire night and until your next meeting. But your longing grew teeth, and you were ready to maul the man before you. There was a distinct gentleness in the way you took his hand, flashing him your best smile as you batted your eyelashes. “I’m, (Name).” You chirped. “Pleasure to meet you.” And what a pleasure it would be, indeed, you thought. You noted the calluses on the tips of his fingers, imagining what their roughness might’ve felt like grinding into your clit. As the two of you parted hands, you smoothed the tips of your fingers over his wrist and slid them over his palm. You watched his face to pick up on any reactions to your strangely intimate gesture, relishing in the way his adams apple bobbed harshly.

“See, they’re already getting along.” Your father joked. You offered genuine laughter, finding amusement in the unintentional literalness of his statement.

“Oh, yes! Let me check up on dinner to see if it’s ready yet.” John's mother began walking towards the kitchen, to which your father followed closely behind her.

“I’ll come with you, the two can acquaint themselves for a bit.” He patted her shoulder, offering you and John a polite yet expectant smile. You and your father seemed to have a hive mind that night, because the set up couldn’t be any more perfect. You stepped around the arm rest of the couch and sat down on the cushioning, seemingly assessing the comfort of the pillows to see how well of a surface they’d make for cunnilingus.

Your attention was drawn back to John, who was sitting in a reclining chair vertical to the loveseat you sat on. “There’s some water on the table if you’d like some.” He motioned towards the tray on the table, which held 4 glasses.

“Thank you.” You said, a small purr in your inflection as you reached for a glass and brought it to your lips. John watched with near a hypnotized demeanor as you tipped the cup back, your rouge lipstick leaving a print on the side of the cup. He watched as the pink flesh of your tongue flicked over the rim of the cup tentatively, catching a few loose droplets of water. John looked so nervous he looked like he might throw up all over his shoes, and your small gestures were enough to start up a tremble in him.

“So,” you began, the sound of you setting your cup down causing John to jerk. “Tell me about yourself, John!” You said enthusiastically. You hadn’t noticed how wide you were grinning, perhaps too excited for a simple meeting. He looked at you as though you had just asked him the meaning of life. You gave him an encouraging nod, something you would’ve never otherwise done if this were any other boy. But you could make special exceptions.

He sat up and drummed on his thighs, deep in thought. “Uh, well… I’m twenty three-”

You couldn’t help but lick your lips at the mention of his age, passing it off as blithely wetting your dry lips. You listened attentively as he recounted the rudimentary details of his life, your eyes focusing on the scars littered across one side of his face. You imagined what it’d be like to skate your tongue across them, allowing your tongue to linger on one end before sliding back down the other direction.

“The car out in the front is mine, actually.” There was a small inflection of pride in his voice, though you couldn’t remember the conversation having gotten to the point of discussing cars in your daydream.

“Oh really? It’s quite nice.” You supposed talking up a man’s ego would be the easiest way to get him out his pants, and his car seemed to be a soft spot for him. Though comparably, if you were talking cars, you’d be doing him a service driving him around in yours. Imagine the fun you two would have! You’d pick him up in your baby blue audi roadster; he’d sit a bit awkwardly at first on the passenger side, his legs bent up too far to avoid having the skin on the back of his knees touch the hot leather of the seat. You’d drive him down an isolated road with the top down as you floored the gas, letting the wind hit your bodies in some form of foreplay. Before long, you’d be surrounded by overgrown greenery and untamed woods, and you’d tell him to slide his jeans down so you could pull his cock out and fellate him.

“Y’know, I actually have quite a few cars. Maybe you can check ‘em out sometime?” You offered, feigning innocence. His eyes widened slightly at your mentioning of having several cars of your own. “Yeah?” He asked in disbelief.

You nodded. “Yeah! Maybe I’ll even let you drive one.” You giggled, feeling exultation at making him laugh as well, even if it was nervous laughter. You hoped that upon accepting your invitation to view your cars in some impromptu meet, it’d be easy to seduce and fuck him in the back seat of one of your coupes.

"Ha, never imagined my mom would find herself a rich fella. Now I'll be able to borrow my rich sister's cars." Having him call you his sister felt like a kick in the skull, it was like being unwillingly pulled into a group project you had no intentions of being a part of. "Well, I'm not quite your sister." In an act of defiance, you shed the thin cardigan and puffed your chest out, pulling the thin strings tying the front together like you were unwrapping a gift; the lighting from the chandelier made your dress appear subtly translucent. You suppressed the smirk that threatened to come onto your face when you heard him cough and clear his throat. "Think of it as borrowing your friend's cars " You turned to look at him again, flashing a toothy smile that dismissed any ulterior motives.

"Uhm, yeah." His porcelain voice shivered with forming cracks. He crossed one thigh over the other, leaning back in his seat and sucking in a deep breath. Now that he was actually in front of you, you could take a moment to study his clothing of choice. It seemed that that day he himself had decided to brandish baggy black jeans that bunched around his ankles, and a black band shirt that read 'Alice In Chains'. Not only that, he had a few studded leather bracelets around his wrists. You wondered what he'd look like with a similar choker around his neck, attached to a leash as you sat on his back with a leather crop like he was your mount of choice.

"I like your style!" You complimented, taking another sip of your water. The remark seemed to work in your favor, causing him to sit up straight and smile in pride. Indeed, the way inside a man's heart, and pants, was to talk him up.

"Thank you, I like yours too." His tone was hushed, briefly flickering his eyes down your body before your father walked in. "Hey you two, dinner’s ready." He announced. You dropped all seductive pretenses and faced your father, pulling your cardigan back on while smiling. "Alright daddy!"

The two of you promptly followed behind Dutch, who already seemed to know his way around the house as he led you towards the dining room. John mechanically set the table as his mother droned on about how excited she was to have finally met you, putting a hand on your shoulder with familiar proximity. You did not mind the touch, but you detested the idea of it being perceived as motherly by your father or John. You sat across from John on the mahogany dinner table, which was a heartland expanse of wood long enough for you to lay down on as John pillaged you. Though the four sharp corners of the table were somehow symbolic; a reminder to not go out of bounds on this dinner.

The dinner went on as planned by your father: blithe introductions and a lighthearted atmosphere, your father encouraging you to speak of your achievements casually to show what a great unit the two of you were without sounding pretentious. Though you supposed speaking about all your pageantry awards and college certificates along with your impressive resume was anything but; feeling instead like you were in the middle of some high stakes interview that determined the rest of your life. In a way, you thought it did though. Afterall, the man of your dreams was sitting across from you, and you wanted to impress him. But John seemed to sink in his chair the more you spoke, his eyes flickering occasionally towards his mother, who's jaw only seemed to open wider the more you shared.

"Quite a daughter you've got, Dutch! You should be proud." She cheered, flashing you a warm smile in the process. You returned it before looking over across from you, and John himself seemed to be impressed. But it was more of an ashamed look, as if he were trying to telepathically communicate to his mother 'don't be disappointed in me because I don't have all those achievements under my belt'.

In an act of consolation, you slipped your foot out of your shoe and ran it up his leg, not once looking at him as you did so, stopping to rest your toes on his knee. Perhaps a rush of your judgment, but you felt his entire leg go rigid beneath your foot as he froze, his fork stopping mid way on its path towards his mouth. You continued conversation with your father like it was nothing, a skill born out of practice. You retracted your foot momentarily, an imaginary static shock connecting the two of you as you flickered your eyes towards him briefly, who was staring back at you with aroused disbelief.

"Would you like some more water, (Name)?" John's mother asked, pitcher in hand. You nodded and thanked her, watching the way the cup filled before flashing John a more sultry smile, knowing and empathetic. It said all the words you could not speak out loud. You rested your chin on the back of your hand as you listened to John's mother speak about the multiple clients she saw a day as a real estate agent. You took John's reaction as a green light, opting towards a more bold move. The initial touch had been a pop quiz, now this was the big exam. Once again, your foot traveled up his shin, stopping only for a moment at his knee, as if waiting for one last sign of rejection, before reaching past his thigh and landing at his crotch, rubbing front to back again and again while your father spoke of his own business. Upon applying more pressure to his half erect genitals with the sole of your foot, John's knee reflexively jerked and slammed up into the table, causing you to pull your foot back and shove it into your shoe before anyone could see what you were doing.

Dutch and John's mother looked at each other before looking at John in confusion. "Are you okay, hon?" His mother asked. Her concern-laden question made you want to laugh. John cleared his throat and nodded, shifting in his seat.

"Yeah, mom." He confirmed. She didn't appear too convinced, but she didn't want to rouse any sort of uncomfortable conversation in the middle of dinner. You smiled to yourself in satisfaction, a small victory cheer playing out in your head. The rest of dinner went without a hitch, occasionally stopping to rest your foot on top of John's shoe. He still held an expression of confusion and disbelief, a tinge of arousal; but not once did he move his foot away.

By the end of dinner, John's mother insisted he show you to his room so you could see all his rock memorabilia, something she thought a woman of your age would enjoy seeing. And while you had never dabbled in the more alternative side of fashion and music, it was certainly something that you thought made a man more attractive. John had a stiff air about him as the two of you got up and excused yourself from the dinner table, and you reveled in his tenseness as you walked alongside him. He was quiet the entire walk as if in deep contemplation, not once looking at you out of fear that if he did, he might turn to see some sort of succubus had taken your place. Though once you reached the steps leading up to the second floor, you made a point of stepping directly in front of John as you traversed upwards.

You could feel his eyes train on your ass, the shortness of your dress and the movement of your hips affording him a peek beneath the hem of your dress and to your lace clad ass. As if you were a magician hypnotizing him with some sort of mystical locket by swaying it back and forth, he followed you up in a trance. It wasn't until you stopped at the top of the stairs, turning your torso to face him, did he rip his eyes away from your posterior and up to face you. You smirked unabashedly, as if to tell him you caught him staring.

"Which room is yours?" You asked, looking back to the hallway.

"Oh, right this way." There was a small pep in his step as he led you down the carpeted hall. When he reached the door, he pushed it open and stepped aside to allow you in.

"Ladies first." He said, a tinge of amusement in his voice.

"What a gentleman." You said as you stepped in. You stood in the center of his room, looking around at its slightly disheveled state. He clearly hadn't anticipated having anyone in his room that night, only expecting a quaint dinner. His walls were decorated with several posters of bands, all dressed in a similar fashion as him while carrying electric guitars and wildly thrashing their hair. His navy blue bed sheets on his unmade that you so badly wanted to throw yourself onto face first before inhaling deeply. He had a few guitars of his own propped up against the wall, and you took an instant liking to the bright red one. There were stray t-shirts littered across the floor; his closet door bulging open to reveal more black clothes.

"I like your room, it's so you." You smiled at him, crossing your arms beneath your chest. John stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him but leaving it slightly ajar.

"Thanks, I'd say it's real uh, expressive." He said, which made you giggle.

"You play?" You pointed towards the instruments, only then taking note of the amp positioned behind them.

"Yeah, I'm actually in a band."

This new piece of information was absolutely delightful, and it made you perk up. "Oh really?" You asked, leaning forward in interest. He showed that same bit of pride, gaining confidence at your sudden inquiry.

"Yeah, I'm the lead guitarist." He boasted, sitting down on the bed behind you. You looked at the spot directly next to him, and asked "May I?"

Before he could realize what you were asking, he nodded yes. The realization of what he agreed to came when you sat down so close next to him that your thighs were shy of touching each other. He made no comment about it, only deeply inhaling to steady his breath. The casualty of your prior conversation almost made him nearly forget about the little trick you pulled downstairs at dinner.

"Uhm.." He began, opening his mouth to speak but closing it as if unsure how to start. He looked at you and squinted his eyes, confused by the perplexed expression on your face feigning innocence.

"Downstairs, uh…" You cocked your brow in faux confusion, as if you had no idea where he was going with this. The action alone made John feel crazy, as if he had imagined the whole scene in its entirety and by mentioning it, you'd look at him in appalled disbelief for even imagining something so lewd with his new step sister.

Before he could continue, you cut him off. "Hey John, I have a question."

He pursed his lips before gulping. "What is it?"

"When your mother showed you the picture of my dad and I, did you touch yourself to the thought of me?"

The forwardness of the question made John’s eyes widen to gargantuan proportions. He raised one of his brows at you as if to assess whether you were serious or not, and for a moment, you felt the unfamiliar fear of the possibility of your assumptions being wrong. To emphasize how serious you were, you began undoing the front strings of your cardigan again, letting it slide down your arms along with a singular spaghetti strap, which you made a point not to fix as it slid down your shoulder.

“Uhm… I…” His hesitancy to answer was an answer of its own. You smiled and leaned into his arm, feeling the rigidity of his body. You looked at his face; he looked as though he were weighing out his options. You were sure that if you could read his mind, one end of the balancing scale would have “Remain decent during this joining of two families”, and the other end would read “Fuck my super hot step sister who clearly wants me.” And you were certain that the latter was outweighing the former.

“Well,” You began, ghosting your fingers on his thighs. “I have.” His breath hitched, eyes fixed on where your hand was. “All I can think about is touching you. I want to touch you so badly, and I want you to touch me.” You brought your face closer to his, awaiting any sort of response. He didn’t seem quite as convinced as you wanted him to be though.

“I know you want to.” You purred, laying your palm flat on his thigh, shy of a few inches from his cock. “I saw the way you were looking at me in the living room. And I know you were looking at my ass when we were going up the stairs. Just admit it.” John looked off to the side shamefully as though he’d been caught walking into a room he wasn’t welcome into. You were sure that if this were under any other circumstances, John would’ve pounced on you with as much fervor by now. But the step siblings aspect added an extra layer of shame that you viewed as unnecessarily tedious.

“John.” You said more firmly, cupping his stubbled cheek and turning him to face you directly. “Touch me.”

His hands came to the sides of your face as he lowered his mouth onto yours. You felt his pulse strike against your fingers as you continued to hold him, willfully opening your mouth in the beginning of a hungry kiss. Instantly, John shoved his tongue into your mouth, the nascent feeling of metal on his tongue as he created a sucking motion with each kiss making you shiver. You moaned into the kiss, sucking and kissing anything your mouth came into contact with. He abandoned all hesitant pretenses as his hands began to roam your body, groping and squeezing anything that filled his palm. His touches were so confident and intentional, it appeared as though he had never been scared at all. He seemed to have a perfect lexicon of your body inside his mind, knowing exactly where to touch without looking.

You turned to face him better on the bed, swinging one of your thighs over his lap. As you two separated from the kiss, his needy hands came to your straps and hooked two fingers around them, looking to you for permission before he pulled them down.

“But you’re my brother.” You joked, faking a pout.

“Your STEP-brother.” He clarified. Without another word, he yanked the strings down, exposing your pert chest and hardened nipples. He lowered his mouth to a nipple before taking it in between his lips, pulling it along with his teeth as he sucked. You lowered your head and watched the pink on skin contact, your nipple beginning to glisten with John’s saliva. You gasped and threw your head back, holding his crown in place as his tongue piercing swirled around the bud.

You reached your arms across his back and began clawing at the shirt he was wearing, pulling it up along his back until he helped you pull it over his head, temporarily interrupting his ministrations. After delivering the same attention to your other nipple, he began yanking the rest of your dress down along your body. You lifted your ass in assistance, giggling at the way he flung it across the room, hanging on the headstock of his red guitar.

“Damn, girl, you are stunning.” He smirked, taking a moment to admire your perfectly taut torso before smoothing his hands over the skin. “And you smell amazing.” He added. His comments nearly made you blush. You flung your heels off across the room, leaving you in only your red lacy underwear.

“Your turn.” You whispered, winking at him. He stood hastily and began removing his studded belt, dropping his jeans quickly after and clumsily pulling them off his ankles. His excitement made you laugh, you thought he might trip from how quickly he was moving. You licked your lips at the sight of the trail of hair dusted across his naval, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers; it appeared as if it were some wispy chocolate confection drizzled over his body. At this point, he joined you back in bed, remaining in his own underwear. You eyed the noticeable bulge in his underwear, a tiny wet spot where his tip lay.

“Someone’s excited.” You teased, tracing the scar that ran along his cheek.

“Shit, with someone as smokin’ as you, who wouldn’t be.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse. The two of you shared a moment of lighthearted giggles as he pulled you along further on the bed.

“You ever had a girl?” You asked. You supposed you knew the answer, but you wanted to hear it come from his mouth. Your hands wrapped around his cloth covered cock and began to stroke leisurely.

“One, but besides that, I haven’t done much.” His labored breath sounded like he was running from something. “How come?” You asked. “You’re certainly handsome.”

He shrugged, shaking his head as he tipped it back on his sternum. “No one will have me, I guess.” He laughed in self pity. In response, you squeezed his cock before lifting your hand from the wad of fabric shaped around his erection. You hooked your fingers on the elastic of his underwear, pulling it down as the head of his cock snagged on the waistband before springing free. You smirked at the sight of his Jacob's ladder piercing.

“I like it.” You complimented, looking back up at him. “Real adventurous.”

“I guess the pain would have been worth it after all.” He joked.

You lowered your head above his cock, your hair falling around you. You exhaled onto him, bathing his tip in your warm breath. With that, you licked your lips, lowering them over him, leaving a pink print wherever your lips paused. You heard a guttural moan above you, his fingers resting over your scalp as if debating whether he should grasp your roots or not. You slowly arched your neck, extending your throat until it came to his base. You delighted in the feeling of metal against your tongue, fluttering it against his underside. He made gasping noises and began bucking his hips, writhing in a disoriented way that made the tip of his cock bump against the back of your throat.

You gave him a few minutes of skilled sucking, your throat producing various wet slurps and gags as you fucked your own throat on his cock. You brushed your hair behind your ear, looking up at him through your lashes. His face twitched and contorted in pleasure, his mouth hanging open in a silent moan. You began tasting the salty bitters of pre-ejaculate on your tongue, hollowing your cheeks as you pulled your head back on his tip, giving a few more harsh sucks before popping off of it. His erection glistened and bobbed in the air as you looked up at him seductively, licking your lips before leaning back up towards eye level. His eyes remained trained on his own cock, looking as if to see if it was still attached.

“Your turn.” You whispered before placing your fingertips on his chest, pushing him back to lay on the bed, his head landing comfortably on his pillow. His lips twitched into an excited smile as you shuffled over him, your knees on either side of his torso. His shaky hands came to grip the back of your thighs, his pointer fingers digging into the plump flesh where your thigh curved into your ass.

