#its sort of up in the air about whether they were always the same person or not and i love that part too

[girlbob-boypants]

Radagon/Marika's presentation in trailers, announcements, and cinematics is so fucking good btw. The concept of a god/goddess duo who occupy the same body, the same space to the point where they change appearance every time you look away and look back is just incredible.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Real Life – Chapter 2: The First Date

I AM VERY VERY RUSTY AND THIS IS MESS BUT WE GOTTA START SOMEWHERE.

Read chapter 1 here

See character list here

more tidbits under the tag #real life fic or #matty x claire

Matty’s bloodshot eyes caught his own reflection in the glass display of the store in front of him. He turned around to face away from it, recoiling from the truth of his appearance. The silence in the air was deafening. It pained him to walk around his old haunts and see “for sale” signs where booming businesses once existed. Luckily, the pounding headache brought on by his hangover prevented him from dwelling too long on the grim reality. He flinched when he felt a drop of water against his neck, slapping it, annoyed. Moments later, he felt another drop, this time straight to his head. 

“Fucks sakes.” He glanced up, realizing that rainfall was imminent. The news of rain wasn’t as bad as its consequence: he now had to face the choice that he’d been putting off all afternoon. He needed to decide whether to go home, or to find a place to kill a few more hours in; a cafe perhaps, or someplace to at least buy an umbrella. 

Groaning, he lifted the collar of his jacket to shelter under it and rushed into the first open business that he could spot out of the corner of his eye.

“Good afternoon, hello!” A young person, with bright blue hair and a nose piercing greeted Matty from behind the register. Their name tag read “Shay.”  He was at a bookstore.

Matty nodded, awkwardly, giving Shay an obligatory wave as he stumbled his way in. 

“Can I help you find anything?” Shay asked. 

“Erm….this is quite….is it offensive to come into a bookstore and ask for non-book related items?” He shrugged "feels sort of...offensive."

“Pardon?”

“Looking for an umbrella.” Matty cleared his throat. “If….that’s alright.”

“Oh! Not a problem. Our merchandise is right over there.”

Shay had pointed him in the right direction, but Matty had already gotten distracted by a clever book title and wandered off. 

“No, sir! To your left." there was no use in calling after him, he’d already trailed off, gravitating towards a sign by the stairs, and, eventually, descending the stairs into the special events area.

Shay dreaded having to let him walk right into an author's reading.

***

A woman stood behind a lectern, looking down at the book in front of her, reading aloud. 

The next time he sees her is the last time. She’s standing across the room with a bunch of important men in suits, a lipstick-stained cigarette between her fingers. He can't help but notice how the men hang on her every word. He thinks about going up to her but chooses not to. Maybe if he'd chosen differently that night, his final memory of her could've been different. Maybe he would've remembered a different woman than the one who had flashed into his mind upon reading of her death, but for better or for worse, he blinks, and she's gone.

"Thank you," Claire smiled, graceful, at her captive audience.

Matty recognized her smile as the same one she gave her audience that night at the charity event, right after her speech, moments before she'd disappeared into the ether. Quietly, he found a seat in the back row of the packed room and shuffled into it.

"That was...wow." the host, a critic of some sort, whose name Matty had clocked on the sign upstairs but had already forgotten, motioned, breathlessly, for Claire to come back to her seat. "Thank you for sharing that with us....So, I'm glad you chose to read the ending because it has sparked quite the conversation among readers." The host glanced at her notes, "I wanted to ask you, did you always know you were going to end the book this way?"

****

Matty could see her more clearly now that attendees began to empty their seats and form a line for the signing. I remained in his chair, watching her, wondering if he should go up to her. What would he even say? 'hi, remember me? you invited me to your event and i as rude to you.'

He walked around the edges of the room, scanning the shelves, absorbing the conversations around him, and eying her book. He picked up, leafing through it, and eventually settling into a corner to read.

When he finally looked up from the book again, the crowd had mostly thinned out. It was still raining outside and he was still without an umbrella. across the room, he saw Claire leave the signing table.

“Claire!” Jazmyn squeezed her elbow to get her attention, pulling her towards a woman with a press badge. “This is Raven Burner.”  Jazmyn offered a preemptively apologetic smile. "Raven, this is Claire."

“Hi! I’m with People Magazine. I was wondering if you had time for just a few quick questions? Big fan of your-“

“People Magazine?!” Claire’s voice revealed a little too much of her feelings towards the publication. She hadn’t intended to be so rude, but she knew that they were after more than just her writing process, or details about her next project. Her eyes darted around the room in avoidance, looking for an escape plan. Among the sea of faces, stacks of books, her eyes locked on someone else’s. Big, brown eyes, that pierced through her. 

Matty stepped forward. “Erm, Claire? S-sorry to interrupt but…our reservations.”

“Reservations?” she echoed him faintly.

Jazmyn eyed them, suspiciously. 

“Yes!” Matty insisted. “For our date. That we’re going on. right now.” He made a show of checking the time. “We really should get going. If we don’t want to be late. I know how much you love their dessert.”

“Oh.” Claire sighed, “oh! Right! Yes, of- of course. Our- date.”

He offered her his arm and she accepted. “Excuse us. Thanks.”

***

"Thank you." Claire unhooked her arm from his once they were outside. "You didn't have to do that."

Matty smiled, "felt like I owed it to you." he unwrapped his brand new umbrella. "I'm-"

"Matt Healy, I know."

His brows scrunched.

"Or, as I like to call you, Robin Hood."

Matty rolled his eyes. "You remember me then?"

"Rich guy who hates rich people. I tend to remember people who talk shit about me at my own events." she giggled

"It's Matty, by the way, if we're being accurate." He opened the umbrella. "And, I'm sorry about the Robin Hood thing. I...had no idea who you were, and....I tried to find you after the- umm...anyway, I'm sorry."

"Relax, you look like you're gonna sweat through your coat. I'm just messing. It's all good. I have buckets of money what do I care, right?" The blank expression on his face made her laugh harder. "oh, unclench your ass, it's just a joke."

She inched closer to shelter under his umbrella as they stood on the sidewalk. He lit a cigarette and she asked to bum one off him. She was a firm believer that cigs tasted better in the rain somehow.

“It’s quite good.” Matty said as he squashed the end of his cigarette on the concrete. “Your book, I mean. I’m only a few pages in, but I like it so far. 

“You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised….just….” 

She made him nervous and he hated it.

She crossed her arms over her chest, the cold beginning to get to her. "Anyway, thanks for the cig. Oh, and, thanks for umm...." she nodded in the direction of the bookstore. "these vultures, they won't stop prying about my...." she seemed to get lost in her thoughts as she watched the journalists, inside, surround her publicist. She snapped out of it, turning her attention back to Matty. "Anyway, nice to see you again, Matty."

"Erm...no, wait!" he blurted out as she turned to walk away. "Our date! we have reservations"

she furrowed. "They're not real. I thought...."

"They can be. I know a place not too far from here. You like Italian?"

[cherry-writes-stuff]

🍒 Cherry-sama 🍒 Can I request an scenario where Allen sees her crush naked accidentally, and both have a similar relationship like he and Kanda have, and her crush gets angry at him but he's like "I want to be the only man who sees you like that"? Not necessary dirty, more like something Fluffy. Thank you! 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

It was a mistake.

No, really — it was!

He was the devil incarnate (which, to be fair, he sort of was) who’s favorite past time was spying on naked women.

Your aim was increasingly in its accuracy, however, when a hard covered book almost poked his eye out. Allen snatched it from the air, brought it back against his chest. “ Will you stop?!”

“I don’t know, will I?!”

He found himself, once again, at a cross roads. He could stay here and fight with you, in your current, fumbling, half naked state, or he could get out and close the door behind him, and with it his feelings — because obviously this was never going to work, what, with you trying to squeeze his eyes out his skull with your bare hands and a flimsy towel you had scrumbled to snatch from your bed only a bit too late.

(don't think about bare anything!)

Just — leave his feelings at your door to gather dust. That would be easier than fighting with you everyday, as enjoyable as it was that sort of endearingly abysmal aspect of your relationship was about to give, any day now, and you would be remiss to remind him just how much you cared; dirt under your shoes and all that sweet talk Allen loved and sought after a hard mission.

He realized, very early on in your relationship, that this didn’t exactly painted a healthy picture of the two of you. Allen was Allen ( except when he was Nea, then Allen WASNT Allen) and you were you, each your own person with individual strengths and weaknesses.

He had learned all those weaknesses just as he had learned how to work his tongue between your legs.