You couldn’t believe how close the two of you were to actually fucking. You had a small growing sense of paranoia that your father or John’s mother may decide to walk upstairs, the carpeted floor cushioning their muted footsteps. That they’d throw the door open and see the clothes strewn across the floor, before landing on you sitting atop of John. You sweeped the thought away, deciding to enjoy this for as long as possible. You gripped the head board as you walked your knees to the sides of his neck, looking down at his excited face.

“You know what would be really hot?” You asked, squaring your cunt in front of his mouth. “If you took ‘em off with your teeth.” He leaned up with the obedience of a dog, pinching the elastic between his front teeth before sliding them down, his canines lightly scraping the tender flesh of your thigh. You shuddered as goosebumps wracked your body, the feeling of his nose traveling down your pubic bone making you want to cry out in ecstasy. Your thighs nearly sandwiched his neck, and as your panties pooled at your knees, it only required a slight tilt of your pelvis before you straddled his face fully, releasing your weight onto his mouth. His hands came to grip your ass, squeezing and pulling the globes of flesh in opposite directions.

His lips quickly latched onto your clit, sucking before he opened his mouth and flattened his tongue along your cunt; the feeling of cold metal making you yelp. Without waiting for the green light, you began grinding down onto his face. You bit your lip to avoid the risk of being found out, scrunching your face up at your best attempt to keep quiet. The bottom half of John’s face quickly became marinated in your enthusiasm, eating you out with the same eagerness as if he had just got a new car and was driving it for the first time.

He moaned into your pussy, his tongue laving between your lips and labia, circling your clit before sliding back down to your molting hole. He slid his wet muscle inside you, effectively tongue fucking you as you ground your clit into his nose. He gave your ass a playful spank, a sharp quick cut into the static haziness of your wanton acts which made you keenly aware of the fact either of your parents might’ve heard that. But you couldn’t find it in you to chastise him, he was far too engrossed in eating you out, and very excitedly.

John gripped your ass more forcefully now, manually shoving your cunt further onto his face as he continued to suck and lick. He was doing this with the full intention of making you cum. You bit the back of your hand, grinding so hard into his face you thought you might break the mattress. With a few more harsh sucks, you felt a flash of heat as you came all over John’s mouth and chin, barely able to suppress your cry of euphoria. He wrapped his mouth fully around your cunt, swallowing as much of your cum as he could before going back to sucking on your oversensitive clit. Your grinds slowed to a halt before you climbed off his head, seeing just how spent and drenched his face was.

You laughed in amusement. “My god.” You continued to giggle, feeling a sense of tenderness for him. He had a satisfied smile on his face as he laughed.

“How’d I do?” He lifted himself on his elbows as you moved off of him, leaning your back against the wall as you shed your panties off of your legs fully.

“Well you made me cum so I’d say pretty fucking good.” You giggled, patting him on the knee. Your cunt was a spent pool of pleasure, but the ache inside you continued to burn. You imagined he felt the same way, his cock somehow harder and in more need of touch.

“Take these off fully, already.” You pouted, moving to yank his underwear fully off his legs, throwing it into the pile of clothes next to his bed. You turned to face him. “How do you wanna fuck me?” You asked. He sat up suddenly and moved to the side, patting the pillow where he once laid.

“I wanna look at you while we do it.” Wordlessly, you followed his order and laid on your back, hugging your knees to your chest as he positioned himself above you. He took your ankles and settled them on his shoulders, giving the sides of your feet a kiss before gripping his cock and guiding it inside you. You nodded in encouragement, your mouth falling into a silent o as he slid in slowly to the hilt. He sucked in shaky breaths, trying his best to contain any sounds. He decided to lean forward and over to his night stand, pulling out a random CD before popping it into the player atop. At once, the sound of guitars and drums and smooth vocals filled the room, masking any sounds you made. He cranked the volume up, hastily beginning to thrust inside you.

It was the perfect cover up, one John’s mom wouldn’t question. It made sense, after all, for John to be sharing some of his music taste with you up in his bedroom, no matter how obnoxiously loud it might be. The two of you began in a chorus of moans and grunts, the wet sounds of skin on skin accompanying the playing of the band. John paused his movements momentarily to reach for an extra pillow aside your head before shoving it under your hips, helping him in elevating your pelvis. You let out a particularly loud squeal at the newly reached depth, letting loose a stream of obscenities about how good John was fucking you.

His hair began sticking to his forehead the same way it did in that one photograph, the sight of it making your cunt tighten around him. You dragged him down toward you by the arm, before sweeping his bangs to the side and landing a stripe of saliva on his forehead. The racy flavor made you shudder in delight, and you moved to wrap your arms around John’s neck to hold him in place. He buried his head into the crook of your neck, gripping the headboard as both of your bodies jerked from each movement. If the bed was squeaking, you wouldn’t have known; far too stimulated by the sounds of your bodies moving in tandem along with Chino Moreno’s singing.

John lifted his face to press his sweaty forehead to yours, an expression of pure ecstasy on his debauched features. The functioning awareness of his brain lagging behind his own body as it tried to register what had just happened, what was currently happening, and what was about to end. His eyes opened momentarily and you saw a sense of bewilderment for his own actions, before shutting slowly again in bliss. An involuntary and guttural noise left his mouth as he came inside you. The uncontrolled wince of his face combined with the spreading warmth in your abdomen tipped off your own orgasm, and you came harder than you had before. In the moment, you hadn’t registered that the way you screamed was akin to the primal screech one would release upon being fatally wounded.

As the next track on the album came to an end, the two of you remained in the same position catching your breaths. John seemed to snap back to his senses when he looked down to where you connected, a ribbon of cum dripping out of you. When he removed himself his horrors were only confirmed further.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I-I’ll pay for your plan b, I-” You sat up and waved your hand dismissively.

“On the pill, don't worry.” You reassured, which seemed to effectively calm his nerves. You sat up again, resting your back on the headboard.

“Wow.” He said, smiling at you widely.

“Wow, indeed.” You said.

“That was the best sex of my life.” He slapped your thigh before rubbing it, which you welcomed by placing your hand over his. “There’s more where that came from.” You winked once again and leaned forward to kiss him. The two of you shared a non-sexually charged kiss before separating.

“Alright.” You pat his knee, “Let’s get dressed now before my dad or your mom come up.”

The two of you got dressed simultaneously, slipping your dress on quickly before studying your hair and makeup in a nearby mirror. You picked up your panties and tossed them back towards John, who just barely caught them.

“Keep 'em, as a trophy.” You giggled as you watched him stuff them in his pocket. “Will do.”

The two of you made a haste trip to the bathroom to clean yourselves up and make sure you looked presentable before going back downstairs again. The two of you shared a tender moment where you dabbed away the sweat on each other's foreheads with crumpled up tissues. Upon your return downstairs, you found your respective parents sitting on the couch chatting, before they turned to face you two.

“How’d you two get along?” Asked Dutch. John’s mother looked on in enthusiasm, clapping her hands together. “I’m assuming well, John put on one of his favorite CDs to show you after all.” She cooed. The two of you looked at eachother knowingly with blithe laughter that suggested nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

“Yeah,” You began. “I think we’re gonna get along great.”

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MX - Deftones

[incorrect-koh-posts]

Hi!! I hope you don't mind an ask on here about your fic - I already left a way too long comment on AO3 before I thought of this. I'm really curious about your choice of Flanders for Isolt's background!! I know nothing about Medieval history, only the baseline info from the film (plus some vague Byzantine stuff). Is Flanders active in this period/the Crusades in general? What's it doing in this time? What drew you to it specifically for Isolt?

Hi! Of course I don't mind - I'm delighted you'd like to know more! ☺️

I'd say Flanders was for me both an aesthetic and a practical choice. It would have been really interesting, of course, to give Raymond a Byzantine or even a Saracen love interest, but - being a white girl from Germany - I was a little afraid I'd bungle the cultural, religious, and linguistic aspects of it too terribly. So I thought it best to stay in somewhat familiar waters; medieval European literature and history are things I studied quite extensively in my BA and can sort of confidently write about / know where to look up the many things I don't know.

Being a rather small stretch of land, Flanders wasn't exactly a major force in the crusades. But for its size, it was quite active - especially in the period that's relevant for KoH (late 12th century, about 1174 - 1190). Though it was under Dutch rule during that time, Flanders was economically thriving, and Count Philip I of Flanders led two crusades to the Holy Land (one in 1177, iirc, and one in 1190). Sadly, they don't fit the time frame for my fic - if they did, I would have loved to somehow include them in my OCs' background, haha.

Apart from that, Flanders was / is just a linguistically interesting place. Flemish is a Dutch dialect, but they would also have spoken French in Flanders as well (and maybe bits and pieces of other European languages) since they had lots of contact through trade with their bordering countries. I found this quite neat for Isolt because I wanted her - mainly for worldbuilding reasons - to be familiar with a few languages and with the courtly literature of the time, but to have grown up perhaps a little sheltered from the ills of the wider world. I quite like the contrast this (hopefully :D) creates between the two POVs: Raymond has grown up in the crusader kingdoms and has never set foot outside the Levant, while Isolt is a newcomer with a different cultural background and view of the world.

Also, medieval Flemish names are just lovely. 😁

Thank you for the question - I hope you don't mind my long-winded ramblings. Take care <3

[tetsunabouquet]

Alright, I am nearly done with the final piece for Kinktober (you can see it as a early Christmas gift guys. It will be later up this week), and wanted to write but I couldn't think of anything for the few headcanons I have in my drafts folder to post. I decided to read articles to see if there was someone stupid enough to rant about, or better yet, actually inspire me. Per usual, I found no inspirations for my headcanons but someone stupid instead. The moment I read the title, I knew I had to click on it. A boy-mom whining about a research regarding children disguised as a parenting article. Thanks to my deadbeat father's wife, I know very much that the toxic boy-mom from TikTok is a real phenomenon and I couldn't resist looking at it. It was about the way different genders are treated in school. Girls were given more compliments about being well-behaved and studious then boys and it pissed her off. She said she was a child psychologist and came with all kinds of arguments that I, as an autistic woman who did had to research about children's psychology to pass children's literature could debunk every time- yes she did try to play the neurodivergent card as well as the race one. I'll get to that later. First, let's debunk her argument that girls and boys are developmentally about the same. That's false. Psychologically as well as physically, boys are about 2 years behind the female development. It's why girls hit their growth spurth about a year or two before boys do (ages 12 and 14 on average respectively). Girls really are naturally more mature then boys. The let's get to neurodivergent card, she tried to talk about how boys are more physically active (which they are) but then brought in ADHD and autism in correlation and how its tied to it.... BITCH NO. ADHD? Naturally is related to hyper-active behavior but what on earth does autism have to do with boys being more physically active? The fact she repeated the old boys club slogan, pissed me off. Women on the spectrum have different symptoms and a lot have been misdiagnosed over the years because of how male-centric the diagnostic system for the spectrum is. There is no actual confirmation boys really do have autism on way higher levels then girls when the diagnostic system fails to look for female specific symptoms. Lady, you have no right to make claims about our community, especially when it's used to justify your own internalized misogyny! Which brings me to, lets debunk how this sympathy card is supposed to distract you from the fact she gives no evidence to debunk that girls are more studious and do better at school. Because they do. Like my textbook said, 'Girls read more then boys do,' and there were already articles published about girls performing better back when I was a kid. My days of reading newspaper articles started when I was about 11 or 12 and back then I remember reading an article that actually highlighted the phenomenon. Nice try. The one thing she does seem to understand though, is that whilst interracial relationships are surely a thing, someone's taste in partners is often developped when young with the people around you shaping what you like. A blonde mom with all her fair skinned sons is likely going to have them grow up chasing white girls, which is why she brought in an entirely different research about POC kids and tried to frame it in a way like it was all apart of the same research and that white girls are the most priviliged at school. When, again, the research was unrelated, and even that one has a valid hypothesis resting on misogyny and how a part of the muslim community likes to keep their women and daughters as dumb as possible (remember my aforementioned Turkish childhood best friend and how her mom barely spoke a word of the Dutch language after decades of being here? Her father kept his wife as helpless as he possibly could.) What a vile woman you are, I see what you are doing.

[clarkivanramos]

1.Nick Joaquin's

May 4, 1917 – April 29, 2004) was a Filipino writer and journalist best known for his short stories and novels in the English language. He also wrote using the pen name Quijano de Manila. Joaquin was conferred the rank and title of National Artist of the Philippines for Literature. He has been considered one of the most important Filipino writers, along with José Rizal and Claro M. Recto. Unlike Rizal and Recto, whose works were written in Spanish, Joaquin's major works were written in English despite being a native Spanish speaker

Literary prominence, as measured by different English critics, is said to rest upon one of Nick Joaquin's published books entitled “Prose and Poems” which was published in 1952. Published in this book are the poems “Three Generations”, “May Day Eve”, “After the Picnic”, “The Legend of the Dying Wanton”, “The Legend of the Virgin Jewel;”, “It Was Later than we Thought”. Among these, the first of the mentioned written works were deliberated by editors Seymour Laurence and Jose Garcia Villa as a “short story masterpiece” (1953). The poem was also chosen as the best short story published in the Philippine Press between March 1943 and November 1944

2 F. Sionil Jose

Francisco Sionil José (December 3, 1924 – January 6, 2022) was a Filipino writer who was one of the most widely read in the English language. A National Artist of the Philippines for Literature, which was bestowed upon him in 2001, José's novels and short stories depict the social underpinnings of class struggles and colonialism in Filipino society. His works—written in English—have been translated into 28 languages, including Korean, Indonesian, Czech, Russian, Latvian, Ukrainian and Dutch. He was often considered the leading Filipino candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

José attended the University of Santo Tomas after World War II, but dropped out and plunged into writing and journalism in Manila. In subsequent years, he edited various literary and journalistic publications, started a publishing house, and founded the Philippine branch of PEN, an international organization for writers. José received numerous awards for his work. The Pretenders is his most popular novel, which is the story of one man's alienation from his poor background and the decadence of his wife's wealthy family.

José Rizal's life and writings profoundly influenced José's work. The five volume Rosales Saga, in particular, employs and integrates themes and characters from Rizal's work.Throughout his career, José's writings espouse social justice and change to better the lives of average Filipino families. He is one of the most critically acclaimed Filipino authors internationally, although much underrated in his own country because of his authentic Filipino English and his anti-elite views.

3.Edith Tiempo

Edith Cutaran Lopez-Tiempo (April 22, 1919 – August 21, 2011),[1]was a Filipino poet, fiction writer, teacher and literary critic in the English language.[2] She was conferred the National Artist Award for Literature in 1999.

Tiempo was born in Bayombong, Nueva Vizcaya.[2] Her poems are intricate verbal transfigurations of significant experiences as revealed, in two of her much anthologized pieces, "Halaman" and "Bonsai."[2] As fictionist, Tiempo is as morally profound. Her language has been marked as "descriptive but unburdened by scrupulous detailing." She is an influential tradition in Philippine Literature in English. Together with her late husband, writer and critic Edilberto K. Tiempo, they founded (in 1962) and directed the Silliman National Writers Workshop in Dumaguete City, which has produced some of the Philippines' best writers.

4.Bienvenido Lumbera

Bienvenido L. Lumbera (April 11, 1932 – September 28, 2021) was a Filipino poet, critic and dramatist.[1] Lumbera is known for his nationalist writing and for his leading role in the Filipinization movement in Philippine literature in the 1960s, which resulted in his being one of the many writers and academics jailed during Ferdinand Marcos' Martial Law regime.[2][3] He received the Ramon Magsaysay Award for Journalism, Literature and Creative Communications in 1993, and was proclaimed a National Artist of the Philippines for literature in 2006.[4][5] As an academic, he is recognized for his key role in elevating the field of study which would become known as Philippine Studies.

Lumbera was born in Lipa on April 11, 1932.[7] He was barely a year old when his father, Timoteo Lumbera (a baseball player), fell from a fruit tree, broke his neck, and died.[8] Carmen Lumbera, his mother, suffered from cancer and died a few years later. By the age of five he was an orphan. He and his older sister were cared for by their paternal grandmother, Eusebia Teru

Carlos Sampayan Bulosan (November 24, 1913[1] – September 11, 1956) was an English-language Filipino novelist and poet who immigrated to America on July 1, 1930.[2] He never returned to the Philippines and he spent most of his life in the United States. His best-known work today is the semi-autobiographical America Is in the Heart, but he first gained fame for his 1943 essay on The Freedom from Want.

Bulosan was born to Ilocano parents in the Philippines in Binalonan, Pangasinan. There is considerable debate around his actual birth date, as he himself used several dates. 1911 is generally considered to be the most reliable answer, based on his baptismal records, but according to the late Lorenzo Duyanen Sampayan, his childhood playmate and nephew, Carlos was born on November 2, 1913. Most of his youth was spent in the countryside as a farmer. It is during his youth that he and his family were economically impoverished by the rich and political elite, which would become one of the main themes of his writing. His home town is also the starting point of his semi-autobiographical novel, America is in the Heart.

Following the pattern of many Filipinos during the American colonial period, he left for America on July 22, 1930, at age 17, in the hope of finding salvation from the economic depression of his home. He never again saw his Philippine homeland. Upon arriving in Seattle, he was met with racism and was forced to work low paying jobs. He worked as a farmworker, harvesting grapes and asparagus, while also working other forms of hard labor in the fields of California. He also worked as a dishwasher with his brother Lorenzo in the famous Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo which opened in 1958 or almost three years after Bulosan had died.

In 1936, Bulosan suffered from tuberculosis and was taken to the Los Angeles County hospital. There, he underwent three operations and stayed two years, mostly in the convalescent ward. During his long stay in the hospital, Bulosan spent his time constantly reading and writing.

6.Carlos P. Romulo

5.Carlos Bulosan

Carlos Peña Romulo Sr. QSC GCS CLH NA GCrM GCrGH KGCR (January 14, 1898 – December 15, 1985) was a Filipino diplomat, statesman, soldier, journalist and author. He was a reporter at the age of 16, a newspaper editor by 20, and a publisher at 32. He was a co-founder of the Boy Scouts of the Philippines, a general in the US Army and the Philippine Army, university president, and president of the United Nations General Assembly.

Carlos Romulo was born in Camiling, Tarlac and studied at the Camiling Central Elementary School during his basic education.

Romulo became a professor of English at the University of the Philippines in 1923. Simultaneously, Romulo served as the secretary to the president of the Senate of the Philippines, Manuel Quezon.

During the 1930s, Romulo became the publisher and editor of The Philippines Herald, and one of his reporters was Yay Panlilio. On October 31, 1936, the Boy Scouts of the Philippines (BSP) was given a legislative charter under Commonwealth Act No. 111.[1][2] Romulo served as one of the vice presidents of the organization.

At the start of World War II, Romulo, a major, served as an aide to General Douglas MacArthur.[3][4] He was one of the last men evacuated from the Philippines before the surrender of US Forces to the invading Japanese, as illness had prevented him from departing with MacArthur, finally leaving from Del Monte Airfield on Mindanao on April 25.[5] Active in propaganda efforts, particularly through the lecture circuit, after reaching the United States, he became a member of President Quezon's War Cabinet, being appointed Secretary of Information in 1943. He reached the rank of general by the end of the war.[3][4]

7. Virgilio S. Almario

Virgilio Senadren Almario (born March 9, 1944), better known by his pen name Rio Alma, is a Filipino author, poet, critic, translator, editor, teacher, and cultural manager.[1] He is a National Artist of the Philippines. He formerly served as the chairman of the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (KWF), the government agency mandated to promote and standardize the use of the Filipino language. On January 5, 2017, Almario was also elected as the chairman of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA).[2]

Growing up in Bulacan, Almario sought his education at the City of Manila and completed his degree in A.B. Political Science at the University of the Philippines Diliman.

His life as a poet started when he took master's units in education at the University of the East where he became associated with Rogelio G. Mangahas and Lamberto E. Antonio. He did not finish the program.[3]

He only took his M.A. in Filipino in 1974 at the University of the Philippines Diliman.

8.Francisco Arcellana

Francisco "Franz" Arcellana (September 6, 1916 – August 1, 2002) was a Filipino writer, poet, essayist, critic, journalist and teacher.

Francisco Arcellana was born on September 6, 1916. He already had ambitions of becoming a writer early in his childhood. His actual writing, however, started when he became a member of The Torres Torch Organization during his high school years. Arcellana continued writing in various school papers at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Later on he received a Rockefeller Grant and became a fellow in Creative Writing at the University of Iowa and at the Breadloaf Writers' Conference from 1956– 1957.[2][3]

He is considered an important progenitor of the modern Filipino short story in English. Arcellana pioneered the development of the short story as a lyrical prose-poetic form within Filipino literature. His works are now often taught in tertiary-level syllabi in the Philippines. Many of his works were translated into Tagalog, Malaysian, Russian, Italian, and German. Arcellana won 2nd place in the 1951 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, with his short story, The Flowers of May. Fourteen of his short stories were also included in Jose Garcia Villa's Honor Roll from 1928 to 1939. His major achievements included the first award in art criticism from the Art Association of the Philippines in 1954, the Patnubay ng Sining at Kalinangan award from the city government of Manila in 1981, and the Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas for English fiction from the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipino (UMPIL) in 1988.

The University of the Philippines conferred upon Arcellana a doctorate in humane letters, honoris causa in 1989. Francisco Arcellana was proclaimed National Artist of the Philippines in Literature on June 23, 1990 by then Philippine President Corazon C. Aquino.[4]

In 2009, or seven years after his death, his family came out with a book to pay tribute to National Artist for Literature Arcellana. The book entitled Franz is a collection of essays gathered by the Arcellana family from colleagues, friends, students and family members, including fellow National Artist Nick Joaquin, Butch Dalisay, Recah Trinidad, Jing Hidalgo, Gemino Abad, Romina Gonzalez, Edwin Cordevilla, Divina Aromin, Doreen Yu, Danton Remoto, Jose Esteban Arcellana and others.[5]

Arcellana is buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani.

Arcellana died on August 1, 2002. As a National Artist, he received a state funeral at the Libingan ng mga Bayani.

His grandson Liam Hertzsprung performed a piano concert in 2005 dedicated to him.

9.Francisco Balagtas

Francisco Balagtas y de la Cruz (April 2, 1788 – February 20, 1862),[1] commonly known as Francisco Balagtas and also as Francisco Baltasar, was a Filipino poet and litterateur of the Tagalog language during the Spanish rule of the Philippines. He is widely considered one of the greatest Filipino literary laureates for his impact on Filipino literature. The famous epic Florante at Laura is regarded as his defining work.

Francisco Balagtas was born in Barrio Panginay, Bigaa, Bulacan as the youngest of the four children of Juan Balagtas, a blacksmith, and Juana de la Cruz. He studied in a parochial school in Bigaa and later in Manila. During his childhood years. Francisco later worked as a houseboy in Tondo, Manila

Balagtas learned to write poetry from José de la Cruz (Joseng Sisiw), one of the most famous poets of Tondo, in return for chicks. It was De la Cruz himself who personally challenged Balagtas to improve his writing. Balagtas swore he would overcome Huseng Sisiw as he would not ask for anything in return as a poet.

In 1835, Balagtas moved to Pandacan, Manila, where he met María Asunción Rivera, who would effectively serve as the muse for his future works. She is referenced in Florante at Laura as 'Selya' and 'MAR'.

Balagtas' affections for MAR were challenged by the influential Mariano Capule. The latter won the battle for MAR when he used his wealth to get Balagtas imprisoned. It was here that he wrote Florante at Laura—in fact, the events of this poem were meant to parallel his own situation.

He wrote his poems in the Tagalog language, during an age when Filipino writing was predominantly written in Spanish.

Balagtas published "Florante at Laura" upon his release in 1838. He moved to Balanga, Bataan, in 1840 where he served as the assistant to the Justice of the Peace. He was also appointed as the translator of the court. He married Juana Tiambeng on July 22, 1842, in a ceremony officiated by Fr. Cayetano Arellano, uncle of future Chief Justice to the Supreme Court of the Philippines—Chief Justice Arellano. They had eleven children but only four survived to adulthood. On November 21, 1849, Governor General Narciso Clavería y Zaldua issued a decree that every Filipino native must adopt a Spanish surname. In 1856, he was appointed as the Major Lieutenant, but soon after was convicted and sent to prison again in Bataan under the accusation that he ordered Alferez Lucas' housemaid's head to be shaved.

He sold his land and all of his riches, in order for him to be imprisoned in 1861, and continued writing poetry, along with translating Spanish documents, but he died a year later—on February 20, 1862, at the age of 73. Upon his deathbed, he asked the favor that none of his children become poets like him, who had suffered under his gift as well as under others. He even went as far as to tell them it would be better to cut their hands off than let them be writers.

Balagtas is greatly idolized in the Philippines that the term for Filipino debate in extemporaneous verse is named after him: Balagtasan.

10.Lualhati Bautista

Lualhati Torres Bautista (December 2, 1945 – February 12, 2023) was a Filipina writer, novelist, liberal activist and political critic. Her most popular novels include Dekada '70; Bata, Bata, Pa'no Ka Ginawa?; and ‘GAPÔ

Bautista was born in Tondo, Manila, Philippines on December 2, 1945, to Esteban Bautista and Gloria Torres. She graduated from Emilio Jacinto Elementary School in 1958, and from Florentino Torres High School in 1962. She was a journalism student at the Lyceum of the Philippines, but dropped out because she had always wanted to be a writer and schoolwork was taking too much time.[citation needed] Her first short story, "Katugon ng Damdamin,"[1] was published in Liwayway magazine and thus started her writing career.[2]

Despite a lack of formal training, Bautista as a writer became known for her honest realism, courageous exploration of Philippine women's issues, and compelling female protagonists who confront difficult situations at home and in the workplace with uncommon grit and strength.

Bautista garnered several Palanca Awards (1980, 1983, and 1984) for her novels ‘GAPÔ, Dekada '70 and Bata, Bata… Pa'no Ka Ginawa?, which exposed injustices and chronicled women's activism during the Marcos era.

‘GAPÔ, the Palanca Awards 1980 grand prize winner, published in 1988, is the story of a man coming to grips with life as an Amerasian. It is multilayered scrutiny of the politics behind US bases in the Philippines, seen from the point of view of ordinary citizens living in Olongapo City.

Dekada '70 is the story of a family caught in the middle of the tumultuous decade of the 1970s. It details how a middle-class family struggled and faced the changes that empowered Filipinos to rise against the Marcos government. These events happened after the bombing of Plaza Miranda, the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, the proclamation of martial law and the random arrests of political prisoners. The oppressive nature of the Marcos regime, which made the people become more radical, and the shaping of the decade were all witnessed by the female protagonist, Amanda Bartolome, the mother of five boys.

Bata, Bata… Pa'no Ka Ginawa?, literally, "Child, Child… How Were You Made?", narrates the life of Lea, a working mother and a social activist, who has two children. In the end, all three, and especially Lea, have to confront Philippine society's view of single motherhood. The novel deals with the questions of how it is to be a mother, and how a mother executes this role through modern-day concepts of parenthood.

Bautista's 2013 book In Sisterhood received the Filipino Readers' Choice Award Nominee for Fiction in Filipino/Taglish in 2014, organized by the Filipino Book Bloggers Group.[3]

In 2015, Bautista launched the book Sixty in the City, about the life of friends Guia, Roda and Menang, who are in their mid-60s and realize that there's a good life in being just a wife, mother and homemaker.[

[gringolet]

INTRO TO ARTHURIANA MASTERPOST

under the cut for absurd length

HOW TO GET STARTED WITH ARTHURIANA

The Arthuriana fandom is very broad and there's no one piece of media, which can be confusing for people just getting into it! There’s no right way to engage with arthuriana, and no minimum level of knowledge or reading you need to attain to qualify. 

The basis of the Arthurian Legend is a body of hundreds of texts written across the medieval and early Renaissance period in dozens of languages and cultural traditions. Which can seem pretty overwhelming, but there are a lot of modern vernacular translations-- you absolutely don’t have to learn old French or anything. I’ll go more in depth on where to get started with texts further down.

You also don’t have to read texts at all. As I said, there is no minimum basis-- if you prefer to engage with modern adaptations, or want to engage with medieval arthuriana outside of reading texts, that's also cool! 

In terms of modern adaptations there is a wealth of choices, which I am very much not an expert in lol, so I’m afraid I can’t give much in the way of reccs. Books I have heard good things about are, Exiled from Camelot, Idylls of the Queen, The Buried Giant, the Squire's Tale series, and Gawain by Gwen Rowley (warning that this one is apparently erotica? Good for him). I trust @princesslibs  for modern book reccomendations. and if you speak French Kaamelott is purportedly a very good tv show. Frankly no modern adaptation will ever be better than Spamalot to me, but that's just my personal take. 

If you are curious about engaging with texts but (understandably) don’t want to read a ton of dense medieval literature, one really cool resource is Norris J Lacy's New Arthurian Encyclopedia, which you can pick up at most used bookstores for under ten bucks. It’s a very thorough easy to look through reference of characters stories and texts. I know a lot of people like the Nightbringer wiki, though I personally am wary of it because it basically never cites sources. It’s a good quick reference though and a lot of people like it, I’d just take it with a grain of salt. Sparknotes also has a lot of summaries of the major texts like Le Morte D’Arthur and the romances of Chrétien De Troyes. You are not a fake fan for doing this I promise. And of course you’re always welcome to send me an ask <3 

Finally, getting started with texts. Quick glossary of terms:

--Verse Romance

    A verse (poem) story which can vary a great deal in length. These deal with the adventures of individual knights, usually Gawain, and tend to have a great deal of magical elements and the stereotypical monster slaying, questing, damosel rescuing knight adventures.

--Prose Novel or Romance

    A non poetic narrative, more like a modern novel, more likely to deal with the fall of Arthur, sword in the stone, Mordred, fall of Camelot sort of affair. They are usually quite long. Most famous of these are Le Morte D’Arthur and the French Vulgate, but there are a slew of late medieval Prose novels floating around. Eluding Rey.

--Pseudohistory

    I’m gonna b real these are boring I think. These are, as the name suggests, written as accurate depictions of history.  They very much are not, but they claim to be. Most famous of these is Jeffrey of Monmouth, Mr Jeff Mouth himself, and his History of the Kings of Britain, which I haven’t read because it bores me. You can if you want. It’s in Latin. Whatever. These tend to be some of the earliest texts, and include the “lives of saints” stories. Life of Gildas is the only funny one.

--Ballads

    These are only arguably texts, as most of them were written after the time of the “canon” being composed. But I like them. These are songs telling stories, recorded by people like Francis Child and Thomas Percy. They are very short and fun and include stories like The Boy and the Mantle, Kempion, and King Arthur and the King of Cornwall.

--Lai

    A specific type of French verse poem, usually quite short. The most famous collection of lais are those of Marie le France, including things like Bisclavret and Lanval. 

--Traditions

    Since Arthuriana was written all over, there are different literary traditions across time and space. The French tradition is one of the most famous, including works like the vulgate, Chretien and a lot of verse romances. The English tradition is one of the most influential on modern adaptations, including the Morte D’Arthur and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. There are also Welsh, German, Dutch, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Tagalog, Greek, Belarussian, Scottish, Irish, Breton, and probably even more. There’s a lot. It’s very cool and sexy.

A note that there is also a big tradition of Victorian revival Arthuriana. I wrote a starter guide to that here, it’s all very fun and like, aesthetic. 

Alright, now, which texts do you start with?

If you’re a little intimidated by long texts or medieval lit, starting with short verse romances in modern translation is a great place to start. These include Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is very good and gay and well known, Lancelot and the Hart With The White Foot, which is very good and gay and underappreciated, or Lanval, which is homophobic but funny. 

If you want to start with what is considered the oldest King Arthur Story, Culwch and Olwen is short and fun!

If you want to read about the grail quest, you can start where it started with Story of the Grail or Percival, then the four continuations, Essenbachs Parzival, the vulgate version of the Grail quest which you can buy paperback for like 5 bucks (I can also scan my copy for you just shoot me an ask <3)

If you want to read about the fall of camelot, I have the Vulgate death of Arthur section scanned here. There’s also the Alliterative and Stanzaic mortes, which are in middle English. I have scanned Simon Armitage's Alliterative Morte translation here. I’m working on my own translation of the Stanzaic but it’s not done lol. If you want the first third or so DM me lol. King Artus is very short and readable and it’s a Jewish text which is really cool.

If you want to read about Lancelot, Chrétien de Troyes Lancelot is his first text. He also has a whole long vulgate section, the first part is scanned here by val <3, and there's Lanzelet,  Sebile is in it so it’s probably very good. He’s also basically the main character of Le Morte D’Arthur which I might as well talk about here uhm. It’s long and fun in places and boring in others but it does have like the version most modern adaptations take from and tells the whole story of Arthur and Camelot from beginning to end. The Keith Baines version scanned by val is the most readable but it is an abridgement I believe. people who like le morte usually read this version so its probably the best choice lol

If you want to read about Gawain, good news! He’s in basically everything. Even texts that aren’t supposed to be about Gawain are doomed to become The Gawain Show Featuring The Protagonist Of This Text As A Sidekick. Which is so funny of him. The Roman Van Walewein is very funny and long and Gawain™. I also recommend, L’atre Perilous, Diu Krone, Sir Gawain and the Turk, and I could go on but for brevity's sake let's start there. 

If you want to read about Tristan, go shoot an ask to Valentine @lanzelet on tumblr because Tristan scares me. 

Thank you to rey @gawain-in-green for helping me find links and put this together! They are also a super great resource for stuff and very cool and nice <3 They have a tag on their blog for full text resources so deffo look at that if you want more scans and links, and an info tag and tons of cool shit that is way better organized than my blog lol

Okay finishing this off, if you want content warnings for any texts, feel free to shoot an ask! I know medieval lit can be A Lot and there aren’t a lot of good warning systems, so if I’ve read it or know someone who has I can give you warnings if you want to read something but are understandably wary . <3

In terms of tagging, Arthuriana and Arthurian Legend are the main ones on tumblr. Arthurian Mythology is also used but tbh shouldn’t be. On Ao3, we’re trying to get our own Arthurian Literature tag but <3 its a whole thing. Anyway the tag is Arthurian Mythology, but I’ll b real, it’s kind of flooded with stuff that doesn’t really belong there, because even though it’s a fandom tag other people unknowingly tag stuff as Arthurian Mythology when it’s like, a knight au. Which is not their fault bc it’s confusing but, ah, alas. ANyhow, feel free to drop in my inbox anytime with questions, suggestions, reccs, etc!

Okay godspeed!! Have fun reading, watching, browsing, etc! 

[foilfreak]

Beauty and Her Beast: Chapter 3

Warning: This fic is rated NSFW and contains graphic depictions of things some people may find disturbing or alarming, including, but not limited to: violence, gore, unhealthy family relationships, Oedipus complexes, gratuitous amount of pornographic literature, ableist language, physical, mental, and emotional abuse, etc. If you are someone who does not enjoy fiction with these elements in them, then I suggest you refrain from reading this, because this fic will have all that, and probably a lot more. So, this is your first and final warning to turn around and go somewhere else if stuff like this just isn't your vibe, because from this point forward, your emotional wellbeing is in your own hands, and I will not be accepting blame if you disregarded my warnings and ended up reading something you didn't like. Idk why I feel compelled to write one of these despite this being Resident Evil fanfic, but I figured I'd cover my ass just in case.

(Link to ao3 version in comments below)

“Going off the information I have listed here, it appears as though you’ll be receiving subject N-45, today. She’s a healthy 22 year old female. Her short, but muscular body weighs 95lbs with a childish height of 4’10” tall. She possesses primarily Romanian and Filipino ancestry, with some Dutch or Finnish or... whatever, thrown in there as well. And according to the various items we found on her person when she was first brought in, she’s apparently a graduate student at the University of Bucharest, or, at least she was, before she drove her car into a tree while driving up the mountain and was recovered by Heisenberg” Miranda explains robotically, reading aloud from a piece of paper held inside a thick manila envelope. “Of the 4 remaining test subjects, N-45 is easily the most violent and difficult one to work with, having to be either anesthetized or restrained every time I wanted to so much as take her vitals or stabilize her condition. When given smaller doses of sedatives she-”

For the first time in his entire life, Salvatore completely ignores whatever unimportant nonsense Mother Miranda is going on about, continuing to take in and analyze the strikingly unique appearance of the young woman before him.

Upon first inspection, N-45 appeared to resemble that of a normal woman in just about every way possible. Her hair was scruffy and very short, barely long enough to reach her eyes, and a deep black color that looked so soft and luxurious that Salvatore ached to run his fingers through it. Her face was slightly round, giving the young woman a very youthful appearance, with her sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones being some of the only things keeping Salvatore from mistaking her for a child. And lastly, her... figure, if Salvatore had to put such an embarrassing idea into words, was similar to that of Mother Miranda, only shorter, more compact even. It reminded the hooded man of those small packets of candy Duke occasionally gifted him that said “fun sized” on the label, in reference to them being much smaller than the standard sized candy bars and yet somehow being… better, despite technically giving you less candy.