All this shouting, all this atmospheric tenacity he could taste if he poked out his tongue — Allen felt it in the air, it made his blood boil, though less so than the clear image of the angry tears burning hot at the corner of your eyes as you scrambled to save your dignity.

Oh — there went your sword, flying past his head and missing an inch. Allen hoped that Nea was warm to the concept of a chunky haircut, perhaps some parts of his scalp too.

(You always fucked his hair up anyway, but sitting on the floor of your bathroom between your legs, your nimble and warm fingers in his hair as you demanded silence in favor of concentration — “don’t want to fuck you up,” you’d mumble and if Allen loved you a little less, he’d tell you, laugh at you, “too late, sweetness”, but he never did. Never did and probably never would. Speak of a wish outloud and it would be taken away.)

“What the hell is going on here — HEY!”

It was only out of thought for your dignity that he grabbed Levi just as the red headed bastard rounded the corner, no doubt attracted by all the rucus you two were causing in the dorms, and pushed him away from your door which you were now trying to close on Allen's face and unfortunate fingers with a newfound strenght.

He would've laughed if he found the prospect funny; someone other than him seeing you in your most vulnerable state, soaking up the sight of your naked skin, your trembling eyelashes or the redness beneath your eyes whenever you felt wronged or tormented — pain or pleasure. it was all the same.

Allen didn't stop to see whether Levi was alright or not, simply leaving him kocked on his ass, gaping up at him.

(He’s going to apologise later, he knows.)

You were spluttering too now, one hand raised and clutching a stuffed animal you'd taken from your bed (Allen knew, he had spent countless nights in the very same bed, sourounded by them becasue you refused to put thme on the floor, if not because you liked them too much, then because you wanted to annoy him to hell and back), ready to decimate him as you threw it at him, backing away as he slammed the door shut and locking it.

He started to advance towards you. "Sweetheart."

Your legs hit the edge of your bed and you yelled as you fell, towel and all, on top of the comforter. "You fiend, don't call me that!"

You made to scramble up but Allen was faster.

He climbed onto the bed after you, knees on either side of your hips as he straddled you and grabbed your wrists. Leaning down, he tagged those wretched, offending hands up up to his lips and kissed the inside of your wrists, feeling the pulse of your heart as it hammered away beneath your chest, warm and alive and pounding.

His clothes were getting wet fromt he water that clinged to the towel. Allen couldn't say he cared. You spluttered, probably cursing him to spend an eternity in hell when he died, as if his fate wasn't already forfeit to such fate.

His existence was cursed in its entirety and you, you were the only clean spot in it. Even if you hated it, you could never refute it.

You spat out curse after curse; you brute, you fiend, you damned man, (you knew him best, after all), you clown!

Allen laughed at the last one, laughed at the sour expression on your face after too — and promptly sank his teeth right above your pulse point on the inside of your wrist.

You were going to kick him in the solar plexus tomorrow during training, throw his ass down the stairs and try to wringle every essence of life out of his neck when you had the chance.

And he'd let you.

Allen let go of your hands, finally laying his body on top of yours. "Don't be angry with me," he said as he nuzzled his nose to your neck.

You sighed. "Why did you do that, you idiot. God knows what Levi will think now."

"I want to be the only man who sees you like that," Allen asnwered, unprompted, like a fucking freak, and laid his head on your chest, right on top of your heart.

You gripped his hair so tight that you could take a piece of his skull with it if you pulled. "Prepare yourself; I am going to stab you tomorrow."

"I know."

"I really mean it."

"Oh, I don't doubt you for a second."

Every scar Allen had gotten from you he treasured immensely. If it meant that you were around to give him more, take another inch of his skin, spill his blood, cut off a limb even — whatever it was that you wanted from him, he'd only be too glad to let you have it.

[sheepispink]

A Pearl (1/2)

based on the song by mitski because i love mitski and hot traumatised men

Summary: Years of horrific memories still weigh down on him even as he promises to let you help him move on. All you want to do is help, but its not enough.

Part 2 Masterlist

tags: Leon Kennedy/Reader, Hurt/No comfort, Angst, fem! reader, mentions of re4 (no specific spoilers dw guys), mentions of ptsd, heart wrenching angst 😘

other notes: for clarification, the timeline goes— after the raccoon city incident, then he goes on the re4 mission, then it’s like the smaller missions like damnation etc. Towards the end and next chapter it’s basically vendetta. But theres no actual spoilers bcus tbh.. i haven’t watched any of the movies except id 💀

Ch1: Before it Ended

Like a dream is how you’d always describe it. His coworkers, your friends —anyone who had heard of his name— would come up to you, fawning over your pretty looks and lovely personality. They’d ask you every time, “How did it happen?” And always, you’d replay that memory in your head.

“It was winter,” You’d begin by recounting the snow that fell upon your face that day, the breeze that bristled your bones, and the way his hair looked frozen in place. You’d remember the laughter that bubbled in your throat when you saw that and how his lips curved ever so slightly for what you believe was the first time. Some of the soft strands of your hair had itched your skin; It was messy from having been shaken from the depths of sleep, and now your fingers tuck the rogue locks behind your ear. Eyes like a pretty lake, hair like wheat, with his random strands and dirty blonde roots you would soon learn to run your fingers through. He stood before you, only the dim porch light illuminating him on that winter night. “Why are you out so late?” You had asked him, your hand reaching forward to tug him into the warmth of your apartment. Little did you know that’d tug him into your life as well.

The refusal was clear; he shook his head, puffs of warm air escaping as he explained that he had something to tell you. His clothes were dirty, scratched in places, and his combat knife was only hastily put away—just work, he explains, desperate to leave a good impression on you. He had finished, and he was sure that now that he’d have time, he’d be free from the shackles of the years that would creep up on him. Cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing—you still aren’t sure whether the cold or a blush caused that. “I know I’m always gone, and we dont see each other as often anymore, but I swear- I’ve sorted everything out. I’ve fixed it.” He says his words rushed and mumbled, like his heart was spilling out then and there.“I know this is sudden- i know, but- i just.. Will you marry me?” He blurts out and every puff of air that leaves his mouth feels like another log added to the fire you didn’t know was built in your heart for him. A campfire, as you’d always describe it, is comforting and warm, the perfect reassurance in cold times. Perhaps you should’ve chosen something detrimental to life, but you preferred the romantic speech.

Everyone loved the tale as you did, enamoured with how you managed to get the stoic agent to fall head over heels with you. He’d walk over right then, slinging an arm around your waist, giving you a tender kiss to your cheek, and plastering a smirk on his lips. “Still telling everyone that story?” He’d tease as his fingertips gently rubbed your side, the silver band on his ring finger twinkling with the same light his wine glass did. “As usual.” You’d reply, that same bubble of happiness rising in your throat again as you tilted your head upwards, waiting for the small peck that always came.

Always.

A year would go by, and you’d been learning more and more about each other. Nothing seemed to be too big of a step for you. Opposing voices, loud huffs, doors slamming shut until the other would open it quietly, apologise, crawl into the warmth of their shared bed, and work things out with sweet reassurances. Work was tough; he was on more missions than ever, being considered one of the greatest men to serve your country. Warmth that you always described as adoration filled your heart whenever you heard that phrase; you couldn’t be more proud of him for it.

Besides, not even that could tear you down; nothing could break the delicate encasing that surrounded the pair of you. A greenhouse, you’d say, because it held all the things that grew only with a person’s own nurture and care. Like your relationship, crafted and melded by your kind words and your soft voice. It’s a shame greenhouses are made of glass.

Weekends were quieter now, something you had decided to take in stride; you decided to plan something nice for when he returned. The he anniversary he had missed too. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him now, resorting to spraying his cologne on the pillows in that cold bed to retrieve some imaginary warmth. Then it came—the day he’d return. Open arms is what you welcomed him with; he had always loved to hug you, and holding you close was a remedy for his mind, he’d say. But those words stopped forming after some time. You ushered him into the shared bed that night, your arms curling around him after the nice surprise you had set up earlier had gone well. Perfect, you had thought. The bed was still cold, though. You thought about bringing it up with him but decided against it; the warmth of his arms was enough for you.

You should’ve brought it up with him, for the time would have entered where he couldn’t handle it. He had awoken with a jolt, sweat trickling like beads down his temples. Eyes wide and chest pounding, he sat there with eyes darting for a threat and hands searching for yours. Your fingers would intertwine with his, warm against his cold palms, as you sat up beside him. It’d be over soon; thats what you promised— you’d do this together.