She was already perfect as she was, but it was not just N-45’s beautiful human features that pulled Salvatore in and refused to let him escape the stupefaction he’d been placed under, but also her mutations.

A soft royal blue coated her from head to toe, giving way only to a large patch of solid white located on her chest and stomach. Her skin catches the light in a way that reveals areas of tiny overlapping scales, glimmering like stars in the midnight sky, or freshly polished armor, perhaps, along the bony ridges and tender curves of her figure.

Small white dots distributed like paint splatters across the colored sections of her flesh give a similar visual effect as freckles, starting from her hairline and extending all the way down to the very tips of her toes. These galaxies of white were invisible only on the white patch along the front of her torso, as well as on the lighter blue hue taken on by both the palms and webbings of her hands and feet.

Long Fin-like extensions grew along both her forearms and lower back. The former extended outward and inward like a windshield wiper, likely used to decrease water resistance. The latter, however, perhaps used to increase fine motor maneuverability while swimming at greater speeds or in tighter spaces, grew straight downwards from her lower back in an overlapping fan configuration that marginally covered her rear end, though not by very much. The fins looked like a soft, delicate material that was probably very flexible but very durable, if Salvatore had to guess just from looking.

And to top everything off, N-45 even appeared to even have gills, 2 different sets by the looks of it. The first set of 3 breathing slits was located horizontally along both sides of her neck, while the second set could be found on both sides of her torso, following the downward angle of her ribs but stopping just underneath her soft, plump-looking breasts.

Salvatore feels a sudden wave of heat cascade over his body and he turns his face away in shameful embarrassment as he suddenly realizes that N-45, much like every test subject undergoing cadou treatment, was still very, very nude at the present moment.

“I can’t make any promises regarding her disposition, but physically speaking, she’s ready to be released to you whenever you’d like. I’ll have some of the villagers transport and release her into the reservoir later this week” Mother Miranda says, pressing a button to close the pod now that Salvatore was no longer staring at her.

“W-wait just a m-moment” Salvatore calls out, prompting Mother Miranda to halt the closing of the pod.

“Yes? What is it?” The woman asks curtly, clearly not wanting to stand here and watch Salvatore any longer than she has to.

Wringing his hands together nervously, Salvatore meekly asks, “C-could… could y-you wake h-her up… s-so that I can s-speak with her… j-just for a m-moment?”

Mother Miranda remains silent for a moment, blank face staring directly at Salvatore as she contemplates what to do.

“No, Moreau,” she says finally. “I’ve had a very busy day today and I'm quite tired. N-45 is a menace that I struggle to deal with even on my best days. The last thing I need is something going wrong and her getting out and causing all sorts of chaos.”

Salvatore’s shoulders slump in disappointment, but he makes no further attempts to argue.

Mother Miranda rolls her eyes at the incredibly childish display, walking over to place a gentle hand on Salvatore’s head. “Would it make you feel better if I agreed to have N-45 be the first of the subjects to be dropped off? It’ll be more difficult than my original plan, but I suppose it was a bit unfair that you were the only one who didn’t get to “pick” their gift.”

“Yes, M-Mother Miranda… I-I’d like th-that very… very m-much” Salvatore says, leaning into the touch as Mother Miranda begins guiding him back toward the hallway leading to the exit door.

It wasn’t until after Miranda had exited the lab and begun walking down the long hallway toward the exit that Salvatore dared cast another glance back at the pod that contained N-45, wistfully thinking of how amazing her hand had felt in his, and how much he wanted to speak to her.

Just as the disfigured man was about to turn back and follow Miranda out of the laboratory, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, prompting Salvatore to tense and snap toward the 4 pods, frantically trying to figure out what it was he saw. A few seconds of stillness pass before Salvatore sees movement again, not freely moving about the room like he originally expected, but from within one of the 4 pods, his pod to be exact.

His curiosity momentarily outweighing his nerves, Salvatore slowly approaches the metal capsule, trying to get a look through the small pane of glass that allows visual access into the holding pod.

Another flash of movement has Salvatore flinching, jumping back as though he’d been advanced upon. After several seconds of stillness, however, the hooded man regains his confidence and once again inches his way toward the capsule, moving his head up and down to try and get one more glimpse at N-45 before he has to leave. One last look before she lays eyes upon his vile and disgusting body for the first time, screaming and calling him a monster as she runs away, leaving him alone and without anyone to call his own. Just like always.

“ Hello ?”

Salvatore froze dead in his tracks, his heart pounding and his lungs refusing to take in air, as a soft, muffled, questioning voice reaches the deformed man’s ears, followed by two golden orbs with narrow black slits running vertically through the center, that slowly peek into view from the bottom of the glass window. Salvatore’s eyes widen in shock as he quickly realizes that the orbs of gold are not, in fact, just spheres of color, but rather a pair of eyes, staring intently at him from inside the pod.

“Uuuuuh… u-u-uuum… I-i… I w-was just…” the disfigured man stuttered as he struggled to move his body, seemingly paralyzed by the bewitching gaze currently locked onto him, looking at him with an intensity that makes Salvatore wonder if this is what it feels like to be a cell put under a microscope.

It isn’t until Salvatore notices the golden orbs moving and shifting from one corner of the window pane to the other that the hooded man realizes, to his immediate horror, that he might not be the only one trying to get a better look at the figure located on the other side of the pod door. Panic and fear immediately fill Salvatore from deep within, growing strong enough to allow him to finally overcome his temporary paralysis and skitter away from view. Pulling his hood even further over his petrifyingly grotesque face in shame of himself, Salvatore flees the laboratory as quickly as his hobbled limp would allow.

His heart pounds to the beat of the soft, but desperate pleas of protest coming from N-45’s pod in response to Salvatore’s rapidly retreating form, yet the hooded man cannot bring himself to believe what he hears as true. Perhaps believing that the siren-like voice he hears echoing off the metal laboratory walls to be nothing more than a trick of his sick and lonely mind, Salvatore does not stop, nor does he turn back around until he’s met up with Mother Miranda at the exit to the surface, lungs burning and legs aching from running for so far and long.

“Oh, there you are, Moreau,” Mother Miranda says suddenly, stopping just before they are about to exit the laboratory. “I’m glad you chose this time to finally catch up, because I just realized a second ago that I’d forgotten to give you N-45’s previous name. You can name her something else if you’d prefer, of course, but I offered the information to your siblings so I suppose I should offer it to you as well. Would you still like to know N-45’s name, or would you rather abandon her given name for one of your own choosing?”

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, Salvatore lifts his head, “I… I-i would like to k-know… her n-name… please...” the mutant man says softly.

Mother Miranda briefly raises a questioning eyebrow at Salvatore’s nervous body language, but ultimately rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders, all but tossing the Manila envelope containing N-45’s information at the hooded man before disappearing out the large metal door.

“If you’re going to read that now, feel free, but return to the meeting room once you're done. And be sure to lock the door to my laboratory behind you” Miranda commands, her voice having grown echoey due to how far away she now was.

“Yes, M-Mother” Salvatore calls after her as he scrambles to catch the thrown file and prevent any loose papers from falling out. Once he’s got a solid handle on the thick envelope, he opens it, casting a quick glance back in the direction of the pod room, where Nadine and the other 3 gifts were being held for the time being.

Returning to the file, Salvatore frantically flips through every page, trying to find the one that held N-45’s personal background information.

After several minutes of desperate flipping back and forth, Salvatore finally focuses on one particular piece of paper that looked to have been in the file for the longest. Pulling out the particular page he’d found, the disfigured man drops the rest of the folder onto the ground and begins rapidly skimming through the information printed on the page, his hungry eyes refusing to stop until they finally zeroed in on the information he’d been looking for.

Project: E.V.A. Resurrection

Subject: N-45

Parasite Administered: Cadou (Series- N; Strain- 45)

Family Name: Bogdan

Given Name: Nadine

“N… Nadine” Salvatore said slowly, feeling slightly lightheaded and out of breath as each individual letter of the young woman’s name rolled off his tongue like Camembert cheese; smooth, creamy, decedent, and likely to keep him up all night with an upset stomach and a racing heartbeat.

Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine.

The name quickly became a broken loop played over and over and over again inside Salvatore’s head, his mind unable, or rather unwilling, to think of anything else as he read, reread, and then re-reread Nadine’s name at least 100 times, before finally setting the piece of paper down.

“Nadine...” Salvatore breathes the name once again, his voice carrying a wistful tone. “E-even your n-name is wonderful...”

An already beautiful woman, made even more perfect through the power of science and Mother Miranda’s grace, only for all that potential to end up wasted in the hands of a desperately lonely and horrifically mangled fish mutant, who was more likely to accidentally dissolve her in stomach acid than woo her like some kind of aquatic Prince Charming.

“Y-ya right... e-e-even with a-another mutant… I’m s-still so disgusting a-an… and horrifying in comparison… n-not even my o-own kind can b-bring thems-themselves to love me f-for who I a-am… not th-that there’s much of m-me that’s worth l-loving to begin w-with” Moreau laments to himself, wondering if it was even worth holding out hope that things with Nadine could go his way. As if one look at his monstrous form wouldn’t be enough to ruin everything Salvatore already has an agonizingly low chance of ever having with that magnificent specimen of a woman.

Even with Nadine’s own external mutations making it clear that she was no longer fully human, her form had still retained such a beautifully strong, yet womanly shape to it, and her face still looked so young and innocent despite everything that she’s been through. Someone as beautiful as her was far too good and pure to be tainted by his filthy hands.

‘Maybe I should just kill her when the villagers arrive with her at the gate? At least then... I could say I put her out of her misery before she had to experience it for herself…’ Salvatore sulks mentally.

However, despite the self degrading thoughts running through his mind, the memory of the curious look Nadine’s shockingly bright and mesmerizing golden eyes held when trying to look at Salvatore through the pod window made the hooded man shiver, having never been looked upon in such an innocently curious manner before. Most people who got that close to Salvatore didn’t even need to see his face in order to start screaming and running away in terror. However, if the deformed man allowed himself a brief moment to believe that it was indeed her who’d been calling him to come back and show himself, then from the tone and rushed quality of her voice, it would seem as though Nadine was unsatisfied with the fact that she hadn’t seen all of Salvatore’s face and body, not terrified.

How strange...

How very strange indeed…

[cherienymphe]

Best Friends Forever (Fratboy!Peter Parker x Reader)

This is my entry for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​  What’s Old is New Again Challenge! This fic is inspired by #18, “A gentleman is simply a patient wolf. – Lana Turner. Hope you all enjoy!

warnings: NON-CON, manipulation, roofie 

DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU

summary: Peter Parker is your best friend. Peter Parker is your only friend. Peter wants to keep it that way.

~

Peter Parker was your best friend. In fact, Peter Parker was your only friend. The two of you had been inseparable for as long as you could remember. You grew up together attached at the hip, and therefore, you did everything together.

He was there, watching in awe when you pulled your first loose tooth. You did the same when he pulled his first one weeks later. You helped each other learn how to ride bikes, double dutch, and even attempt to skateboard once. The two of you had broken so many bones together that you had lost count.

You weathered middle school together and the absolute insanity that was high school. You two had been best friends all your life, and it had never been anything more than that, so you both were equally confused when catty high school girls and bored high school guys would constantly accuse the two of you of dating. It was a thought that had never crossed your minds, and it was something you often laughed about.

There were absolutely no secrets between you two, and despite that, you still found yourself completely frozen in shock as you watched Peter slip in through your bedroom window one night during sophomore year. He was covered in bruises, and the oddly familiar red and blue fit he wore had some tears. You had stumbled off of your bed, running to grab him as he struggled to stand.

Realization hit you as he leaned against your wall, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, and your eyes almost popped out of your head.

“Y-you’re Spider-Man?”

It had come out louder than you had intended, and he was frantic as he covered your mouth, begging you to keep quiet. Neither one of you slept much that night as you demanded answers from him. You remembered feeling upset and betrayed that he had been hiding something so important from you, but even worse, you felt worried.

Your best friend had been put in danger so many times while you had been none the wiser. From then on, you demanded that he pass through your house to change out of his suit before going home. Not only for it to be safe for him to get home, but to put your own heart at ease too. It gave you a sense of comfort to see for yourself that he ended the night in one piece.

It was a tough secret to keep, incredibly trying to keep your thoughts to yourself as you watched his crime fighting be reported day in and day out. It was difficult to keep your worry at bay when he was late sneaking into your bedroom or to keep yourself from crying out when he was especially hurt. You were the only one who knew the truth, and the gravity of it served to further isolate the two of you.

Peter was literally your only friend and had been for as long as you could remember. What did it matter that you had never had any girlfriends, even now during college? Sure, you had always envied that special bond some girls seemed to have with each other. Of course, it bothered you a little that you had never experienced what it was like to have a best friend who could relate to you in every single way, but Peter was plenty. Yeah, there were some things that as a guy, he would never fully be able to empathize with, but his sympathy and well intentions were enough.

Besides, having a guy best friend came with its perks. Peter understood guys way better than you could ever hope to, and he was always more than eager to give you advice. Thanks to him, you could probably call yourself an expert on them, but in the end, it never did any good. You had never had a boyfriend, never even anything remotely close. Sure, it bothered you, a lot, but in the end you were grateful.

Peter saved you from regret more times than you could count. Every guy you had ever vocalized interest in turned out to be absolute garbage. At least, that was what Peter told you, and you trusted him. He was never wrong about these things. Tristan, an upperclassman that you’d had a crush on during your freshman year, had apparently been a racist creep. James from your junior year was a party animal with anger issues. Your first year of college, you’d fallen head over heels for a literature major named Logan, but Peter had to be the bearer of bad news when he informed you that the guy had a girlfriend back home and about three more on campus.

After that, you had just given up completely. You saw no point to any of it when every guy you had ever liked turned out to be awful. In the end, Peter was truly the only one you could trust. You were beyond thankful for him, and the day you could bring a guy around with Peter’s approval was the day you would know you found a good one. Unfortunately, you were starting to think that day would never come. You dreaded the day Peter would finally get a girlfriend, because then you would truly be a lonely wreck.

You found it odd that Peter had been single all this time too. This wasn’t high school anymore. In college, girls liked guys who were smart and who read and knew how to have conversations outside of sports. Add the fact that Peter had grown to be quite attractive and had even joined a fraternity, he was a catch. So it was safe to say you didn’t get it, and told him so one night.

“I’ve just never met the right girl,” he said with a shrug, distracted.

“Oh, come on,” you scoffed in disbelief. “So many great girls have shown interest in you. What about MJ? She was tall and funny and her hair-! God, her hair.”

He snorted, a faint smirk on his lips.

“I just wasn’t into her.”

“Why not?” you wondered.

MJ was practically perfect, and you had never known Peter to be nitpicky. He just shrugged, eyes focused on his laptop as he typed away.

“Peter,” you whined. “This is just sad. One of us has to start dating soon or we’ll just end up staring at each other in our old age.”

“I’ve dated,” he said, offended as his eyes cut up to you.

You rolled your eyes, flicking your pencil at him.

“I mean dating dating, not whatever it is you and your “frat bros” do every weekend. That house has seen more girls than a gynecologist clinic,” you complained.

“You know I’m not like that,” he said, shutting his laptop and setting it aside.

While he was somewhat right, he’d still had his own fair share of fun with some of the girls who went to their parties.

“You may not be as bad as the rest of them, but you can’t fool me, Peter. Remember, there are no secrets between us,” you replied, leaning back into the couch. “When are you going to get a girlfriend?”

He didn’t answer, and you continued.

“I know you want one. You’ve mentioned it several times, and I know dozens of girls that would be thrilled to be given the chance.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, giving you his full attention now.

“I just…haven’t found the right girl,” he lamely repeated.

You opted to leave it alone, skeptically eyeing him before reaching out to turn on the tv. You could feel Peter’s eyes on you, but he fortunately spoke before you had a chance to ask him what was up.

“To be honest…there was a time when I thought…you’d be my girlfriend,” he quietly confessed, almost like he was afraid of your reaction.

You looked at him, shock and disbelief coursing through you. A humorless chuckle left your lips.

“You’re kidding…”

He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were completely serious.

“No, I’m not. It was senior year of high school and… I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I know we were teased about it for years and the idea was crazy to us, but one day…I realized that you were the person I was closest to in the world…and I wanted to be closer.”

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in awe as you listened to this confession. You had never known, and you wondered how you could have missed it. What kind of friend were you?

“It was the only secret I ever kept from you…”

You turned to fully look at him.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He shrugged, dark eyes studying you.

“I knew you didn’t feel the same way, so I just forced myself to let it go. And I did,” he answered.

He was right. You had never felt the same way, and you started to wonder what would have happened if he had confessed his feelings to you. How awkward that could have been… It could have ruined everything.

“Peter…I can’t believe you did that. That must have…sucked,” you whispered.

He chuckled.

“I’m not going to lie. It kind of did, but I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re special to me, and nothing would have been worth making our friendship weird or just destroying it altogether. It turned out to be nothing more than a crush, anyway. Just…teenage hormones.”

You felt your heart clench, wondering if you would have done the same. It must have been torture for him to swallow his feelings just to keep things comfortable between you two, no matter how fleeting the whole thing was for him.

“Really, it’s no big deal, Y/N. I’m long over it, now,” he waved you off.

You chuckled, moving past the brief shock you’d just experienced.

“I’m glad for that. If you told me you still had feelings for me, I probably would’ve accused you of sabotage all these years.”

“Sabotage,” he scoffed. “Listen, every single guy you’ve been into was downright awful. You literally have the worst taste in men-.”

“I do not!”

“You do, Y/N. Honestly, if it wasn’t for me, who knows what you would have gotten yourself into.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Just for that, you’re paying for the takeout, tonight.”

 ~

“Botany? That’s crazy! I want to go into agriculture,” you said with a laugh.

The guy before you, Harry, chuckled with you. The two of you were tucked into a quiet corner of the kitchen. The rest of the house was vibrating with a deep bass, the sound of noisy college students filling your ears. Parties weren’t your thing, but frat parties especially were definitely not your thing. Somehow, Peter had finally talked you into attending one of his house’s infamous parties, and you hadn’t even been in the building for five minutes before you grabbed a drink with as little alcohol as possible and hid in the kitchen.

It was miraculous really that you bumped into an attractive guy who was equally uncomfortable with these things. He was funny and charming, and he wanted to study plants. You tried not to get ahead of yourself, but someone else might say it was fate that you two ran into each other. Hell, you ran into each other at Peter’s frat house, so the chances that they knew each other were high. Maybe Peter would have good things to tell you about him.