Nights like those started occurring more often than ever, until one day, he’s awoken with a sharp jolt again. His movements are much more frantic, his hands searching and searching.

Though, this time, it doesn’t find itself in yours.

It’s tightly wrapped around your neck, his mind screaming to murder you. Bloodshot eyes and prominent streaks of black down your arms— the horrors he had tried so desperately to push away— return to his mind. Your breath wont come. No sweet words, and he looks down to see his hand contaminated with that same murky colour. The sink of his chest feels like a knife as he sees your arm grab out at him, like they did everywhere he went. Those creatures who would grab him, claw at him, and still threatened to take his life. They had destroyed his mind instead.

But there is no mutant, no bloodshot eyes and no streaks on your skin. All he sees is what he’s done to you, his body weight pressing on you as his hand keeps a firm grip around your neck. Your mouth begs for air, denying the sweet reassurance he needed as he sees you turn pale, your eyes flickering with tears. There’s no threat in here; not even the cold breeze from the open window chills his bones. Nothing can hurt more than the desperation in your eyes as your hands claw—No—plead at him for relief. He immediately lets go, scrambling to the other end of the bed as he watches you pant, his heart filled with fear. Fear of himself. You quickly turn to him, mustering out your honeyed phrases through choked breaths. But they’re just letters dancing about, barely going near his ears in the walls he had built between the two of you. Ignorance is bliss, but he can’t break his gaze when he sees the deep streaks of scarlet he left on your neck. Frozen in regret and shame, you tentatively wrap your arms around him to comfort the pair of you. But he feels your tears on his neck; the fear you felt eats at his gut and his conscience. You had never felt so cold before.

The days he had left for missions were the worst nights of your life, you’d say, having been away from your heart for so long. But even as you see him drinking his morning coffee, those eye bags prominent, you think your heart might be buried in Spain, infected with the plagas of love that died out.

Unspoken was what had happened that night— a silent promise between the pair of you with small random affections to bandage up the wound he had inflicted. He was still going on the small missions, but they were shorter, and he was back to fill the bed every night. The flowers in the vase never died—a different shade, flower, or even scent every week. A different kind of love.

This continued for weeks, up until you were out with some friends, each talking about their love lives, which was always a topic between the three of you. One of them gushes about how their husband’s love language is gift-giving, describing each and every homemade affection they receive on the daily. Soon it gets around to your turn, and when you speak about his love language, physical touch comes to mind again. Whether it was playing with your hair, rubbing your hands as you walked in the cold, or leaning on you after hard days, he always wanted to be near you. Your mouth fails to respond; no words form yet no examples are recalled in your brain either. You laugh sheepishly, trying hard to wrack your head for something sweet he’s done, until you just laugh it off and talk about how you love him again.

The bed’s empty when you slip inside it; he hasn’t returned yet and he won’t be back for another hour or so. The ceiling accompanies you as you desperately try to remember an act of affection in the last few weeks. It’s only now that it finally hits you, like a tonne of bricks through your skull—

He’s been distancing himself from you.

Knowing that you get caught up in little things, he occupied your mind with flowers and sweet notes. Not once have you actually heard him say any of it or felt his touch, if not accidental. He sleeps at a distance at night, and even when you shuffle closer somehow, you wake up further apart than before. You havent had a meal with him in weeks and you haven’t actually heard that raspy voice you remember as he complains about his day. You cannot remember the last time you felt warmth, and you can’t remember when you last cried this hard.

You’re in the bathroom, wiping away the stray tears as you look at yourself in the mirror. A heavy ache that still scrapes against the walls of your heart, unsure if you feel better or worse after coming to terms with this. Every pump feels like it’s dragging you down instead of keeping you alive. The rush of blood is like-

The front door clicks open.

You almost freak out and you’re not even sure why you would. Why are you scared of this? Why are you suddenly scared of him? Your feet hurries you back to your shared bed, settling under the covers once more to try to play it off as just tiredness. You still can’t figure out why you’re doing all this or why you start to form excuses for your behaviour in your mind. He never does. So why would you? The footsteps draw closer; they’re just slightly heavy, much softer than when he wears his boots. You hear the bedroom door unclick and your shoulders tense with every second.

But you dont see him enter. Slow breathing and closed eyes— you’re even lying on your side as you pretend to be asleep.

————————————————————————

Leon breathes out a heavy sigh, his chest sinking to drain out all his exhaustion from today. There’s a rustle of clothing as he undresses, pulling on some random sweatpants and a spare shirt for the night. Why should he even care if its clean or not? He walks over to his side of the bed, rummaging around the bedside table for something. Then he pauses, his eyes catching onto something in his peripheral view. Tear stains?

You hear the creak on the bed as he leans half his weight on it, about to reach out to you. Your heart beats faster. Is it because you dont want to worry him with your tears, or are you afraid of him? You don’t know. His fingers brush your cheek ever so gently, his voice echoing out your name so, so softly.

“Hey.. you awake?” He asks, and even though your heart is melting into a little puddle so easily, some stubborn stick clogs your throat. His sigh fills the room again and he pulls the blanket over you, tucking it snugly over you before brushing the hair out of your face. Maybe he’s just tired these days, you think. He’s been through a lot after all; it explains all of it. Really, you shouldn’t have been so upset at all—his work and life are on an entirely different level for you.

You’re about to open your eyes, pretend you woke up, and give him a sleepy smile. Images of him giving you a tight hug and one hand rubbing the small of your back as he tells you to fall asleep again fills your mind.

Then he speaks again, the bed creaking as he steps back off of the bed, the warmth leaving as fast as it came. “She’s really knocked out.? Phew.. I do not want to deal with some stupid tears..” He mutters out, his raspy voice much lower and breathless—almost exasperated. A low groan leaves him as he dumps his work clothes somewhere. Then, the bed screams again as he lays his weight on it before he shuffles himself to the end of the bed. He looks back at the space between them, another huff of air leaving his lips.

“That’s good enough. I fucking hate being woken to push her away from me..” Eventually, his breathing evens out, and his shoulders are still tight and tense as his body relaxes into the bed. The night falls quieter, and your mind feels blank.

You don’t know when you fell asleep or if he saw your fresh tears when he woke that morning.

Next

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

I hope you're having a good day! And if not I hope you find comfort

hey there anonymous; good morning, you sent this to me last night when i was well in bed (sun had barely even set, even; time change makes sleeping at 8 feel even earlier than usual);

mostly ignoring this to blog a bit about the usual thing i always whine-about (maybe it:ll help someone 'relate' or feel 'less alone' but lord knows its just me spinning wheels cause i like writing): the flattening of my mood: like every-thing had just become this one singular wide featureless plain with all site in sight being just the same stretch without pit and without hill: the sort-of landscape that'd provoke NO PASSION and NO THOUGHT equally and just-so also smooth away any great pain and any great joy: which is exactly just the comfort i am tired of, as it:s like some crawling thing that keeps taking more and more, example: food now all tastes the same, too, taken under by that same wasteland plain barren; although i:d describe my mood as being fairly 'up' (there are still things i:d been getting keen about: writing isekai story, the new ABA in strive looks really cool, i have religious programming to write, there is new media to read and watch) it never seems to amount more than a small 'pop' that ends-up nearly always more disappointing than fulfilling or centering; it is like the spirit has begun evaporating out of me through these little fissures in the Make of my material that had let that esprit DRY, KILN, BAKE, ASH out and leave the innerworks of me (MARA!) as little more closer and closer to being some fine spotless beetle of mechanics, and operations, clicking with spring and circuit forward and forward to next task: cook, eat, clean, exercise; count in fours always; pray in mornings, too; it is the experience of life not as a person but as the mechanical, where life ceases to be felt as life and yet as mere experience of time (both four letter words, as it were; vision poor enough they:d be the same grey smudge on the screen; vision poor enough they:d be the same dead bug on windshield before the bugs themselves became rare); my mood has been up and i still have these black thoughts flowing out from Dieth and Daniela and centered around how inescapable and infinite Wasteland seems: the self is extricated out and becomes a paperdoll where (impersonal) you imagine it undergoing a hanging or a suffocating of all air, and imagine the 'ecstasy' of whether the viewer can undergo the felt feelings of the paperdoll as it goes to 100% material; the act of moving limbs to go through with the task, to resolve, to collect the instruments, to imagine the Afters (the people who knew), to imagine all the things unsaid and things yet wanted to do and done undone and the willingness to let self be robbed of 'fate' (?) where death claims its 'natural' (?) due;

very-much i:d just like to write and focus and be left fulfilled, but it:s all fairly boring; i:d like to play the new ABA and grind her in practice mode (i SHAN'T be spending money on games though) and just instead imagine how anxious sitting in a practice mode hitting buttons feels and can:t imagine undergoing that more than eight minutes at most (this is much how writing is; much how drawing is); there:s this alien quality being poured in-to me, may-be byproduct of adhering to Etiquette like the years of slowly embodying an ill philosophy has led me further ill and alien: it becomes harder and harder to find any reason to talk to another, to nurture friendships, to say Hey, to want to do anything with others as it all just becomes more stretch on the barrenland and buttons to hit and mechanical beetle limbs to undulate, undulate, driven just by fluid sacs or what-ever dumb organ drives beetles (for me it:s my yap organ).

all of this is to say: i wish i could be playing new ABA cause i like her design a lot but can:t imagine playing a fighting game ever being fun without having a friend to do it with, and nothing sounds more boring to me at the same time, but i:m tired of being bored, too. i want to be at a joyous tone 4! a joyous tone 4! so engender a joyous tone 4 in your own life, anonymous, cause if you will it surely it:ll happen.