As if he was summoned by your thoughts, your eyes connected with familiar brown ones as he poked his head into the kitchen.

“Peter!”

You waved him over, and his eyes flitted between you and Harry as he approached you.

“Hey, Parker. I didn’t know you knew Y/N,” Harry chuckled, taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah, Peter and I go way back. He’s my best friend,” you said, pulling Peter over.

Your best friend was being unusually quiet, and you frowned. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the way his eyes had hardened. Was he okay?

“Y/N was just telling me that she wants to go into agriculture. We’ll probably be taking a lot of classes together in about two years,” Harry threw out.

Peter chuckled at that, but it sounded off, and he turned to look at you.

“I figured you’d be hiding in the kitchen, so I came to find you,” Peter said, wrapping an arm around your waist.

A shudder passed through you at the unfamiliar gesture, but you brushed it off.

“Oh, you know how I am. I’m glad I ran into Harry though! He’s been keeping me company, so you can just go back to the party if you want. Your friends are probably looking for you,” you replied.

Peter had become quite popular since you two started college, and you knew that the demand for his attention was rather high. You often felt bad about dragging him down with you. You weren’t really the social type.

“Yeah, Parker, I can look out for Y/N for you,” Harry offered, a friendly smile on his lips.

You returned it and noticed the way Peter’s jaw ticked, and confusion filled you.

“Actually, I came to find Y/N so that we can go,” Peter bit out.

Your frown deepened, but you didn’t question it as Peter gripped your hand.

“Oh, okay. I guess we’re leaving. See you around, Harry!”

He waved back as Peter pulled you out of the kitchen. His grip was tight on your hand as he weaved through swaying bodies and drunk students. Again, you wondered if he was upset about something. It was Peter, so you hardly ever saw him upset. You breathed in the fresh air when the two of you made it outside, and you took the time to eye him.

“Peter…you alright?”

He took a deep breath, chest heaving before he looked at you with a smile. He looked more like himself and you returned it.

“Yeah, I’m just…not feeling too good,” he answered.

“Oh,” you sadly said. “Are you getting sick?”

He shrugged, hand in his pockets.

“I don’t know. I probably had too much to drink. Mind if I crash at your place?”

You chuckled, shaking your head.

“You’re always welcome to sleep over, you know that.”

It was quiet for a while between you two as you walked back to your apartment. His hand was soft on yours, and the way his arm kept brushing against yours brought comfort to you. You were so used to his presence, borderline dependent on it, and just knowing he was beside you was reassuring.

“I love you, Peter, but please don’t invite me to anymore parties,” you suddenly whispered, a hint of mock fear in your voice.

He barked a laugh, and you joined him.

“All of them aren’t that bad, I promise,” he chuckled. “Did you really hate it that much?”

You hummed, releasing a sigh.

“Maybe I didn’t hate it all that much,” you admitted after some time.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye as a wistful smile fell over your lips, eyes gazing at the sky.

“So…how do you know Harry?”

His hand tightened around your own just the slightest.

“He’s in another frat,” he answered with a scoff. “He’s a spoiled rich kid who thinks he can get anything he wants by throwing money at it.”

You rolled your eyes with a shake of your head.

“Somehow, I’m not shocked by that, but… You know what? I don’t care.”

He stopped walking, pulling you to a halt with him, and he stared at you with a frown.

“What? What do you mean?”

You shrugged.

“I like him. We have a lot in common and he’s hilarious and so cute. Maybe… Maybe I’m expecting too much, you know?”

Peter looked even more confused, jaw clenching as his frown deepened.

“What are you saying?”

“I mean… Yes, I’m a huge romantic and I want a boyfriend, a serious boyfriend, like I have for years, but… You have always been a girlfriend kind of guy. It’s no secret that you’re open to a serious relationship, and you claim the only reason that hasn’t happened yet is because you haven’t found the right girl, but… Peter, that’s never stopped you from having fun,” you elaborated.

He didn��t respond, and you sighed.

“I’m just saying that maybe I should do the same. Maybe I should stop trying to make a boyfriend out of every guy I’m into and just have fun. Like you!”

He forced a chuckle past his lips.

“That’s…that’s not like you…”

“I know, but… I’m tired of being alone,” you shrugged. “We’re in college, now, and the chances of me finding a boyfriend are pretty low. Let you tell it, a good portion of the guys here are trash, but that only matters if you’re looking for something serious, and I don’t think I want that anymore.”

Peter was uncharacteristically quiet…again, and you tilted your head at him.

“That’s…a big change for you,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “…but I’m really into Harry. You’ll help me, right?”

Your pleading gaze met his dark one, slightly frowning at the way he was looking at you. He pursed his lips.

“Please, Peter? I really like him, and you know him so well.”

He looked away with a small sigh. He briefly closed his eyes before eventually nodding, and you smiled. He looked at you with a grin on his lips, taking your hand again as he continued the trek down the sidewalk.

“Yeah. Leave it to me, Y/N, and I’ll help you get laid in no time,” he relented.

You squealed, reaching up to shake his shoulders as you pushed him along.

“You’re an angel!”

He chuckled.

“What are best friends for?”

 ~

“Okay, I’ll admit, that was much better than I was expecting,” Harry relented.

“See! I told you, I am an excellent judge when it comes to these things,” you replied as the two of you walked out of the theatre.

It was the sixth date the two of you had been on in 4 weeks. True to his word, Peter had helped you out, and that next morning after the party, you’d woken up to a text from Harry Osborn himself. A huge grin had spread out over your face, and you didn’t hesitate to reply.

The two of you had been talking nonstop since then about practically any and everything. It turns out that you hadn’t been premature in thinking the two of you had so much in common. It was true! It was almost suspicious how much of the same things you liked, including horror films.

“Listen, the storyline didn’t seem all that original, and when I had watched the trailer, I felt like I’d seen the entire thing in less than 2 minutes,” he defended.

“Okay, okay, that I can understand, but ever since I’d missed out on seeing both Insidious and The Conjuring in theatres because I thought they were going to suck, I vowed to myself ‘never again’.”

“Yikes! Both of those films were great. I just know you still kick yourself over that one,” he laughed.

“It literally haunts me,” you groaned. “I know experiencing both of those in the theatre must have been amazing.”

Harry seemed to find your regret amusing, and he stopped to look at you with a smile on his face.

“Hey, so uh, my frat is throwing a party this weekend. I mean, we do just about every weekend, but I was thinking maybe you could come…as my…date this weekend?”

Your eyes widened a bit, and you felt your face heat up. He seemed nervous to ask you, like he didn’t know how you’d feel about it, and it was wild to you. You really liked Harry, and you thought you had made that more than obvious over the past month. Sure, Peter was right when he said he was a bit of a snob, but it wasn’t overbearingly so to the point that it became a turn off. Crazily enough, you could see Harry being more than just ‘fun’.

“I’d love that,” you honestly replied.

The corner of his mouth pulled upwards into a smirk, and he stepped closer to you on the deserted sidewalk.

“Yeah…?”

You nodded, looking up at him as he got closer. Neither one of you said anything as he reached up to gently grip your jaw, leaning in until his lips pressed against yours. You sharply inhaled, closing your eyes as you savored this. His lips were soft, and the way he moved them against yours told you that he was experienced.

That didn’t bother you. Truth be told, you had always wanted to be with someone who knew what they were doing, because honestly, you had no idea. You felt flutters deep in your stomach, and you shuffled closer to him when a cool breeze blew by. He pulled away just a little, opening his eyes to look at you as you did the same.

“Come on. Let me walk you back to your place,” he offered.

You happily gripped his hand as he did just that.

You felt giddy, absolutely on cloud nine as you leaned your head on his shoulder. Maybe you were getting a bit ahead of yourself, but a nice and rich frat guy was asking you to be his date to his house’s party. In context, this whole thing was showing a lot of promise. Guys like him normally liked to keep their options open, and him actually claiming you as his date was making somewhat of a statement.

You waved him goodbye as you made your way inside the complex, lips still tingling from the second kiss he’d given you just outside. You were still smiling when you rounded the corner that led to your hall, pausing as your eyes fell on a familiar figure outside of your door.

“Peter, hey!”

He pulled himself to his feet with a small groan, stretching as you fished your keys out of your purse.

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for over an hour,” he said, glancing at his watch.

You gave him a sheepish look as you let him go in first.

“Sorry. I went to go see a movie with Harry,” you answered.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. “You’re still seeing that guy?”

“That guy,” you scoffed with a small chuckle. “Isn’t he your friend?”

“Yeah, sort of, I guess…”

“You staying over tonight?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

“I really wasn’t planning to, but since I’ve been waiting this long, I don’t want to go back to the house in the dark.”

You hummed, opening your drawer of takeout menus to figure out what you should order.

“So…how are things going with Harry?”

You couldn’t stop the smile that fell over your lips.

“Great actually,” you said, sounding surprised. “He asked me to be his date to the party his frat is throwing this weekend.”

Peter’s eyes were wide as you glanced up at him, dark eyebrows raised as he looked at you.

“Really…”

“Yeah! I don’t know… I wasn’t exactly planning for this to be anything serious, you know? I wanted to experience some light fun for once in my life, but now… I think I can see us actually being something,” you whispered.

Peter didn’t reply right away, only humming in response.

“Are you going to the party?”

He blinked, heaving a sigh before shaking his head.

“Nah. I’m not really a fan of the kind of parties they throw,” he said with a shrug.

“What do you mean?”

He waved you off.

“They can just get pretty wild. They regularly get noise complaints and don’t really monitor how much alcohol people are drinking until it’s too late and there’s throw up everywhere,” he explained with a frown.

“Oh…”

You were a bit disappointed that Peter wasn’t going to be there, but you had to remind yourself to stop being so dependent upon him. The two of you couldn’t stay attached at the hip forever, and at some point, you had to start making a social life for yourself…by yourself.

 ~

Friday night came much quicker than expected, and you were all dressed and ready to go. The house wasn’t far from your place, and since it was still daylight, you didn’t mind walking. You’d worn comfortable shoes, so it didn’t bother you.

Even though you would probably be considered an early arriver, the place was already lively when you stepped through the door. Everywhere you turned, you were met with someone’s back or chest, and you struggled to maneuver yourself through the bodies. You didn’t recognize anyone, and almost wished that Peter had come with you, growing nervous until you spotted a familiar head of dark hair.

You approached Harry with a smile, reaching out to grab his arm. His eyes were wide when he turned to face you, and you frowned when he maneuvered his arm out of your grip. Your frown only deepened when he stepped away from you, glancing away, and that was when you noticed the girl at his side.

She hadn’t been paying attention, gaze elsewhere, but she smiled when she finally turned to look at you. She was blonde and beautiful and had perfect teeth, dazzling you as she grinned. Her perfectly manicured hands wrapped around Harry’s arm as she leaned into him.

“Hey! Are you a friend of Harry’s?”

She seemed sweet, and confusion filled you at their familiar body language.

“Babe, this is Y/N. She’s super close with my friend Peter,” Harry answered, barely sparing you a glance.

Your heart dropped to your stomach as you eyed them.

“Oh! I’ve yet to meet Peter, but I’ve heard you mention him sometimes. I’m Scarlet, Harry’s girlfriend,” she introduced herself.

If it all possible, you probably would have thrown up, but you hadn’t eaten anything all day, too nervous about tonight.

“Oh, wow! I don’t think Peter ever mentioned Harry having a girlfriend,” you responded, hoping it sounded casual.

You could feel the man in question’s eyes on you, but you didn’t spare him a glance.

“Well, I’ve never actually met Peter, and Harry and I only recently go back together…what was it? Two months ago?”

“Two months ago…wow…”

You didn’t know what to say, and you finally understood the full meaning of ‘speechless’ in that moment.

“Yeah, Harry didn’t have any plans this weekend as far as I knew, so I decided to come down and surprise him. You should have seen his face when I showed up on the doorstep an hour ago,” she laughed.

You joined her, feeling like you were going to be sick.

“I’ll let you two catch up. It was nice to meet you!”

“You too,” Scarlet said, waving goodbye as you turned and pushed yourself through the crowd.

There were tears in your eyes, and your body was shaking. Were you on the verge of a panic attack? You stumbled over your own feet as you attempted to make your way to the door. So focused on the baby pink polish on your toes, you didn’t notice the figure before you until your head was colliding with their chest.

You stumbled back, almost falling had it not been for a familiar pair of hands. You looked up in shock, and everything crashed into you as your eyes met Peter’s. His gaze was inquiring, worry coloring his features as he studied you.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, letting it fall against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you.

“What happened?”

“H-Harry has a girlfriend,” you whispered.

You felt him tense against you.

“…what?”

“I mean… I thought… You said he was just some spoiled rick kid. You never mentioned a girlfriend,” you said, looking up at him.

“I didn’t know. Honest. They broke up forever ago,” he replied, pulling you against him.

“Yeah, well apparently, they got back together two months ago. The whole time we’d been talking and going out together he…,” you trailed off, shaking your head. “He treated me like I was practically a stranger.”

Peter’s jaw ticked, and he moved to go past you, but you stopped him. His dark eyes were focused on Harry no doubt, but you pressed your hands into his chest.

“Peter, let it go. Please! Just…stay with me? I don’t think I want to go home…”

The last thing you wanted was to lay in your bed and remind yourself of what a disaster tonight was turning out to be. Peter heaved a sigh, hands tightening on you before reluctantly nodding. He pulled you along towards the door.

“Come on. We can just go to the party at my house,” he offered.

You nodded, leaning against him as he walked you out. You wiped at your cheek, unsure of when a few tears had spilled over. You had fooled yourself into dreaming of more with Harry and look where it got you. Even if you had still only wanted something casual, there was no way you would have knowingly got involved with a guy who had a girlfriend. That wasn’t who you were.

“I thought…I thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered.

“I wasn’t, but… I didn’t want to leave you at a party where the only person you knew was Harry. I’m glad I did come,” he murmured. “What an ass…”

“Don’t worry about it, Peter. Really. Maybe this is just a sign that I should stop trying to force something with every guy I like. It never turns out well,” you sighed.

Peter’s frat house was just as lively when you guys moseyed inside. A few of his brothers recognized you, and you waved at them. Peter’s arm tightened around your waist, but you didn’t mind it. You knew what other guys at the party would think, but you didn’t care. You were done with guys, and all you wanted was to hang out with Peter, the only guy you had ever been able to trust. So if they mistook you as Peter’s girl, and left you alone because of it, that was fine with you.

The two of you were attached at the hip throughout the night. Peter had gotten both of you drinks, and hours later, you were still nursing that same drink. This was never your crowd, and the more you made your way around the room with Peter, the more obvious it became. He didn’t seem to mind your company though, arm still at home on your waist. You noticed a few disappointed glances being thrown your way, and you chuckled with a frown.

“Peter, I think I’m ruining your chances of getting laid,” you finally said.

He glanced around to see what you meant before he chuckled too.

“It’s fine. You’re my best friend. I’m not just going to ditch you,” he responded.

You smiled but still felt a bit guilty that you had affected his night again. You pulled away from him, letting him know that you were going to be in the kitchen. He understood and promised to join you. To be honest, you wanted him to have fun. You didn’t exactly take pleasure in knowing that he sacrificed his usual routine at parties just for you.

You leaned against the counter, pressing your fingers to your temples as you rubbed circles into your skin. You didn’t know how the night had gone so wrong. How had you been so clueless? No, no! You were not going to do that. It wasn’t your job to watch and hunt for signs of an untruthful man. You weren’t supposed to be suspicious of a guy you were seeing. This whole situation was completely on Harry.

You finished your drink, tossing the red cup into the trash with a sigh. It was amazing that in the span of 3 hours, your life had done a complete 180. You had gone from having the time of your life to being alone and miserable and feeling absolutely foolish.

You heard footsteps make their way into the kitchen. You glanced up, face contorting in a frown as your gaze connected with that of the last person you wanted to see.

“What are you doing here?” you scoffed.

He was holding two drinks, eyes apologetic as he approached you.

“I’m sorry-.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Harry. There’s nothing that you could say that can fix this.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Scarlet and I… We’ve been having problems for a long time, now, and we both thought getting back together would make them magically go away, but they didn’t. The night we met, Scarlet and I had gotten into a huge fight, and I was under the impression that we were over…for good.”

You eyed him.

“Then she wanted to work things out, but I had already met you, and I really liked you…”

You looked away with a sigh.

“We were never exclusive, I guess, but it doesn’t matter because you have a girlfriend. You had a girlfriend the whole time we were hanging out, and I’m certain that you and she have an agreement that you guys are exclusive,” you harshly replied.

He glanced down, and you chuckled, but it lacked humor.

“You were cheating on her…with me… Never mind the obvious of how she would feel if she found out, but how do you think that makes me feel? Do you think I like being that kind of girl?”

He shook his head.

“No, no, you’re not the type-.”

“Exactly.”

He at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“I know I messed up, okay? I just wanted to apologize and bring you this… You said it’s your favorite, the only drink you actually really like, and I thought maybe it could soften the blow of you chewing me out,” he confessed.

You eyed the cup, glaring at him before taking it. You took a sip before sighing.

“Well, thanks for the drink,” you saluted him with it. “…but I don’t see us moving past this Harry. It was fun, but I don’t even want to be friends with someone like you. I’m sorry, and I mean it when I say I hope you and Scarlet work things out.”

You brushed past him, taking another sip of the fruity mixture as you went in search of Peter. It was easy to find him, following the sound of his familiar laughter. He didn’t mention anything as he wrapped his arm around you, and you figured that he didn’t know Harry was here yet.

“Hey, I was coming, I swear I was-.”

“Peter, it’s fine! You know I don’t care about you keeping me company or not. I’m a big girl.”

He returned your smile, pulling you closer as his hand tightened on your waist.

You didn’t plan to stay much longer, and about an hour later you decided that you would head out…after you used the bathroom. You found it much more difficult to weave through the sweaty bodies this time, and you blinked as your vision spun for half a second. You stopped to steady yourself, pressing your hand to your head in confusion.

You eventually made it to the bathroom, and you took some time to look at yourself in the mirror. You looked alright, for the most part, but you felt so…off. Your fingers were tingling just the slightest, and the bass in the houses sounded incredibly far away. By the time you were done in the bathroom, you were stumbling out.

You had to hold onto the wall for support, and confusion filled you. You’d only been drunk a handful of times, but this time felt different. Even worse, you had only had two drinks. You dreaded making your way down the stairs, and you had to pause and lean your back on the wall halfway down. You heard someone call your name, and they too sounded so far away. You jerked when a pair of hands landed on your arms.

“Y/N? Y/N, are you okay?”