[fadeintolight]

Hey! I have a question that I've been sort of curious about for a while. So I've noticed that a lot of people have been annoyed by Harry post 2022 and have made their disinterest?distate? in him known. But those same people have absolutely no problem with Louis and his involvement in BG (post 2020) and basically exploiting an innocent kid to protect his own butt. They keep singing his praises and act like he's the best. Harry has definitely been CRINGING AND YIKESING hard over the last couple of years but I seem to have a harder time moving past Louis' actions. Anyway, it's not a big deal. I guess I just went off both of them at the same time and a handful of others have as well, but the majority of people just went off Harry and it's always been a bit ??? for me.

hey so this is long and 100% a personal take, so proceed with caution.

totally get where you're coming from. first off, I think we all have to accept that we don’t really know anything for sure about these people. we all just build the lore in our heads based on small cues and glimpses, and I'm definitely not an exception to that.

from my perspective, a lot of what louis is doing now seems like it was a continuation of circumstances that were forced on him back in the 1d days. the babygate situation is a prime example— we never knew if there was supposed to be an ending point or what that would even look like. what protects louis in the eyes of so many louies is this uncertainty. he was told that he would be a father—how, we don’t know; how long, we don’t know. but it's impossible to imagine him ever getting a real chance to walk away from it, and for him to say 'actually no, let me stay close to this rachet family and exploit this kid some more.' the whole situation is so horrible that our minds just can't go there and accept that. mine included. this unknowing of the details ends up protecting his character in many fans' minds.

in contrast, harry seems to have more freedom and agency over his solo career. he’s carefully cultivating this air of sexual ambiguity and mystery, leaning into an a-list celebrity status that keeps fans at arm’s length. his team /him want to project him as an enigma—someone who can’t be fully understood?? as opposed to his 1d self who was a bit more chatty, a bit more present? that has changed the dynamic of how some fans (on my dash i guess) perceive him. its just harder to see what his true intentions are?? why are you with these rancid people man. why are you being silly in a parking lot on main. but then again, I fully get that he could just be playing the long game, navigating his own path and experiences.

all in all with harry, the stunting never really hurts him- or at least he has something to gain from it—it helps move his career ahead. whether it's transitioning into movies or providing context for his music, these moments seem to push him forward, even if we hate them. while louis' stunts keep him stuck, harry's seem to be part of the narrative that builds his legacy.

on the other hand, I know I’ve bought into the ‘louis as the underdog’ persona and that’s also partially some good marketing on their end. I want to support him on the path he’s paving for himself, especially since it feels like he’s doing it without the massive backup that harry has. the story of his career fascinates me, his constant gratitude to his fans and the presence he has in his fandom feels unique and therefore the parasocial bond is stronger with him.

it’s all just psychology and character play, really. after 2020, I think a lot of us experienced some form of disillusionment when it comes to harry and louis. and then that’s just the way people work—we cope by creating narratives. often, this involves villainizing one while assigning the 'hero's journey' to the other. idk to me it makes sense from a psychological standpoint, people holding on to these preferences based on what resonates with them.

also, let's not forget that tumblr is definitely not a representative sample of the fanbase. we’re just a small village of burnt-out people. I'm sure there’s a similar 'village' on the other side that feels the same ick towards louis and is more protective of harry, and they’re allowed to see things the way they want to too. at the end of the day, we’re all just dumbass stans warping reality to suit our own narratives.

[knownangels]

hang out

wc: 1.7k

Someone grabs him from behind.

Benji lifts from his body, eyes shuttering like they always do, and bursts into motion. 

He drops to a knee as he spins out of grasp, shrugging away the shoulder pawed by a stranger’s hand. And then in a series of movements, he has the unlucky bastard’s knee knocked to the side, spun off-balance. It gets Benji in range. Benji’s awful in range. Up-close.

But in the back of his mind, he’s prompted into harsh movements by something even worse than in-range training. 

Betrayed, a little voice hisses. Compromised.

It’s that special rage that pushes Benji back to his feet, the body of his attacker in tow. It’s that rage that spins it by the shoulders to face him, momentum throwing the person into rapid, desperate stumbles as Benji walks them both forward. Directly, and without much care for gentleness, further into the depths of the alley. Towards the brick.

As his back hits the wall, Xavier makes a cartoonish sort of ack! sound. It’s so absurd Benji immediately snaps from wherever his head had gone. Not knowing whether it’s unintentional or intentional (but, knowing this one: with a desperate need for Benji to agree with his humor). 

That thought, really, is what snaps him out of it. That it’s Xavier trying to make him laugh, even with a forearm to his throat.

“Dude,” Xavier wheezes, grinning even as his breath cuts short. It makes him sound funny, and he must agree, because he’s grinning like a lunatic while he says it. “I just wanted to hang out.” 

*

They do. A not-so-carefully organized rendezvous whose coordinates were delivered in code over an agreed frequency. How Xavier manages to get this deep behind lines, Benji isn’t sure — but he figures it has something to do with the arsenal of networking and connections Xavier has established for himself amongst his group. Or so he assumes, based on how much the bastard yaps. 

For twenty minutes. For twenty minutes, they converse. They joke. For twenty minutes, (Benji counts as discretely as he can with glances at his watch) they circle the outer path of the city. It’s mostly an entertainment and commercial distract; these days, it houses a quickly dwindling array of shops and venues. 

“It used to be cool.”

“It’s still pretty cool,” Xavier says. He can’t stop looking above them, through the great glass dome encapsulating the city. “I mean, we don’t have anything like this —oh fuck! Is that a whale?”

Benji nods, but he doesn’t have the attention for it. Xavier’s darted down a path, eyes wide with childish excitement as he watches the great, dark shape in the far distance traverse the ocean floor like a hawk in the sky. Slowly, inch by inch, it fades the same mottled black-blue of the horizon until its gone, swallowed up by the dark water beyond.

Maran hates this place. He’d been here exactly once, to the comic store around the corner from where Benji leads them now. And then he had sworn, as typical, to never ever fucking come back. 

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” 

Benji snaps out of his thoughts. He’d been walking with Xavier close behind, the enemy soldier at his back —

The enemy soldier, Benji thinks, grounding himself. At his back.

He slows until Xavier passes him. His brow furrows. He feels no apprehension or fear or adrenaline; he should have. Xavier is armed. And Xavier is — Xavier. Benji’s seen him in the midst of it. 

“Yes,” Benji confirms. He steps up to the shopfront, shoulder to chest with the other man. “You said you liked music.”

Xavier tilts to smile at him. “Fuck, dude. I meant like — I go to the club and like music.” He gestures broadly at the store. “Not, like, actual real music. Or making it.” 

Benji shrugs. “Club music’s still music, mate. Got a decent beat.” 

“Tell me about it.” Xavier adopts a strange stance, then lifts both arms in the air and drops his chin as he bounces in place, unce-unce-unce of his own bad synth impression serving as tempo. When he stops, his hair’s a bit of a mess and his cheeks are flushed.

Benji clears his throat. “Ah, well. My bad. Can’t really recommend you clubs. Y’know. Considering. I, uh. Like this place,”

“Yeah? Can I guess?”

“Guess?” Benji asks, flustered. 

Xavier laughs. “Yeah, dude. What you play.” At Benjis surprised expression, his laughter bursts forth again. “Benji, come on. You’re totally obvious.”

“Alright, then, if I’m obvious. What?” 

“Hm.” Xavier says, eons of philosophers providing wisdom to that single, brief noise. “Saxophone.”

“Fuck yourself!” Benji splutters. He shoves Xavier, who stumbles a bit into the brick behind him. “Dickhead.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Xavier leans back into Benji’s space, as if forced by gravity. “Um. Bass?”

“Drums.” Benji holds up his hands, flexes them. “Couldn’t tell?” 

Xavier swallows. His eyes dart between Benji’s raised fingers, green finding brown in the gaps. “I was wondering.”

“Used shit sticks as a kid.” Benji says. He taps a finger against the window. “Like those.”

Xavier looks to where he points. “What’s that brand?”

“Why, you lookin’ to upstage me?”

Xavier smile stays turned toward him a split second longer than Benji thinks it ought to. Only after that lingering beat does his pale, freckled chin turn towards the store display. Brass and cherry-red candy paint acrylic guitars gleaming new behind an already glossy window. It looks like its cared after regularly and maybe even obsessively. There’s a bright yellow sale sticker in the bottom left, shaped like a star: voted best manufacturer by DRUM! four years in a row. 

“Never heard of this one. Don’t have it.” Xavier sways forward and taps the glass. “Amazon Basics. You can get, like, everything.” He frowns. “Uh, mostly because they like. Own...everything.”

Benji thinks back to his main supply pack, propped against the bottom of his cot on base. There’s a pair of worn and oil-darkened sticks tucked inside for luck. 

He frowns, staring at the laser-etched logo. “Mad.” He notes, drawing the vowel long. 

“What?”

“We’ve got a few — brands, I mean. Myself, m’kinda sentimental. Only used Yamaha growin’ up ‘cause they were cheap.” He looks up at Xavier. “Never heard of Amazon. Instrument company?”

“Dude.” 

Benji’s turn. “What?”

“Dude.” Xavier repeats, answering absolutely nothing. He takes Benji by the shoulders and shakes him. “You don’t have Amazon over there? Oh, fuck, that’s like…wicked inconvenient.” 

Benji blinks at him.

Xavier smiles wider. “Imagine overnight shipping. Same hour shipping. You guys got that?” 

Benji blinks at him again, then scoffs. “Mate, we’re lucky to get three weeks. You lot keep comin’ and pinchin’ the majority of our power source, remember?”

Xavier’s laugh is slightly delayed. Once it comes, it’s a big, bark of a sound. 

Then he sobers. Benji’s smile dies a bit, too. Suddenly the moment is too visceral, the conflict around them closing in less backdrop. 

It feels so different with you, Benji thinks. It feels slower. I forget. The fondness rolls his stomach with a knife-twist sharp like anxiety, serrated like fear. 

“Do you want me to break in and steal you the cool multidimensional drum sticks?” Xavier whispers. His voice is dead serious, pitched low. But there’s a little slippery twist to the words that lets Benji know he’s being…teased? 

He snorts. 

“Aw, you’re a right evil bastard, aren’t you?” Benji grins, spurned on by the shamed flush on Xavier’s face. “The family owned shop? I’d judge you.”

“I don’t want you judging me,” Xavier sing-songs. He tucks his hands in his pants pockets, swaying. “I just want you to like me.” 

Benji rolls his eyes. “You’re alright.”

Xavier takes a step. Benji has to tilt his chin up to keep their eyes level. 

“Just alright?” 

He lifts a gloved hand, pinches index and thumb together. “Fine. Bit better than alright.” 

Xavier must mean for his next look to be silly; outrageously flirty. But without trying, mostly because of how his eyes slip half-closed, he manages to land between coy and sultry. It, Benji thinks, is a dangerous place for him to be. 

“You gonna give it up any time soon?”

Xavier’s brows waggle. “Literally the second you say flip, I am fucking flipping.” 

“Can you?” 

“Fuck off.” Xavier laughs. His hands finally slip from Benji’s shoulders, although they don’t go without a friendly (friendly?) squeeze. “Maybe not, actually. Haven’t tried.” 

“I meant,” Benji laughs. “I meant if you’re gonna give up the act, Xavier.” 

“The act.” 

“The act.” Benji says.

“The…act.”

He throws his hands up in the air, laughing. “Fuckin’ hell. Got myself a shadow and a damn echo.”

But every light moment seems to catch wrong on the edges; when Benji tosses his head back, he sees not just the deep, sun-mottled blue of the ocean above, but each explosive orange burst of the battle outside the domed city’s safety.

He remembers, suddenly, that he stands in one of the most secure bastions of that — safety — left. Because of the man in front of him, smiling with his fingers tucked a millimeter beneath his sleeve. Benji glances down at that, and tries a hundred different ways not to romanticize the touch’s softness in direct comparison to the literal war being raged above. 

He tries, anyway. 

“When I found you in that alleyway,” Xavier starts, his fingers drawing circles on Benji’s skin, “I was going to kill you and loot you and sneak back home in your uniform.”

Benji wonders if he’ll ever tire of the up-downs of being around Xavier, the constant shifts in energy and tone — without the sensation of being yanked about, Benji likes being kept on his toes. 

“Now there’s a thing to admit,” Benji says wryly. “And of your own free will n’volition, too.” 

Xavier moves again. Another step. The smallest he seems capable of taking; he’s in Benji’s space, barely, and touching, but only just. Benji can’t figure out which side of the other soldier this is: purposeful or natural. 

“Shut up, I’m not done.” His hand trails up Benji’s forearm, squeezes. “When I got closer I was like, well no fucking shot. Right? You’re just —”

“Got a bit on you, hey?” Benji teases. His eyes feel heavy, but without exhaustion. “And you on me, suppose?”

Xavier blinks sluggishly at him. His mouth, lips slightly parted, splits into another wild grin. 

“Hah. That’s what she said.”

Benji gives him a quizzical look. “What?” 

“Wot?” Xavier shakes his head. “You don’t have The Office either? Man. This universe sucks.” He winks. “At least it has you.”

“Awful,” Benji amends, ducking his head slightly. “Amended to awful, not alright.” 

“Benji.” 

He glances up. Xavier cradles the side of his face like that means something. 

“We’re — I have to —” his eyes dart between Benji’s own. There’s an unreadable expression on his face. Xavier is not smiling. “I want — fuck. Can we kiss again?” 

Benji nods, tongue glued thick to the roof of his mouth. As Xavier leans forward, ducking down in the grim blue light, he catches one last glimpse of the fiery battle above. 

One they both should be fighting. 

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Necrosis | swamp | wound cleaning | “no, I can’t feel anything”

This place is odd. Very different from the forest that they usually sleep in. It was quieter, there, despite the chattering birds and the babbling brook; here, the bugs buzz with a mad fervor, the thick water around their boots gurgles. Small animals bound across the tops of the trees, foregoing travel by water entirely.

It has Cillian doubting whether it is safe to be trudging through, themself. But they are too heavy for the canopy and too wet, now, anyway.

The horses came. Before the men could be heard, the pounding of the hooves came through the suddenly still air of the woods. Cillian knew in an instant that their makeshift home was no longer safe. Long branches laden with fern for a makeshift roof, a dirt floor, a bed fashioned out of a heap of moss and comfortable enough fallen leaves. It was beautiful in that spot when the sun filtered in through the fragile leaves of the fern. Warm in the day and cool at night.

Sullenly, the once-knight keeps on dragging their feet through the swamp. Skeptical eyes gauge the height of the sun and a sigh lights from their lips. It is still early. Time drags on too slowly here.

If the men on horses had found them before they fled, if the Baron caught them… the oddly warm sludge under their heels shifts as if agreeing with their uncomfortable thoughts. They narrowly escaped this time. How were they found? Did someone in the village follow them into the wood when they went to buy needle and thread? Has the Baron always known where they were, and only just decided to collect them?

It will be much harder to hunt here. Unfamiliar terrain, less heavy animals padding around on the land. Cillian squints up at the sky, swatting idly at a humming insect, to calculate whether it would be worth trying to hunt birds here. They’d be the same sort of birds, but maybe they’ll be flying differently between these strange trees.

A nasty patch of mud clings to their boot, and Cillian stumbles to a splashy stop, arms flying out to their sides for balance. The swamp is darker, suddenly. What their peripheral vision assumed was a gnarled tree beside them turns out to be something living - the shape of a person, with unusually pearlescent eyes. It is bound in vines, draped in them, wrists together in front of itself and legs similarly bound.

Odd things in odd places can be very dangerous even if they look human. But of course, attacking first is very often the worst move. Cillian sets their jaw and consciously does not reach for the bow on their back or the dagger on their hip.