You stared at Harry for the longest time, wondering what he was still doing here when it clicked. You frowned at him.

“Did you put something in my drink?”

Your words were slurred, but he understood you nonetheless, and his eyes widened.

“What? No!”

“You did, didn’t you? I…I only had two drinks, and this didn’t start until after-.”

“Y/N, I wouldn’t do that! Come on, let me-.”

“No!” you jerked away from him. “Is this your way of getting in my pants, anyway?”

He frantically shook his head, concern and worry and disbelief all rolled into one in his gaze.

“Y/N, you have to believe me! I wouldn’t do this!”

You scoffed, pushing against him, but it was weak.

“Believe you? How could I trust anything you say?”

He blinked, something clicking in his eyes as he looked down the stairs and back to you.

“Y/N, I didn’t get the drink for you. Did Parker not tell you he saw me? He gave me the-.”

“Hey, what’s going on?”

You both turned to look just as Peter came up the stairs. You stumbled towards him, fighting off Harry’s hands as Peter wrapped his arms around you.

“He put something in my drink,” you whispered, on the verge of passing out.

“What?” Peter demanded, tightening his hold on you.

“Y/N, listen-!”

“You’ve done enough, don’t you think? Get out of here, Harry, because if I tell my frat brothers you’re drugging girls they aren’t just going to let you walk out of here,” he threatened.

Harry stumbled over his words as Peter helped you back up the stairs.

“Leave,” you heard him snap at the other brunette.

Your fingers dug into his arm as he helped you walk down the hall, arms tightening around you.

“P-Peter…”

“Hey, hey… It’s okay. You can crash in my room, tonight, yeah?”

You’d only been in his room a handful of times, the both of you usually hanging out at his place. It was always clean and always smelled good, and you had thought to yourself before that it was no wonder girls kept coming back. He sat you down on his bed, and you struggled to sit upright.

You heard him fumbling around in his drawers and looked up just in time to see him coming over with a huge t-shirt. You didn’t mind when he helped you out of your clothes, welcoming it during your inebriated state. His fingers grazed your skin as he slid the shirt over you, resting his hands on your shoulders.

“Y/N, can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered, blinking at him.

He took his thumb to widen your eyes, getting a good look at your pupils. You felt like you were having an out of body experience, and you were grateful for Peter. You didn’t like feeling like this, and you shuddered to think about what would have happened to you had Peter not been here.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He ran his eyes over you before resting them on your fogged-out ones.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said with a small smile. “What are best friends for?”

You struggled to return the smile, and he brushed his hand along the side of your face. Your eyes fell closed at the gentle feel of his ministrations. You were somewhat in shock that Harry would do such a thing. A rapist was a big leap from cheater and liar, and you wondered what drove him to do it. He had a girlfriend, but maybe he was truly that greedy and disgusting?

You forced your eyes open when you felt Peter’s hand on the side of your neck. You blinked, eyebrows furrowing as you watched him lean in.

“Peter-.”

You were cut off when he pressed his lips against your own. Your eyes widened, and you reached up to press your hands into his chest, but you had no strength. His hand slid to grip the hair at the back of your head, tightening his grip as he leaned into you.

You mumbled incoherently into his mouth as he laid you down, his lithe frame immediately settling against yours. His other hand was on your naked thigh, his t-shirt riding up to brush against your underwear. You turned your head, gasping for breath.

“Peter…stop,” you panted. “W-what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer you, opting instead to pull away and reach behind his head to pull his shirt off. You blinked as you were met with the sight of his bare chest. He leaned down again, pressing his lips against yours. He simply swallowed all of your protests, and you turned your head away again.

“Peter!”

“I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do for years, now,” he whispered against your cheek.

Your eyes widened, and confusion filled you.

“…what?”

You tried to scoot back on the bed, but he only followed, his frame still caging yours in as you both moved. His eyes were hard as he looked at you, and you felt tears collect as you fought not to cry.

“Harry gets everything, you know. It’s all just so easy for him, but I’d never let him have you,” he murmured, pressing kisses to your neck. “Not after I worked so hard to save you…for myself…”

You pushed against him again, but he didn’t budge.

“No, no. Peter, what…what are you…?”

Nothing was making sense, and your head hurt and your body felt heavy and the room was spinning. Nothing he was saying was making sense.

“Peter, you’re my best friend… This doesn’t make any sense…”

Your head lolled, much too heavy to lift as you heard him fumble with his pants. Panic gripped you, but you could hardly move. You groaned when he pressed himself against you, and you could feel him hard and throbbing between your thighs.

“Peter,” you mumbled.

“I’m going to be the only person who gets to be inside of you. The only one to know what it feels like to have you wrapped around them. God, I’ve always wanted to know what you feel like,” he whispered, kissing you again.

His fingers made their way to your core, rubbing you through your underwear. You reached up to grip his arm, but you were sure that your hold was featherlight. You let like your body weighed a ton, and the smallest of movements took so much out of you.

You whimpered as you felt your underwear grow damp, and Peter wasted no time in pushing them to the side before pushing a finger inside of you. Another soon followed, and you were panting beneath him as he worked his hand in between your legs.

“Please…stop,” you begged. “I’ll scream…”

“Can you?” he wondered, lips brushing against yours.

Tears spilled over at his question. He was right. Could you even scream? You could barely speak.

“Even if you could scream, Y/N… There’s a party going on. Who’s going to hear you? Hmm?”

He was dragging your filthy underwear down your legs, now.

“Peter, please. I’m your best friend… Please, don’t do this to me,” you pleaded.

Peter’s eyes met yours.

“It’s just been us our entire lives. All we ever needed was each other. I want to keep it that way,” he said.

You yelped, pressing your nails into his back as he slid inside of you to the hilt. Your legs were limp around him, a scream caught in your throat. He leaned down to kiss your wet cheeks, shushing you as you struggled to adjust beneath him.

He took his time as he pulled out of you before sliding back in, groaning at the way you clenched around him. You pressed your nails harder into his back, and he hissed before reaching back to grip your wrist, pinning it to the bed. He did the same with the other and kept a steady pace.

You panted beneath him, eyes fluttering closed. Whatever was coursing through your system made it impossible to focus on anything other than the way his hard length felt dragging against your walls. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he thrust into you, never taking his eyes off of you as he watched your face.

His grip tightened on your wrists, and you gasped at the pain.

“Peter…”

“It’s okay. Just enjoy it, Y/N…”

You gasped again as he picked up his pace, forehead dewy with sweat. He buried his face in your neck again, chest pressed against yours as he pinned you to the bed, unrelenting in his thrusts.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “You’re finally mine…”

Something that was a cross between a choked moan and a sob escaped you.

“I want everyone to know it-.”

“No, Peter-!”

“I’m going to fuck you until the sun comes up, so everyone in this house will know you belong to me. You’re my girl, Y/N. You always have been,” he moaned. “…and when you limp out of this house with my marks on you, everyone will know it.”

He came in you with a low moan, and you sobbed into his chest as he rolled over, curling you against him. He ran his fingers down your back, lips brushing your forehead.

“I’ll make you come before the night is over,” he whispered. “I’ll be the only one to ever touch you like this.”

You shook your head, and he rolled you back onto your back, still inside of you. His dark eyes bore into your own, fingers trailing over your trembling body.

“You know exactly what I’m capable of, Y/N… You know the things I can do. I’d hate to have to hurt someone for touching what’s mine.”

~

tags: @sherrybaby14​ @kellyn1604​ @xoxabs88xox​ @mcudarklibrary​ @darkficreposter​ @villanellevi​ @sebabestianstan101​ @harringtonsblackgf​

@opheliadawnwalker3​ @jtargaryen18​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @readermia​

[veterveter]

And top 5 or 10 of your favorite fics

This was actually really hard [hence it took like a week to answer this one, yes]???? But in the interest of doing my best, here's a top 4 Berlermo and top 4 from other fandoms. In no particular order. Both of the fifth spots are reserved for all the other things I hold close to my heart and couldn't bear to choose between [trust me, I tried and it took a week]. So basically all my ao3 bookmarks and all my browser bookmarks--

Berlermo:

Sparkling Dutch Nights by @delirious-and-slightly-murderous Oh I love this one so much, it's the ultimate ESC experience for me for the rest of my life. It's so self-indulgent and I didn't even write it. Dreamy sigh.

A Spanish Tale by @nharidy but technically definitely also @puduhegepa and @roccinan The entire experience, mind. Chaotic beauty. I was super very new here so writing running ramadan telenovela commentary was my first tumblr contribution.

in vino veritas by @sorrydearie The Martín from this story is the one I have put into my pocket and think of fondly when life is otherwise a struggle.

The Time Traveler's Soulmate by @oreo-cookies-fan Jeremias my beloved, never have I ever loved a third wheel like I adore him. I would read 30-75k of just Jeremias but I also really appreciate the timeline crafting, it's gorgeous.

And other fandoms [for trivia knowledge? so that you may psychoanalyse me? I just want to talk about stories that have touched my soul and you have given me an in]:

Breaking and Entering by Resonant This is going to sound awfully dramatic but I define myself by the existence of this piece of literature. Sometimes I remember a quote from somewhere I can't quite pinpoint. And it's always from this fic.

Carved in gold and ice by Chaosandgunpowder This has literally everything I've ever wanted - totally sick but beautiful devotion, masterful outsider POV, the best setup and payoff anyone has ever written.

Keep Back What the Clouds are Hiding by alliterations Why is this so pretty. In so few words. How craft yearning and feelings so beautifully? Not fair.

Early Returns by rageprufrock This one does the no backstory but we have history thing perfectly. I only wish to bring some of this energy into my Berlermo.

[groundcontrol21]

Landfall (Black Sails, M, 1/2)

Y’all had to have known this was coming 😈 I am utterly appalled at the lack of Black Sails recognition. So, to remedy that, have some Sick!Flint. If you have not watched Black Sails, watch it. I purposefully avoided spoiling anything major in this fic because it is truly the best show I have ever had the pleasure to watch and I do not want to spoil that for anyone. If you want queer characters, ships, pirates, badass women, ships (did I mention those already?) and show writing that feels like the best of literature, watch this show. That said, if you have seen it, this takes place before the show starts, when Captain Flint is building his image as the fearsome pirate he is when we meet him.

This was actually incredibly hard to write, both because I felt such an intense pressure to do these wonderful characters justice and because Flint is just an impermeable wall. Like this man could just take a cannonball to the face and not bat an eye. So I tried my best to stay in character and still let him suffer a bit :) Onwards! Hopefully a bit more sneezing in the next part.

They had made landfall in Nassau in the evening, just as the sun was beginning to set. The storm clouds that had then been rolling into the harbor quickly from the interior of the island were now unleashing a torrential downpour upon Captain Flint as he urged his horse faster inland through the mud. It had taken them long into the night, well after the rain had begun to unload all the cargo they had taken, and as such he was as soaked as though pulled from the ocean. Though being so wet would doubtless not do well for the headcold he was brewing, neither would spending the night at the Guthrie’s tavern do well for his headache.

When he arrived at Miranda’s home, he tied up his horse in the stable and limped into the house, his leg aching from the ride or the fight for the ship or the weather or God knows what else. The wind blew the door shut with a loud crash behind him. Flint stood for a moment, water dripping from him like a personal rainstorm, breathing heavily and not altogether successfully keeping himself from coughing. In the hearth, a dying fire cast its dim light on the room. He hung his coat, more wet rag now than anything, beside the door, when he heard a shuffling from the bedroom.

Miranda emerged in her nightgown, her hair mussed slightly from its updo in sleep. She smiled at him but Flint, upon seeing her hands empty, did not return it.

“Where’s the pistol I gave you?” he growled. “To protect yourself.”

Turning her back to him, Miranda went to stoke the fire up higher. “I left it behind, seeing as though I know there is only one man mad enough to ride out and barge in my door at this hour and in this weather. Thank you, by the way. For the puddle.”

Miranda pulled a stool out in front of the hearth and Flint sank into it, the wood creaking as his weight melted into it. “Homecoming gift,” he gritted out.

“There’s blood in it.”

“Eh?”

“In the puddle. Mixed with the water.”

“My leg, probably. Haven’t really had the chance to look at it yet.” He spared a glance at his thigh; the light was low, coming only from the fire, but he thought he could make out a glisten of red somewhere along the sodden black fabric of his trousers, as well as a tear. He coughed to clear his throat. “There’s a book. In my cloak. Probably soaked through, but it’s there. Erasmus.”

“Good that you had the time and the sense to raid a bookshelf.” Flint picked up on the unspoken and not tend to your leg and he did not care for the accusation of it, but he did not rise to the bait, simply too exhausted to do so. His head and limbs ached, and now that the promise of a hearth and true dryness was so near he could scarcely stand the wet scratch of his clothes against his skin.

Miranda disappeared to the kitchen, no doubt to boil water and prepare a salve to clean his wound. They had fallen into this rhythm, such that Flint himself could recognize which cloths and jars she pulled down based only on the direction of her footsteps and the squeaking of the cabinets. The farthest to the left of the stove was the highest pitched and it was there she kept her lavender soap which, for reasons unclear, she used only on him. He heard her open it. It would be wasted on him tonight, not that it ever wasn’t, for he was too full of cold to consider smelling it.

He gave three shuddering sneezes, the wetness of his hair snaking around his temples chilling him further. Briefly he considered going to his coat to retrieve his handkerchief, soaked as it no doubt was, but when he looked up he saw Miranda re-enter, holding a platter full of bowls and bandages to treat him, and he knew he would get a row for getting up again to bleed more on her floor.

“Dutch merchant ship with a hold full of spices and tobacco,” he told her as she set the tray down with a soft clang on the coffee table beside where he sat. She lit a candle “Enough to keep the men satisfied for a while.”

“How long is that?”

“Two months at least. Enough for us to ride out the worst of the winter storms on la--Careful!” Flint jerked back as Miranda pulled at the tear in his trouser leg, ripping it open to expose the gash on his thigh.

“Hush, they’ll have to be sewn up again, anyway.”

“At this rate, they’ll have to be replaced!”

Miranda sighed as she took in the extent of the injury, fresh blood gleaming deeply in the candlelight, then gave an airy chuckle. There was a sadness nestled deeply within it, almost imperceptible, that hurt Flint far more than the wound did. “I suppose I should have pegged you as a man who cared more for his clothing than for himself.”

Flint talked around that sadness, as they always did. “Says the woman who is more worried about bloodstains on her floor than what put them there. I think I could come in without a leg and you’d be particular about what I bled on.”

Miranda smiled, almost to herself, as she wet a cloth in the bowl of soapy water and wrung it out, before placing it on Flint’s leg. “If you had a home to clean and take care of, you’d be particular as well.”

They fell silent after that, the only sounds being the crackle of the fire and the melodic repetition of Miranda dunking the cloth in the bowl, the droplets pittering as she wrung it out, the soft squish as she pressed cloth gently to his wound. It was not unlike the cadence of a ship, the rushing waves and heaving creaks, and Flint lost himself in it, the sting of the soap as she scrubbed the only thing keeping him from drifting to sleep.

His sniffling grew more insistent as the fragrance of the soap loosened his congestion. He sneezed again, twice, jerking away from Miranda as she was wrapping a bandage around his thigh.

“You’ve picked up a cold, too, on your voyage,” she observed, not pausing her pressure on the wound as she continued to wrap it.

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, yes, compared to the gash on your leg a great number of things are nothing.” Her hands paused in tying the bandage, holding the pressure there as she looked up at him, the question unsaid burning like an ember behind her eyes. In London, she would have asked—she had asked when he had come around with a split lip from a bar fight or a bruise from his training—but since they had come to Nassau there were a great many questions she had stopped asking.

Flint met her eyes for the briefest of moments. She would not ask how he had come by this latest set of injuries, but she knew enough to fill the gaps, perhaps even enough to construct a story close to the truth. She was a smart, smart woman and Flint did not deserve her.

Her voice softened as she dropped her gaze, wiping away with a clean cloth the blood that had already seeped around the edges of the bandage. “Please, try to take care of yourself a bit, James.”

Flint made a sound in his throat, an attempt at a grunt or a scoff perhaps, but it caught and turned to a rough cough. Miranda said nothing, but set to gathering the bloody cloths and filthy bowls back on the tray. The sight of the blood, the dirt of his world infiltrating and infecting hers, made his chest burn in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.

Miranda hesitated and cupped his cheek briefly before picking up the tray, bidding him look at her. The firelight flicked across her eyes. “Allow me to do what I can. I know there are…” She broke their gaze for a moment and swallowed. “Limits to what I can do, what I can understand, but please. Let me be here for you.”

Flint smoothed a stray piece of her hair back behind her ear and studied her a moment, beholding with a sinking stomach the lines on her face, lines that had been from ceaseless smiles back in London turned lines sour with stress here in Nassau. He owed this to her, owed her the world after what he had put her through.

“I only mean you needn’t trouble yourself over this,” he said. “Over me, over a headcold, over a cut on my leg. It’s nothing that I haven’t experienced before and I’ve borne it--”

“The men aren’t here to see you,” Miranda said abruptly, and damn her for always knowing his mind even when Flint scarcely knew it himself. She carried on, her voice softening. “Any weakness you think you might display, they are not here to see it. There’s no need to be Captain Flint in this house.”

With that she turned back for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder that she would bring Flint a towel to dry himself while she made up the spare bed. Flint coughed again, knowing that if he had had the energy to follow his instinct he would have yelled at her for some senseless reason, perhaps for the sin of cutting through to the core of the very armor of ferocity he was trying to build for himself. Shame burned in his belly, and he took a small measure of comfort in the throb of his injury and the fire in his throat, as a twisted form of penance or punishment. He had become an angry man since leaving London. He had always been subject to passion, to being overcome, to loss of control. The accursed Admiral Hennessey had even observed as much. But the raw permanence of his anger, burrowing deep within him and taking up hold like a parasite, was something altogether new and different. In quiet moments such as this, he loathed himself for it.

Miranda returned to him with a towel and a handkerchief before departing to the bedroom. Flint made judicious use of both the items, his sneezing assaulting him with a vengeance as he became dry, as if to punish him for having gotten so wet in the first place. He had been ill all manner of times and in all manner of places: belowdecks in the Navy, at port, on land, even once prior on the Walrus. And this present headcold of his, while decidedly uncomfortable and a nuisance as all headcolds are, certainly ranked among the least of these times. Were he alone or at sea, he would have treated it as he treated all minor ailments: by simply going about his business as usual, perhaps indulging in a bit of rum to take the edge off the soreness in his throat. But, it was undeniably relaxing, freeing even, to know that he would sleep in a bed tonight and not have to wake to maps and ropes and captaincy in the morning. Flint felt his shoulders fall at the realization, felt the muscles in his jaw unclench, until the strain of sailing and fighting to take the Dutch caravel was as much in the background as the soft sputtering of the fire in the hearth.