Stringy black hair rustles as the being’s head tips. Its mouth moves, and sludge pours out, black and thick. It looks like it may be trying to speak.

Cillian’s brows slide up, and they point at their own chest to indicate themself. Is this a fae asking for their name? Cillian cannot give it.

The muddy being’s brows cinch in the middle. It sways.

The once-knight’s mind goes through the cycle of trying to remember old tales and songs about odd people and creatures in odd places. The stories are passed along with a purpose, for protection. There is wisdom in the rhymes. This could be a phantom, could be some kind of creature that lives here, could be something Cillian is seeing from being cursed… oh, how they hope that they’ve managed to not earn being cursed by anyone… they need to decide what this thing is, to decide what to do about it. Running, giving an offering, thinking or praying the right phrase - if speaking is required, Cillian might not make it out of this swamp. If killing is required… well, they haven’t made up their mind about that, yet. Whether they’re willing to kill anything other than prey animals anymore.

The thing looks unsteady. Unhappy, or unsettled, or confused, maybe. Cillian raps their fingers at their side, pondering. There have been no sudden moves made, yet, at least.

Cillian has wandered into new terrain, far from their usual forest with kind faeries and soft spirits. It isn’t unusual for travelers to be tested by whatever creature or spirit protects or haunts a place. Usually, it requires proving you’re worthy of staying. Worthy of mercy. Killing is usually wrong. Making demands, being picky about accommodations, demanding information.

A wry chuckle, dark with their stress, hums out of Cillian’s chest. Most of the ways to anger a mystical being comes with speaking. With acting entitled and powerful, like the man that they are running from.

The thing’s legs buckle. Cillian’s eyes fly wide as they watch its eyes go wide, and suddenly the vine-bound body crumples toward the knee-high water.

A flurry of thoughts crash through the once-knight’s mind. It’s unsafe to touch, touching is demand is stealing is violent - but the thing is falling, and looks startled, or is at least pretending to be - what is kind, what is safe, what is wise, what is their duty?

In the split second that they have to decide, Cillian falls back on that final word. Duty. A knight protects. The vinebound looks afraid of falling, so Cillian steps forward and stretches out their arms, catching it.

The body feels mortal enough. It is tangible, it is cold. Very cold. Clammy, wet, frail.

They can feel its chest moving with breaths, which points to it being alive. They can’t decide whether that is a good thing. Its lower half is underwater, the rest of it lurching with its heaving breaths. Wide, pearly eyes stare unblinkingly up at Cillian as they frown down at it.

Questions burn on their tongue, but it lies dormant. Cillian bites the inside of their cheek and tries to lift the vinebound back onto its feet.

The mud below sabotages the attempt, and with a strangled whisper of a cry, Cillian drops the thing. It slips from their grip and they reach again, scrabbling, but it is too late. The vinebound splashes into the swamp water, and the world feels suddenly quieter. An odd intuition in Cillian’s chest makes it feel like the thing belongs down there, like it rose up out of there and it’s right, in a way, to leave it.

But it doesn’t feel kind to leave it. It looked like it was alive and afraid of falling. There are no bubbles rising to the surface, that is odd… but the eyes went wide, and it shook, and Cillian would want to be saved if they were afraid like that.

It’s not really a debate. Cillian plunges their arms down into the water, crouching low enough that the quiver on their back dumps every last arrow into the swamp. The once-knight grunts in annoyance but lets their arrows go, cursing themself for using heavy enough arrowheads that they have no chance of floating. Digging through the sludge below they find the body and haul it up with a growl of effort, fighting against the weight of the water and silt.

The vinebound comes up, limp in their arms, chest no longer heaving. Cillian frowns deeply, crouching low enough that it takes less strength to hold the body just above the water, even though it effectively soaks all of their clothing through hopelessly.

Those pearly eyes have no light to them. No breaths are drawn, the limbs no longer wobble. It is still bound, but it no longer moves.

It is heavy. Heavy like a corpse, like only a corpse can be. The once-knight’s mouth sets in a sour line. This is a body that was dumped here. What they saw standing before might have been the body reanimated by curse, or a ghost of this body, or the swamp itself bringing the corpse’s visage to life just long enough to get the body found.

Now that they believe they know what this is, Cillian has a hard time looking down on it. They’ve made and held enough corpses to not be especially disgusted by the death. It is just difficult knowing what might lead to a person being bound and dumped, knowing what might have happened before they were killed or left for dead.

It is like holding their own dead body. The once-knight swallows past a lump in their throat and, boots burying deeper in the mud as they put in the effort, they stand with the vinebound draped across their arms. The body does not belong here. The swamp, or the spirit itself, wanted it found. It would be naive to assume that it was meant only to frighten Cillian. This is not about Cillian.

Sullenly, they trudge onward, hoping to find a stretch of dry land again soon. It will be difficult trying to fashion a spade to open the earth and lay this one to rest. Maybe they ought to build a pyre instead. Whatever they do, it needs to be respectful. And though it is less of a need and more of an indulgence, Cillian wants it to be beautiful, too.

[wrongpublishing]

Increase Your Literary Body Count in 2024

by Mathew Gostelow.

"In my slut era," I whispered, sending the story out on its ninth simultaneous submission.

At the most recent count, I wrote 60-odd things in 2024 and submitted them a total of 202 times in all. 42 of them were published in some form. Along the way, I racked up 90 rejections. All in all, I published somewhere around 44,000 words in 2023.

I was whoring my stories all over, like some sort of village bike made of ink and shamelessness. I spent a year subbing sluttily. I had a blast doing it too. I got a fair few publications under my belt, made new friends, and learned some lessons as well. Here’s just a few of them…  

Change horses midstream

I’ve discovered I work best when I’m juggling multiple projects at once. It sounds counter-intuitive and I guess it might not work for everyone, but I reckon everyone should try it.

The idea is to have several stories on the go at one time. Three feels ideal. I find that I will inevitably run out of steam on a piece – my interest or focus always flags at some point. Switching to something new acts as a vital palate-cleanser. I’m able to return to each project afresh, bringing new energy and perspective thanks to the time I spent away.

Follow the fun 

Don't be afraid to mix it up. Move out of your comfort zone.

If your latest flash isn’t quite working, why not rewrite it as a poem? Or mash it together with another half-finished piece and see what happens. In a longer piece, it’s okay to jump straight to the scene that's exciting you in that moment. Fill in the gaps and the preamble later.

Try things out. Write flash, write microfiction, write a poem. Seen a shiny prompt? Go for it. Plunge into a genre that you'd normally avoid. You might have fun, you might learn something. You might even end up with a story worth submitting.

Lean into your weird

I'm not saying you're weird, but… you’re totally weird. The way you tell stories is uniquely yours. You understand the world through the filter of your own personal experiences. And you express those observations in wonderfully idiosyncratic ways. 

One thing this prolific year taught me is that I love my writing more when I delve into those quirky parts of me. It could be sharing an oddly-specific fear in a horror story, or playing with words in a way that feels pleasing and musical to me.

Putting those unusual parts of yourself out into the world can be scary, but it's also fun. And I've found that readers and editors seem to respond to it as well.

Sim-subbing is addictive - but tread carefully

Simultaneous submissions are great. Is that one mag taking a bit long to decide on whether they want you piece? Send it somewhere else. Feel those sweet endorphins coursing through your veins. Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.

Here’s what I learned from a year of very heavy simultaneous submissions: Send a piece out to as many places as you like – but only if you're equally happy with ever possible outcome. That’s the important bit.

If you have your heart set on a specific home for a story then for gawd’s sakes don't sub it anywhere else until they have decided. Otherwise you risk tying yourself in knots if/when one of the lesser mags accepts it before your dream publisher has decided.

Play fast and loose!

Themed calls are great. They can be inspiring, sparking fresh ideas in our minds. Or help us to see our existing stories in a new light. But here’s what I learned this year: don’t be afraid to come at the theme from an obtuse angle.

Editors must get tired of reading 50 different permutations of the same story. Your off-kilter take could be just the breath of fresh air they're looking for.

And if you have a story already written when a call comes along and it feels like it's close-ish to what they're looking for, then you should throw it in the mix. What have you got to lose?

A true story from this year:

I had a story accepted after misunderstanding what a themed call was all about. I didn’t read the instructions carefully enough and subbed the wrong thing. I realised immediately after pulling the trigger and considered withdrawing my piece. For some reason, though, I didn't. (Slut era!) The editors saw something in my story and accepted the piece.

Moral: Don’t slavishly follow the theme. Go crazy.