His eyes slipped shut, and perhaps he had even fallen asleep briefly sitting up, when Miranda shook his shoulder gently. She nodded at him and he nodded back, feeling stupid and disoriented with fatigue. Doubtless sensing this, she led him by the arm to the spare bedroom that may as well become his as much as his own cabin at sea.

“I’ve left you an old nightshirt, in the drawers.”

Flint was overcome by a fit of sneezing and coughed a bit when he had finished, prompting Miranda to pat the pillow and add, “And handkerchiefs, tucked underneath.”

She turned to leave but he caught her by the wrist and brought her fingers to his lips. They were warm, and even through his congestion he could smell the lavender soap upon them. “Thank you,” he rasped. For everything. If ever there were a time for her to read his mind, it was now.

Miranda leaned forward and placed a ghost-light kiss on his cheek. “Try not to get too much blood on my sheets. It is absolutely beastly to get out.”

She left him, then, with a smile, and Flint gave one of his own to the empty room before collapsing on the bed and falling asleep almost instantly, uncaring of damp clothes or soaked bandages or words he should have said but lacked the courage to voice.

[meowdymista]

The Love Spoon (A You-tensil)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Notes: Title sounds more provocative than it is. I tried to write it as a Charles x Arthur, but it came out better in first person. Fluff

~ NOW ON AO3! ~

“What are you doing?”

Arthur all but jumps out of his skin, colour rising in his cheeks. “Nothing,” he says a little too quickly.

You dismiss the secrecy. It doesn’t worry you, merely piques your interest a little. Usually it’s his journal he’s so protective over, but the knife in his hand and the shavings of bark in the grass suggest he has found another outlet.

“Mind if I sit here?”

He looks at the space beside him on the salt bleached log and shakes his head, hiding his eyes beneath the rim of the worn gambler’s hat he favours. “‘Course not. Free country.”

“Not for fellas with bounties,” you tease, and he chuckles, returning to his work.

You let the silence stretch, breathing in the cool breeze sweeping in over Flat Iron Lake and listening to the bird song. The coffee in your hand is too bitter and thin for your taste, but you continue to sip it stoically, knowing you’ll suffer later if you don’t.

“Much planned today?”

You sigh and struggle to smother the smirk tugging its way to the surface. “Fixin’ that wagon you and Mrs Adler took to town.”

He tuts. “They don’t build ‘em like they used to, a’right?”

You hum into your tin cup, wincing at the flavour. “Don’t know what magical wagon you used to drive. S’far as I can tell, they’re making them same as ever.”

Laughing, you let him land a gentle punch to your upper arm before taking the opportunity to stretch with a long groan.

“Guess I’ll catch you later.” He tips his hat at you with a small smile as you turn back into camp to begin chores.

***

“What the hell is it, Morgan?”

You shake your head, draining the last of the stew from the bowl. Sometimes it was a wonder the Pinkerton’s weren’t just listening out for Bill’s brawdy boasting or Dutch’s eloquent enunciations of faith to track them down. You toss your dish and spoon into the tub and look back out across to the sunset. A lone canoe drifts over the still surface, leaving a V of ripples in its wake. Whilst you appreciated the peace and quiet of this somewhat more remote camp, you worried for potential enemies eavesdropping from all manner of directions, especially as some members of camp had more than made themselves at home.

“It don’t matter what it is, I already told yer, it’s not for you!”

“Then why the hell you bring it over here? And what the hell’s it for?”

“Mind your damn business!”

“Gentlemen! What seems to be the problem?” Hosea’s tranquility smoothes over the tension.

You’re torn between conceding to your curiosity and keeping your distance from the drama until it’s cooled off. You glance over to your tent and inadvertently catch Arthur’s eye. You look away quickly, taking a deep breath as your cheeks fill with colour. It’s not what you think it means, you tell yourself, repeating your internal mantra. It's a coincidence. Let your head guide your heart. Don’t chase daydreams. It’s not what you think it means.

You watch the canoe disappear behind the trees. No man ever got out of the woods on his heart alone. You need to listen to logic.

You look back, but Arthur’s back is to you. As it should be, you reason as you walk over to the campfire, denying any intent to eavesdrop to yourself.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Wh-What do you think it is?”

“A spoon carved from basswood!” Hosea laughed. “Didn’t you used to have one like this? Your mother’s, if I’m not mistaken?”

He grunts as Bill splutters. “Ain’t gonna do much eatin’ with that, Morgan! It’s almost flat! You’d be better off eatin’ off a butter knife!”

“It ain’t for eatin’ with!” he snaps, snatching it out of Hosea’s hands and turning on his heel. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”

Bill cries out as Hosea’s hand makes contact with the back of his head. “You drunken oaf. Read a room why don’t you!”

“Read a room?” Bill blusters. “I ain’t seen four walls since that bank job-”

You push yourself to your feet and track him down with ease. He has stormed off towards the treeline and stopped by his horse, leaning his elbows on the saddle patting the mare’s neck distractedly. He throws the item towards the shore in a fit of frustration and pulls himself up onto his mare with a huff. You’re too close in the clearing to be able to hide when he looks straight at you, but despite stiffening in surprise, he yanks the reins to lead his horse out of camp without looking back.

You wait until you’re sure you’re alone before stalking out to the grass, looking for whatever it is that Arthur threw. It takes a while, but eventually you find it.

It’s a rough whittled spoon. On closer inspection, you can see the detail scratched into it and where he’s tried to sand the edges to smooth them. The lip of the spoon is, as Bill stated, too shallow for much use, but the handle is intricate and suggests it’s purely a decorative piece. The wood winds into itself, plaiting itself awkwardly up to the head of a stag. You walk it back to camp carefully, keeping it out of sight in the fold of your shirt. Finding a quiet space near the first aid cart, you study it closer. The handle is not carved with plaits as first surmised, but a feather. The detail is exquisite. It fans out near the top, like a peacock feather, but instead of the target or eye, it blossoms with the angular snout of a stag, it’s antlers stretching up above.

Arthur couldn’t have finished this today. You think back and realise you have seen him asking Sean to teach him to whittle, asking Hosea how best to carve details. No wonder he snapped at Bill - the time he must have spent on this… and for it to be made from a singular piece of wood with no mistakes...

In your lapse of attention, Hosea has crept up on you.

“You found it then?”

“I suppose so.” You straighten up and hold it out for him to examine in the light. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Arthur has never done anything by halves.” He chuckles and presses it back into his hands. “D’you know, when we first met him, he had something like this in his pocket. Said his grandmother had given it to his mother as a gift on her engagement. Something like a love spoon? It’s some sort of British tradition, I think. His was lost after the stables we were sleeping in caught fire. Lost a few possessions to that fire, sleeping bags included, but that was one of the few things that couldn’t be replaced.”

You murmur a few words of wonder and Hosea shrugs. “I’ve never found much on it in the way of literature about them. I’ve tried asking John, Sean, Molly, Mac, Davey... and many other Brits we’ve picked up along the way, but no one seems familiar with it. It’s like it lived and died with his family.”

You leave him to his musings and carefully carry the spoon back to your tent. Taking some cotton from a torn shirt (damn Night folk and their knives) you wrap it gently and leave it on the cabinet at his bedside to find later.

You don't hear him return that night. You wake from a dreamless sleep, thinking of the day ahead as you pour yourself some coffee and look out across the horizon. With a twist of your heart, you recognise the silhouette on the same log as yesterday, and hesitantly make your way over.

"Morning."

Arthur looks up at you and gives you a small smile. "Morning."

You sit down besides him and together you rest in comfortable silence. Eventually Arthur holds out the remains of your shirt and you accept it with a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Thanks for… for finding it for me." He moves the spoon between his hands, turning it over, embarrassed. "It's stupid, I know."

"I don't think it's stupid." The morning light has made his pupils retract enough for you to see the essence of green in his irises. "It's a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I've never seen anything like it."

"Nah, the one my mother had was better."

"Hosea told me about that." You slide your hand out to close the gap between you. "Said you lost it in a fire?"

He sighs heavily. "Yeah." His lips thin as he thinks hard. You give him the space, finishing the last of your coffee which is a little better than yesterday’s. Eventually he takes a deep breath and turns to you, his eyes scouring your face for any signs of repulsion or amusement at his expense. You mirror him, keeping your face as neutral as you can.

“My… my taid - or my grandfather - gave one of these to my nain. It’s… it’s a traditional gift we used to give to each other as a token of appreciation. My grandfather gave it to my grandmother when they got engaged, and she gave it to my mother before they came to America.”

You nod slowly. “Was it a cultural thing?”

“Yeah. We didn’t have a lot of money, so this was something you could make to show… well show how much you cared, I guess.”

He holds the elegant utensil out to you, a blush creeping over his cheeks.

“I had a look at it last night. It’s beautiful, Arthur. The detail… it must have taken you weeks to carve.”

“About two months in total.” He rubs the back of his neck with a grimace. “It took me a few tries to get it right.”

“The care you’ve put into it… It’s really something.”

“I, err, made it for you.”

You manage to catch your jaw before it hits your lap, but the colour is already flooding your face without abandon. “Are you sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure. Unless you don’t want it? It’s stupid, I know-”

“But- why? Why me?” You let your fingertips trace the grooves of the feather and slide over the smooth antlers. “Don’t you want to keep it?”

“I made it for you,” he repeats, his bottom lip disappearing as he chews it. “It won’t be any good for eatin’ with, but-”

“Neither are your sketches, but that doesn’t mean they lack value.” A laugh escapes you as you reach out and squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Arthur. This is… wow!”

He peaks out from under his hat, a smile pulling at his lips at your reaction. “You mean a lot to me. It’s the least I could do.”

You’re leaning forward unconsciously, like he is the centre of gravity. Your heart thuds as you realise he’s also teetering towards you.

“A thank you would have sufficed!”

He scoffs, his gaze softening. “You know what I mean.”

It’s not what you think it means.

His breathing is unsteady as it brushes your face. You can feel the warmth of his hand gliding up your back as he closes the gap and gently presses a chaste kiss against your lips.

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the starts apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 4 OF 22

She is… persistent.

The kind of persistent that would be inspiring if the persistence wasn’t pointed in his direction. Theo isn’t anti-social—he’s not the kind of person who would purposefully avoid conversation or hide from people, because he knows that, especially with his major, building networks is a thing. 

But she’s different, because it’s not like she’s doing it for any sort of plus or gain on her end—at least in Theo’s mind—so he doesn’t quite understand why she’s like this.

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Why’d you decide to work at Dragon’s Hoard?”

“What’s it like being a business major?”

She asks just a handful of questions in a day, as if not to scare him off. But she makes the most out of his patience. She sits there, the book he’s lent her in her hand, a finger stuck between the pages to mark where she was last at. She gives an answer for every question she gives, as

“Me? Man, I wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite book…”

“I really like Japanese food, actually, but…”

“Hmm, I’m thinking of getting a part-time too, so…”

“It’s prettier on paper. Everything is prettier on paper in the lit department…”

Something about her persistence reminds him of Vincent, in a mirrored way that he can’t quite put into words. She and Vincent both have something thrumming in their veins that pushes them forward. It’s something he doesn’t understand, because it’s never been like that for him.

So one day, he finally asks:

“Why me?”

“What?”

Theo asks it out of nowhere, and she looks up at him curiously from between the pages of Ocean Vuong.

“What do you mean, why you?”

“It is what it is.”

“Okay, mister vague-posting,” she rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a smile on her face. “I don’t know, really. You’re interesting, I guess.”

It’s not the eloquent answer he expected out of her, but he’s a little relieved it’s not anything more complex. He doesn’t know what he would done with that sort of information. “Glad to have been entertaining, then.”

 “What do you think of yourself, a shiny thing?” she says, laughing. “You’re just more than you show yourself to be, and that’s the fun part. I just might see through you, Theo.”

“You do not.”

“I do! You’re all barbs but Vincent calls you the sweetest thing and that’s all I need to know. Maybe I can even guess your favorite color.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Is it yellow?”

Theo didn’t have a favorite color. And even if he did, yellow might not be that high up on the list of contenders. But in that moment, he considers it: yellow, the color of Vincent’s hair, yellow, the rye fields of their home town, yellow, the color of childhood summers and painting in the backyard, yellow, the colors on their bedroom wall.

Maybe this silly girl was right. Maybe yellow could be his favorite.

“Lucky guess, hondje,” he says, instead, watching the sun blossom, bright yellow, on her face.

--

“You’re trying to justify a friendship with a guy who called you a dog?” he asks, tucking beautifully-tinted violet hair behind his ear. “You deserve better, Toshiko-san.”

It’s late afternoon, and she’s sitting in the gazebo near the Arts Building, the small, undignified hangout spot of the school’s already tiny literary club. Her friend and senior, Dazai, sits across from her on the table with his glasses on, squinting at her in confusion.

Dazai graduated a bit back, being two years older than her, but he’s still studying under the department.  For some reason or another that she could not comprehend, he decided to take his MA in Japanese Literature here as well. One shared intensive writing workshop class with him has made them good friends.

“Called? No, present tense. He calls me a dog,” she corrects, shaking her head as she finally lifts her head up from the book she is highlighting. “I mean, he uses my name… sometimes… rarely… okay nearly never, but somehow he’s figured out calling me his puppy in Dutch is a good nickname.”

Dazai shakes his head. “Sounds like a fuckboy,” he comments, readjusting his glasses into place, as he flips his readings back to the right page. “Steer clear unless he has a huge cock, I guess?”

“Shut up, oh my god!” she exclaims, rushing over to cover his mouth with her hands. “No way, no way. He’s a business major, and I don’t want to be in a relationship with a business major of all things. Besides, there’s a better option than him in the same house. Does arts too.”

“Oh? Pray tell, who might it be?”

“His brother,” she whispers, conspiratorially, “is Vincent.”

Dazai blinks. There is a moment of silence before he can compose himself. “No way. Van Gogh? He has a brother? He’s still here?”

“Yes, him, the ‘genius of the College of Arts’, he ‘who haunts the hallways of the Fine Arts Department’, the professors’ favorite ‘artistic genius’,” she rattles off, having memorized the rumors with how many times she’s heard it. “The only reason I know he’s still here is because it would have been huge news if he actually graduated.”

“Seven years in the shitty College of Arts? He’s some sort of masochist for sure,” he comments. She poses no comment to the fact that Dazai took his undergraduate studies here, too, and now he’s also doing his masters… here, too. “But you’re telling me the guy at Dragon’s Hoard is his brother? His brother is a business major?”

“Look, I know, I was surprised too,” she says. “I was already shocked enough that he was the friendly barista at the café when you told me… but to know they’re related? They’re like ice and fire.”

“Exact opposites, huh?”

“Either way, that’s the story of how I got into some sort of mini modeling gig and into a friendship that I did not expect or want,” she says, finally finishing her story, with a wave of her hand like a conductor at the end of a piece.. “I’m trying to make the most out of it, though.”

Dazai nods, but his face is full of disbelief. “Yes, by sticking around a guy who calls you a dog in his free time.”

“No nickname will stand between me and getting people to read some good old poetry.”

“That’s not the point, Toshiko-san, but if that’s what makes you happy.”

For a moment, the two of them return to their studies. She, turning back to the book she’s highlighting and annotating for a class tomorrow. Him, going back to his readings for tonight’s class. The College of Arts’ literary club used to be open to everyone, but after dwindling membership, it became one that was limited to the Department of Literature’s students—or, rather, all of the students are immediately made part of it, and could hang out at their said sad, lonely gazebo if they want. That didn’t make it any more popular, though, so she’s made it her and her friend’s little nook for studying when she’s not in the library.

“Say, what made Vincent a legend in the College of Arts?” she suddenly asks, just as she reached the end of a page. Dazai hums, finishing a passage he’s reading before looking up.

“Isn’t it because of his style?” Dazai answers, though hesitantly. “I’m sure the painting hanging in the Dean’s room is his.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that too, but…” she pauses, thinking of Vincent in his studio room, planning his paintings, the corkboard, and the canvases. “Why didn’t he just…get it over with? Why hasn’t he graduated? I’m sure there’s some sort of—apprenticeship or studio that’ll take someone like him when he paints like that. Maybe they’ll give him an allowance too. And with the number of recommendations that he can get from the professors?”

With a hum, Dazai offers: “Maybe you can ask his brother.”

They make a face at each other, laugh, and get back to studying.

--

Dazai’s class starts at five in the afternoon, running up until seven p.m., and while there are days that she waits out for him at the gazebo for dinner, tonight was a special day. The Office of Student Relations has meetings on Tuesday mornings; and while they do post their announcements online the next day, the fastest way to get the news from them is to check the bulletin board outside their office at six p.m., which is when they post. Sitting on a bench right outside the office, she waits for the assistant or secretary to post what she’s waiting for and—

There he is!

“Hello,” she greets, standing up from her seat and walking toward the bulletin board. The secretary smiles and greets her back, tacking the notice to the board.

“Waiting on the requirements?”

“Sure am,” she answers, wringing her hands behind her. “Been very anxious.”

“Well, here they are. Best of luck.”

“Thank you!”

The secretary takes his leave shortly after that, returning back through the large wooden doors of the antiquated office. She left behind, stands in front of the bulletin board with her eyes closed, and takes a deep breath.

This is it. The requirements for her dreams, right in front of her.

She opens her eyes and takes out a flyer from the small pocket that the secretary had pinned onto the board. A flyer detailing the requirements for the one-year, international scholarship program of the Office of Student Relations.

A long, laundry-list of requirements, from filling in forms, requesting official paperwork like transcripts and recommendation letters, submitting portfolios, and passing a certain number of assessment interviews.

“I can’t afford to get distracted,” she says, to no one in particular, as if saying it out loud will make it real, will help it come true much easier than it actually will take. This is what he was all supposed to be—a small, pleasant motivation, a distraction for when idle, but not one that will stop her from what she originally intended to do.

This.

To go away.

But…

She tucks the flyer in between notebooks, thinking quietly to herself, But those are only books, so it can’t be that bad—can it?

[tillman]

hello, i feel like you’re the person to ask to; where would you recommend starting to someone who wants to get into arthurian literature? which authors/books would you recommend reading first? PS: i love your blog

432toit- thank u !! and oh boy gotta love this question. it depends entirely on like... what youre interested in so its hard to make like general sweeping statements on what the best texts to get into are BUT from my own personal experience uhmmm heres some good ones i think :-)

honestly i think the dutch texts are some of the best intro pieces there are. specifically the stuff from the lancelot comp, but they have a nice little microcosm of everything, are short, and very good :-) id say moriaen and lancelot and the hart with the white foot are the BEST to start with, though moriaen is VERY archaic english so dont feel bad about skipping it to come back to later or not at all! 

uhhh ok from there i think the best way to make it less daunting is to pick a single knight and then find as many texts as u can about them until you get distracted by some other text/some other knight/ect. if you dont really know where to start or who to really pick id say try out le morte d’arthur by thomas malory. if its not your speed feel free to skip it. i have an abridged version here which makes it sooo much easier to read like its just better in every way . read that version.

and uhhh from there yea id say go with the picking one knight to focus on.

gawain in particular has a lot to dig through from sir gawain and the green knight, to a lot of dutch stories including the roman van walewain which. is just a damn good text, to de ortu which is his childhood in rome, to like 50 fucking romances of him chopping off heads homoerotically (Gawain and the Turk is the best one, thats the hot take). 

lancelot also has a fair number of texts including the entire Vulgate cycle which is maybe my favorite medieval text, Lanzelet (which i am a fan of can u tell) a german tale in which he accidently marries a bunch of ladies, and like. lancelot and the hart with the white foot <3 which ive mentioned before but i just adore <3

id say tristan but then id get into a tristania rant which is a not a rant we need right now but check out shit like the Povest’ o Tryshchane, tristrant id argue can fit more into arthuriana than tristania though thats prolly problematic, le menestrel or als monch are also good as FUCK

other than that there are good like.... what do i call them. compilation texts? i dont know. stories focused more on over arching ideas rather than specific knights. The stanziac morte arthur is particularly amazing, and with that the alliterative morte arthure is sooo good. ive heard the mabinogion is good but havent read it yet, thats more on the welsh side and i stick to more... romances LOL, also ohh this isnt medieval lit but Idylls of the king by lord tennyson is just sooo good. 

anwyays i did just wake up so my brain is a little scrambled and i prolly forgot a bit of stuff not related to tristan and isolde but i hope this helps even a little! feel free to ask for specific links to texts or more texts focused on certain characters ij ust kinda did a quick overview of stuff i could think of off the top of my head :-) <3 

[hello-robin-goodfellow]

MOACYR  SCLIAR

@lioness--hart​ @princesssarisa​ @amalthea9​ @johnnyclash87​ @superkingofpriderock​

Moacyr Jaime Scliar (March 23, 1937 – February 27, 2011) was a brazilian writer and physician. Most of his writing centers on issues of Jewish identity in the Diaspora and particularly on being Jewish in Brazil.

Scliar was born in Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, into a Jewish family that immigrated to Brazil from Bessarabia in 1919. He graduated in medicine in 1962, majoring in public health. He first worked at the Jewish Hospital for the Elderly in Porto Alegre, and later worked in the public health field in tuberculosis prevention and treatment. 

A prolific writer, Scliar published over 100 books in Portuguese, covering various literary genres: short stories; novels; young adult fiction; children's books; and essays.

In 1962, his first book Stories of a Doctor in Training was published, although later on he regretted having published it so young. His second book The Carnival of the Animals was published in 1968.

In a recent autobiographical piece, Scliar discusses his membership of the Jewish, medical, Gaucho, and Brazilian tribes. His novel The Centaur in the Garden was included among the 100 Greatest Works of Modern Jewish Literature by The National Yiddish Book Center. In an interview with Judith Bolton-Fasman published in The Jewish Reader, August 2003, Scliar commented on his use of the centaur as a metaphor: "The centaur is a symbol of the double identity, characteristic of Jews in a country like Brazil. At home, you speak Yiddish, eat gefilte fish, and celebrate Shabbat. But in the streets, you have soccer, samba, and Portuguese. After a while you feel like a centaur."

Scliar's fiction has been translated into English, Dutch, French, Swedish, German, Spanish, Italian, Hebrew, Czech, Serbian, Georgian, Slovene and Danish.

WORKS IN ENGLISH

BOOKS

The Centaur in the Garden, Translator: Margaret A. Neves

The Gods of Raquel, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The One-Man Army, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Carnival of the Animals, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Ballad of the False Messiah, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Strange Nation of Rafael Mendes, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Volunteers, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Enigmatic Eye, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

Max and the Cats , Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The Collected Stories of Moacyr Scliar, Translator: Eloah F. Giacomelli

The War in Bom Fim, Translator: David William Foster

Kafka's Leopards, Translator Thomas O. Beebee

SHORT STORIES IN ANTHOLOGIES

Inside My Dirty Head - The Holocaust, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in TROPICAL SYNAGOGUES: SHORT STORIES BY JEWISH LATIN AMERICAN WRITERS, editor Ilan Stavans

The Plagues, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in A HAMMOCK BENEATH THE MANGOES - STORIES FROM LATIN AMERICA, editor Thomas Colchie

Van Gogh's Ear, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in THE VINTAGE BOOK OF LATIN AMERICAN STORIES, editors Carlos Fuentes and Julio Ortega

The Prophets of Benjamin Bok, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in WITH SIGNS AND WONDER: AN INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF JEWISH FABULIST FICTION, editor Daniel M. Jaffe

The Ballad of the False Messiah, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in THE OXFORD BOOK OF JEWISH STORIES, editor Ilan Stavans

The Cow ; The Last Poor Man, translator Eloah F. Giacomelli, in THE OXFORD ANTHOLOGY OF THE BRAZILIAN SHORT STORY, editor K. David Jackson

MAX AND THE CATS 

Scliar is best known outside Brazil for his 1981 novel Max and the Cats (Max e os Felinos), the story of a young German man who flees Berlin after he comes to the attention of the Nazis for having had an affair with a married woman. En route to Brazil, his ship sinks, and he finds himself alone in a dinghy with a jaguar who had been travelling in the hold.

The novel came to widespread public attention in 2002 when Canadian writer Yann Martel won the Man Booker Prize for Life of Pi. Martel's novel is about a boy, Pi, who finds himself trapped on a boat with a tiger after the ship he and his family are sailing on sinks. The family were zookeepers, and the animals they were transporting in the hold sink with the rest of the ship, except for a tiger and some others who make it onto the lifeboat with Pi. In Life of Pi's acknowledgments, Martel thanked Scliar for "the spark of life," but later said he had not read Scliar's novel, only a review of it.

SOURCE: https://en.wikipedia.org/

[rockislandadultreads]

LGTBQ+ Fiction: reading recommendations

The House of Impossible Beauties by Joseph Cassara

It’s 1980 in New York City, and nowhere is the city’s glamour and energy better reflected than in the burgeoning Harlem ball scene, where seventeen-year-old Angel first comes into her own. Burned by her traumatic past, Angel is new to the drag world, new to ball culture, and has a yearning inside of her to help create family for those without. When she falls in love with Hector, a beautiful young man who dreams of becoming a professional dancer, the two decide to form the House of Xtravaganza, the first-ever all-Latino house in the Harlem ball circuit. But when Hector dies of AIDS-related complications, Angel must bear the responsibility of tending to their house alone. As the mother of the house, Angel recruits Venus, a whip-fast trans girl who dreams of finding a rich man to take care of her; Juanito, a quiet boy who loves fabrics and design; and Daniel, a butch queen who accidentally saves Venus’s life. The Xtravaganzas must learn to navigate sex work, addiction, and persistent abuse, leaning on each other as bulwarks against a world that resists them. All are ambitious, resilient, and determined to control their own fates, even as they hurtle toward devastating consequences. Told in a voice that brims with wit, rage, tenderness, and fierce yearning, The House of Impossible Beauties is a tragic story of love, family, and the dynamism of the human spirit.

Going Dutch by James Gregor

Exhausted by dead-end forays in the gay dating scene, surrounded constantly by friends but deeply lonely in New York City, and drifting into academic abyss, twenty-something graduate student Richard has plenty of sources of anxiety. But at the forefront is his crippling writer’s block, which threatens daily to derail his graduate funding and leave Richard poor, directionless, and desperately single. Enter Anne: his brilliant classmate who offers to “help” Richard write his papers in exchange for his company, despite Richard’s fairly obvious sexual orientation. Still, he needs her help, and it doesn’t hurt that Anne has folded Richard into her abundant lifestyle. What begins as an initially transactional relationship blooms gradually into something more complex. But then a one-swipe-stand with an attractive, successful lawyer named Blake becomes serious, and Richard suddenly finds himself unable to detach from Anne, entangled in her web of privilege, brilliance, and, oddly, her unabashed acceptance of Richard’s flaws. As the two relationships reach points of serious commitment, Richard soon finds himself on a romantic and existential collision course—one that brings about surprising revelations. Going Dutch is an incisive portrait of relationships in an age of digital romantic abundance, but it’s also a heartfelt and humorous exploration of love and sexuality, and a poignant meditation on the things emotionally ravenous people seek from and do to each other. James Gregor announces himself with levity, and a fresh, exciting voice in his debut.

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai

A dazzling new novel of friendship and redemption in the face of tragedy and loss set in 1980s Chicago and contemporary Paris In 1985, Yale Tishman, the development director for an art gallery in Chicago, is about to pull off an amazing coup, bringing in an extraordinary collection of 1920s paintings as a gift to the gallery. Yet as his career begins to flourish, the carnage of the AIDS epidemic grows around him. One by one, his friends are dying and after his friend Nico's funeral, the virus circles closer and closer to Yale himself. Soon the only person he has left is Fiona, Nico's little sister. Thirty years later, Fiona is in Paris tracking down her estranged daughter who disappeared into a cult. While staying with an old friend, a famous photographer who documented the Chicago crisis, she finds herself finally grappling with the devastating ways AIDS affected her life and her relationship with her daughter. The two intertwining stories take us through the heartbreak of the eighties and the chaos of the modern world, as both Yale and Fiona struggle to find goodness in the midst of disaster. The Great Believers has become a critically acclaimed, indelible piece of literature; it was selected as one of New York Times Best 10 Books of the Year, a Washington Post Notable Book, a Buzzfeed Book of the Year, a Skimm Reads pick, and a pick for the New York Public Library's Best Books of the year.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer

PROBLEM: You are a failed novelist about to turn fifty. A wedding invitation arrives in the mail: your boyfriend of the past nine years now engaged to someone else. You can’t say yes--it would all be too awkward--and you can’t say no--it would look like defeat. On your desk are a series of half-baked literary invitations you’ve received from around the world. QUESTION: How do you arrange to skip town? ANSWER: You accept them all. If you are Arthur Less. Thus begins an around-the-world-in-eighty-days fantasia that will take Arthur Less to Mexico, Italy, Germany, Morocco, India and Japan and put thousands of miles between him and the problems he refuses to face. What could possibly go wrong? Well: Arthur will almost fall in love in Paris, almost fall to his death in Berlin, barely escape to a Moroccan ski chalet from a Sahara sandstorm, accidentally book himself as the (only) writer-in-residence at a Christian Retreat Center in Southern India, and arrive in Japan too late for the cherry blossoms. In between: science fiction fans, crazed academics, emergency rooms, starlets, doctors, exes and, on a desert island in the Arabian Sea, the last person on Earth he wants to see. Somewhere in there: he will turn fifty. The second phase of life, as he thinks of it, falling behind him like the second phase of a rocket. There will be his first love. And there will be his last. A love story, a satire of the American abroad, a rumination on time and the human heart, by an author The New York Times has hailed as “inspired, lyrical,” “elegiac,” “ingenious,” as well as “too sappy by half,” Less shows a writer at the peak of his talents raising the curtain on our shared human comedy.

[deans-mind-palace]

Nähkästchenplauderei

For those who didn’t know, that’s German. Normally it would be “aus dem Nähkästchen plaudern” which literally translates to “to talk out of the sewing box”. It’s a common phrase in Germany. Means something like “to spill some beans” or “to catch up on all the gossip”or “to share private information”.

Reason why I’m telling you this?

It’s me, Elena. This is a new part of my blog now. I want to involve all of you more in my daily writing and and the related funny stories, problems or ideas and inspirations. Maybe that’s interesting for you. Maybe it’s just a therapeutic exercise for me, when I’m (not) in the mood to write. Not sure yet. xD

I’ll call it “Nähkästchenplauderei” because I talk about me and writing fanfic but not really about their content. I’ll give you some insider stories about the fanfics I wrote/will write. Funny things. What happened to me during writing it, what gave me inspiration and how I do my research or what is important to me about a certain story and why I’m writing it. The daily life (cough *and struggle* cough) of a writer. If you’re not interested in these pieces of information, then you’ll see just the heading and you’ll know ‘Aaaah, that’s not a story I can read so that’s not interesting for me’. So it’s easier for you to skip. But I thought this could be interesting for you. I want to get to know you more and you can always laugh with me or smack your forehead because of my craziness. This could be fun and I am encouraging you to discuss themes or to tell me your opinion or own experiences. Of course, I hope that many of you take part. ❤️

I’ll tag you all only in this part, afterwards you can tell me, if you want to be notified. If you don’t drop a comment, I’ll automatically take you off my taglist for “Nähkästchenplauderei”. I don’t know how many parts this will have. I’ll write one every time I’m in the mood for it.

*oOo*

Nähkästchenplauderei - A blog about my blog. 

A new passion - Or the story of me buying a guitar on Amazon at 1am

I always do a lot of research for my stories. I know some authors hate it, but I love doing research. It’s like playing detective and investigating while educating myself further. I always do Pinterest boards (I can share them with you, if you want) for my series because looking at the pictures and the links inspires me during writing. The ‘Simple Man Series’ is Set in an alternative universe where Jensen is a Country singer. I had no idea about country music, to be honest. I got all my knowledge about it from watching ‘Walk the line’ but that’s it. Obviously, I needed to do research! I created a Spotify playlist for the series (which I will link as soon as it’s uploaded).

When I wrote Suspirium or collected pictures for my Pinterest boards I always listened to it. Somehow I fell in love with this kind of music. I never played an instrument because I didn’t have the patience. I played to flute in fifth grade, because it was part of the Music class. We even got grades for playing it. Let me tell you, it was a disaster! Always got Ds. Although I got an A one time. Every time I practiced the flute, my dog started to howl. You see, it really was  awful. I believe that’s why I lost the interest in playing an instrument. I still went to the choir, though, because I loved singing (still do). I always said, if I had the patience I’d love to learn the piano or the guitar, because these are basic instruments and you can play everything on them.

Guess what? I sat there and was writing Suspirium when an idea started to from in my head. There are dozens of Corona online lessons for the guitar, beginner models of guitars aren’t that expensive and you can still sell them or use them as decoration. Normally, I overthink everything. I need ages to make an decision, normally weeks or months till I lost the interest. So I did my research. Which model? Acoustic, western or concert? Which size? Guitar scale? How do I identify a quality product? Best YouTube channels? Best apps?

Found a black one and I immediately fell in love with it. And guess what? It’ll arrive by tomorrow afternoon! :D I really did it and I’m a bit proud of myself for not overthinking it! I’m looking forward to learning every song of artists I love. Adele, Pink, Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Linkin Park, Train, Oasis, James Arthur, Tom Walker, Lewis Capaldi, James Blunt, Bruno Mars, Coldplay, Shawn Mendes, John Legend, Common Linnets, Lumineers and thousands more. Of course, some of my new Country faves, too. 

My first song will either be ‘Simple Man’ because the story was inspired by it and it was the first song that I’ve heard Jensen sing or ‘Hey there Delilah’ because I love that one right now. It’s my current catchy tune.

These will be followed by ‘The One that got away’ by Pink and ‘Bonfire heart’ by James Blunt. If these four aren’t too difficult, of course... I’ll keep you updated. :D

*oOo*

The story behind Suspirium - Or as I like to call it, the story of reviving a more than dead language.

I have that idea since I’ve started this blog some time ago. I wasn’t sure if I should make it a Dean, Sam or Cas story, so I brought my arguments up and you could decide which professor you want, remember? As soon as you chose Sam, I knew that he would be a Latin Prof. That’s based on the canon in the series and my preferences. Sam is the best in Latin in the entire series. And I am able to read, translate AND EVEN SPEAK Latin, so it’s something I can relate to. A great subject, although I know that the opinions on Latin are different. 

I can speak five languages (German - my mother tongue, English, Spanish, Dutch and Latin, I’d like to learn French soon) and I personally think Latin’s a beautiful language. Of course, it doesn’t sound as beautiful and elegant as French (although French has its origin in Latin). But a language is a lot more than the emphasis. In one of the first chaps of Suspirium Sam and Reader discuss the beauty of Latin.

“Latin is the language of law, architecture and engineering, the military, science, philosophy, religion and - of particular interest here - the language of a flourishing literature which for centuries served as a model for all Western literature. The Latin of literature speaks of love and war in hundreds of masterpieces, reflects on the body and soul, develops theories about the meaning of life and the tasks of man, about the fate of the soul and the nature of matter, sings of the beauty of nature, the meaning of friendship, the pain of losing all that is dear to one; and it criticizes depravity, ponders death, the arbitrariness of power, violence and cruelty. It creates inner images, puts emotions into words, formulates ideas about the world and social life. Latin is the language of the relationship between the one and everything.” Suspirium, Chapter 3

Roman poets are more than two millennia dead, BUT the themes they wrote about (Love, pain, friendship and braveness, also sex...) are still actual in our society. They stood the test of time. A language where no ‘thank you’ exists, just a ‘to be thankful’. This language is mysterious, its culture unbelievable nowadays. It’s like an enigma that wants to be solved - or not, depends on you and if you learn your vocabulary. Trust me, I had to learn that the hard way in seventh grade. ;) 

Sam is basically my old Latin teacher. He uses the same methods and tells the same things. He makes jokes, adds additional information and makes his students question the meaning behind the poems and stories.  Sometimes I even used words my teacher said to us. I looked up some of my Latin notes and use that for the lectures. It’s a lot of fun and that’s where I get my inspiration from. A big thank you to my teacher. This story would not work out without him always encouraging me and explaining everything to me, even if he had to do it three times. Gratiam habeo, magister. :D

Questions for you, only if you want to:

 Do you play an instrument? Which or would you like to play one?

What’ your favourite genre and who’s your favourite artist and which song?

How many languages do you speak? Which? Which would you like to speak (in addition)? 

Wanna tell me your name and origin? 

-> Next post will probably be about how I make my covers, choose GIFs, find inspiration on Pinterest and Spotify and my first friendship ever on Tumblr some years ago. And how I got in touch with SPN.

Tags beneath cut:

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