Dilute the sting

Rejections can hurt, especially if you have your sights set on a specific magazine or anthology. But you know what helps? Rebound sex. Er… I mean, rebound submissions. Get that same piece back out there. Heck, send it to two places. Go crazy. You get closure by moving on. Also, the more you submit, the more rejection notches you get on your bedpost. And you know what, after a while you’ll find it starts to sting a lot less. 

So there you go. Lessons from a promiscuous wordmonger. Why not try to up your literary body count in 2024? You might like it. Repeat after me: “Slut era”.

Mathew Gostelow (he/him) is the author of two collections; See My Breath Dance Ghostly, a book of speculative short stories (Alien Buddha Press) and Connections, a flash fiction chapbook (Naked Cat Publishing). He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction. @MatGost

[awfuljourneyoftylerparsons]

An amazing essay written by a student.

The following is an essay for a book I wrote years ago titled "How I, Tyler Parsons Became Isekaied As An Anthropomorphic Wolf In Another World.", bare with me on this one its one of the best deconstructions of my work I've ever seen. Let me know if you want me to drop the actual book after reading this.

A Brief Dive Into "How I, Tyler Parsons Became Isekaied As An Anthropomorphic Wolf In Another World", Written By Tyler Parsons

"How I, Tyler Parsons Became Isekaied As An Anthropomorphic Wolf In Another World", By Tyler Parsons, is a tale of an ordinary teenager (named Tyler Parsons) who gets transported to a world of magic and wonder. Oh yeah, and he’s also been turned into an anthropomorphic wolf for some reason. Determined to make the most of this unexpected change, but also survive, Tyler sets off on a journey. On this journey, he meets a range of creatures, both friendly and the opposite. After rescuing a group of travelers from a pack of wolves (whether anthropomorphic wolves or just normal ones, it is not specified), Tyler parsons is invited on a journey with the travelers. The word “journey” is used a grand total of seventy seven times in "How I, Tyler Parsons Became Isekaied As An Anthropomorphic Wolf In Another World". Personally though, I think that wasn’t enough. 

On his journey, with his newfound friends, Tyler learns all about this world he now calls home. He learns of the culture, and all of the different creatures who inhabit it. He also learns of the magic which flows through the air, and how it can be controlled. On his first adventures with his new crew, he courageously saves an entire village, then later helps some dwarves fight off a group of goblins. After being victorious in a battle against the goblin leader, Tyler collapses, and his vision fades to black. He awakes and is informed by a “being of light”, as Tyler Parsons words it (author, not character) that he died, but has been given another chance at life if he wants it - in the magic world. Tyler is elated at this news, and returns. 

In chapter three, I got a strange feeling of deja vu… 

After reading through the remainder of the story, I noticed pretty much this same exact thing happens FOUR TIMES in the course of the book. Here are the other two: 

Both the group of travelers being attacked by wolves and the whole goblin/dwarf fight happened probably way more than it should have, but that’s fine, because after all that, things got more interesting. Characters and places from movies, shows, and even from Tyler Parsons’s (author) real life were sprinkled in! These included Sarah, Gravity Falls, Mabel and Dipper Pines, Bill Cipher, Saul Goodman, Elon Musk, and many more. I noticed a sort of theme with these characters - Tyler Parsons (author) seems to like killing them off. 

In chapter ten, it is revealed that Tyler Parsons has, since he was just a small child, always dreamed of being an anthropomorphic wolf. His birthday is coming up, and he wants to have a big celebration since he’s achieved his dream and is living the life he’s always wanted. And, that is exactly what Tyler Parsons does. He holds a huge party and invites all of his friends and spends the whole day celebrating. As the party goes on, however, Tyler feels sad because someone is missing - Mabel Pines, whom he, regretfully, killed. Despite knowing it had to be done, Tyler misses Mabel, because they had been good friends. Dipper comes out of nowhere and battles Tyler. Tyler, with his supreme skill, defeats Dipper.

Shortly after, Tyler comes across Jasmin Elwood, an old friend from high school. He is excited to see her, and is shocked when she points at him, laughing “hahaha! you’re a furry! hahahaha”. Jasmin then turns into a puddle. Anyway… 

Later, Tyler befriends a young girl who has just lost everyone whom she has ever known to bandits. The two of them meet Walter White, who gives them blue meth, telling them it will give them great power. Tyler believes this sounds completely reasonable, and has the young girl smoke the blue meth. Surprise surprise, she dies. Walter White then shoots himself, because Tyler Parsons (author) just can’t help himself from killing characters. Tyler Parsons (character) worries that Walter White will come after him. I don’t know why, given he’s now dead. Perhaps Tyler is finally going insane. Or, perhaps he has been this entire time..who’s to say? Anyways..Tyler, after burying the girl, sets off to “Wolf Town”, which is a town that has other anthropomorphic wolves in it. I feel that it’s worth mentioning that the town leader is named “Alpha”. Tyler, after helping save Wolf Town lots of times, becomes second in command after Alpha. A bit later, Kanye West, who is apparently another of Tyler’s old highschool friends, appears. Tyler immediately kills him, and regrets nothing. He laughs to himself at how funny it is that he, Tyler the anthropomorphic wolf, has killed both Kanye West and Elon Musk. He “felt a sense of amusement and amusement”. Tyler really was insane. 

Alpha sends Tyler to save Wolf City, which is being attacked by evil wizards. He sends three other anthropomorphic wolves with him - BBQ, Iphone, and Draven. Together, they save Wolf City, and decide to stay there. Walking down the street, the four of them have a lovely conversation about how great it is to be an anthropomorphic wolf. Suddenly, Draven drops dead, followed by BBQ and Iphone. Tyler (author) still can’t stop killing everyone off who isn’t Tyler (character).  Tyler discovers the three of them had been killed by The Death Note. Tyler leaves to pursue the wolf in possession of The Death Note, and kills him. Upon Tyler’s return to Wolf City, he encounters Twilight Sparkle. She says to him: “Hi there, Tyler! It’s great to meet another anthropomorphic animal like me. I love being a magical pony, and I’m sure you love being a wolf just as much!”. Of course, Tyler and Twilight become fast friends. A whole five minutes go by, then Twilight uses her magic to make a gun appear, shoots herself, and dies. What the actual f***. Tyler gets over Twilight’s death when he recalls a meme he saw one time, and he moves on. 

Twenty years have passed. Tyler sits in a bar, drinking his sorrows away, remembering everything that’s happened, and everyone who has died. He turns around, and sees Twilight Sparkle as a ghost. Perhaps he’s had one too many drinks. Twilight Ghost tells Tyler that everything will be okay, then she fades away.

The End. 

Or so I thought, until Tyler Parsons (author) informed me it was, in fact, not the end. On the contrary, there were seven more pages. Little did I know that nothing could prepare me for reading them. Here's what they entailed:

Tyler Parsons, now once again determined to make a difference in the world, leaves the bar and sets off to speak to the alpha of Wolf City. The alpha, now old and frail, informs Tyler that he needs his help! Zhong XiNa was on his way to Wolf City, prepared for war! The alpha gathers up the greatest soldiers in the area for Tyler to lead to stop Zhong XiNa and his army: which includes Nick Wilde, Sonic the Hedgehog, and Legoshi from Beastars. Tyler and his crew set off to battle Zhong XiNa and his army. Tyler is shocked to see that Zhong XiNa towers above him and his crew. He is even more shocked to see who is standing beside him - Kamille Rankin! A third person from Tyler's highschool days! On the other side of Zhong XiNa was a ginormous Pac-Man. Tyler knew this would not be an easy fight. Sonic the Hedgehog speeds towards the army, and Tyler and the others watch in horror as Pac-Man eats Sonic whole.

Everyone flies into a panic at what has happened. After all, Sonic was going to be their ultimate weapon! This wasn't the plan at all - how could Tyler and the rest of his team possibly win now? Then, when all hope seems lost, someone taps Tyler on the shoulder. It's Nick Wilde, and he says, determined, that they can still win this. With that, Tyler's convinced, and prepares himself for the fight of his life. Then, out of nowhere, Legoshi pulls out a gun, and aims it at Nick Wilde. He'd been working for the other side this whole time. Legoshi explains that the reason for this is because Nick Wilde is hotter than him, and he's jealous. Legoshi shoots Nick in the chest, and says, triumphantly, "Look who's hottest now". 

Legoshi and Tyler have an epic battle. It goes on for what seems like hours, and Tyler is struggling to land a hit. When he does though, Legoshi barely even flinches. Despite this, a minute later, Tyler lands an uppercut on Legoshi's chin, killing him. This whole time, I have but one thought: what has Zhong XiNa and his army been doing this whole time? Just standing there? Nope, apparently they were elsewhere for some reason, even though they'd been there before Legoshi and Tyler had begun their fight. Tyler, battered and bruised, tries to think of a way to get away before he's caught up with. He recalls teleportation magic he conveniently learned a while ago. He recites an incantation and finds himself in a dense forest unfamiliar to him. He's escaped. He discovers an abandoned cabin, and lies down on the bed. As he begins to drift off to sleep, he thinks to himself, knowing his journey isn't over yet, "I can't wait to see what comes next".

The End (for real, thankfully 🙏😭)

P.S. I will be scarred for the remainder of my days

Anywho, that's the essay they wrote on my book, hope you enjoyed :3

[watchmenanon]

'Stranger Things 2' Creators Wanted A Sequel That Topped The Original

November 14, 20171:29 PM ET

Heard on Fresh Air

Growing up, twin brothers Ross and Matt Duffer loved movies — especially Tim Burton's Batman. In fact, the creators of the Netflix series Stranger Things 2 credit Burton — and his over-the-top style — with inspiring them to try their hands at filmmaking.

"Tim Burton — he's not exactly a subtle filmmaker," Ross Duffer says. "I mean that in a good way. ... I remember as a kid even you can go, 'Someone is behind all of this. It's the same person who is doing Beetlejuice, who's doing Batman.'"

Beginning in the third grade, the brothers started writing, shooting and editing their own movies. Now grown, they're still at it. Their 2016 Netflix series, Stranger Things, followed a group of middle school friends who investigate supernatural goings-on in the fictional town of Hawkins, Ind.

The series was a hit, and the brothers saw the second season as a sequel, which initially worried Netflix. "Most sequels are generally disappointments," Ross says.

But the Duffers thought of Stranger Things 2 as an opportunity to expand on their show's first season. "We wanted it to feel bigger than season one," Matt Duffer says. "We wanted to scale it up a little bit."

On the success of Stranger Things

Matt Duffer: There's so much content out there in the world that the fear was you're just going to get lost. Even if people do like it, and we thought best case scenario is we're appealing to people like us who are nostalgic for this style of storytelling. So the surprise to us came when especially the younger generation started to fall in love with these characters, and then start tweeting about it and then word started to spread.

Netflix was always behind the show and they always loved it. ... What they told us is that they were hoping that word of mouth would spread, but it's going to take some time. Word of mouth is certainly what got the show its popularity, but I think everyone was taken aback by how quickly that word of mouth spread.

On auditioning over 1,000 child actors

Ross Duffer: One of our favorite things is the casting of these kids, just because it was certainly over a thousand, and some of that gets weeded out by our casting director and then otherwise you can generally tell instantly with this stuff.

You don't need to watch a full audition and debate whether this kid is right or not. ... Generally, with all of our main kids, you knew within a few seconds of them speaking, because what we're looking for is something that felt authentic, because there's this sort of Disney Channel kid, which is overdoing it. They're trying to be cute. Whereas our kids, to us, just felt there was something authentic about it. ... Once we found this group of kids, we ended up shaping the characters around them.

On the creepy plants that appear in Stranger Things 2

Matt: I found snakes creepy. That's why we have all these vines and stuff ... in season two that move and grab people. ... [In] the classic sci-fi stuff, there's always something very organic about some of the supernatural environments. ...

I was just watching the 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which is one of my favorites, and they've got those pods that shoot out these disgusting duplicates, like flower petals spewing out a baby Jeff Goldblum — it's the worst/best. I'm sure we're pulling from all that.

On co-writing screenplays together

Matt: A lot of our work is actually done on Google Docs, and so we don't speak to each other. It's a really weird thing where we're both on headphones, not talking, and just typing on the same document at the same time.

We're in the same room, same office. We have separate desks. We're not, like, literally right next to each other, because we'd probably punch each other every once in a while, so it's good there's a little bit of physical distance.

We'll get into Google Doc wars, where I type a line of dialogue or an idea for the scene — he'll delete it. I'll go write it back in — he'll delete it again. And then the headphones come off and then we actually have to have a conversation about it. So it's a little ridiculous.

[hexpea]

Ch. 16 - A Rebellious Royal

After your session in the library, learning all there was to know about cursed spirits - at least the stuff Suguru was comfortable with you knowing, you dragged him back out to the bailey where he could bring the dragon back out.

You watched carefully, and from a distance, as Suguru held out his palm - a strange, black mist emulating from its center. As if coming out from some sort of portal Suguru created with his hand, the creature emerged.  You watched in awe as it swirled around him like it did before. He turned his head toward you as the wind picked up from its movements. His face lit up at the sight of yours, a sort of pride filling his face - happy he could provide some kind of enjoyment for you. 

Your eyes flickered to his face as soon as you realized he was staring at you. Your gleeful grin remained positive but relaxed, eyes sparkling with the sunset as you looked back at Suguru. The two of you shared the same expression of endearment.  His original grin closed into a flat-lipped satisfied smile as you slowly approached. He directed the creature to slow down to let you pass. The wind began to whip your hair around just as it did Suguru's as the creature continued to circle, making sure to avoid you as you came closer to its master. 

With arms outstretched, he invited you in and you continued to watch the dragon in its majesty circle you both. Completely mesmerized by the moment, you looked up at him and in the same moment he looked down.  No hesitation involved, your hand came up to gently caress his cheek, bringing his lips down to yours where they met in complete bliss. With each passing day, it was becoming harder and harder to seal your feelings away. But did you even have to anymore?

You were back in your room for the night, no expectations from wedding bliss at this point. Though you honestly wouldn't have said no had Suguru invited you back to his chamber again. Truthfully, having someone fall asleep by your side allowed you to get the most restful sleep you'd had in some time. So, as predicted, you found yourself wide awake in the middle of the night.

Your mind raced with the idea of cursed spirits, wondering just how many were out there and if Suguru was out there in that very moment fighting them off with his dragon and the other cursed spirits he mentioned collecting. Not to mention, people were gifted with these strange powers of sorcery to combat such creatures. You wanted to find out for yourself if you had any of these strange powers; powers that Suguru said would come naturally should you find yourself in danger. There was only one way for you to find out.

Your hometown was a mere two hour ride away by horseback. You already knew Suguru would scold you for leaving the castle let alone the small capital within its walls. But there was one person who would tag along whether he wanted to or not. And that was just who you were gunning for as you tightened the grip on your reins, cool, fresh night air stinging your cheeks as you galloped through the starlit fields.

"Kento," you whispered through his cracked bedroom window, something you could always count on. "Kento," you hissed a bit louder, his snoring jarring a bit as if he were slowly creeping awake. 

"Y/N?" He slowly sat up, sleepy eyes squinting through the darkness to get a better look at the dark figure at his window. "What are you doing here?"

"It's adventure time," you grinned, grasping the window sill with joyous eagerness. "There's something I want to show you."

"What time is it?" He wondered, rubbing his eyes and sitting all the way up in his bed. 

"No idea, but it doesn't matter. Hurry up! And bring a weapon, just in case!" You giggled and ran back to your horse to give him time to prepare. 

"I thought I wouldn't have to go through another one of these late night escapades once you were married," Kento complained as he exited the smithy, fully dressed and looking as irritated as ever. In his one hand he held a cleaver from the kitchen, hoping you were just being silly when you requested a weapon but still being a ride or die nonetheless.

"Sure, but this is important," you could hardly keep still. "We need to find out if we're sorcerers!"

"I'm sorry, what?" He shook his head in disbelief. "What on Earth are you talking about?" 

"Sorcerers!" You repeated, beginning to walk off - your horse safely tied up at the nearby stable. It would just be a liability if you got caught up with a cursed spirit. 

"You're going to have to explain that one," Kento followed, lagging behind as he always did. 

"I know," you smiled back at him and began the story. 

You walked through the town streets, even on the edge of the town itself and saw nothing yet. This was as expected based on what Suguru had taught you, but you wanted to be sure - and you wanted time to explain things to Kento. 

"You're telling me that these ghoul-like creatures exist from negative emotions and that not everyone can see them?" Kento basically repeated what you just said. "So who's to say we just can't see them? We probably don't have these powers just like Suguru said."

You looked back at your friend again, with a bit of hostility toward his pessimistic attitude. "We haven't finished looking. And I've already seen one!" You argued just as you approached the opposite side of town where the graveyard lied. "Negative as always, Kento," you stuck your tongue out at him, not realizing his eyes trailed off behind you in the same moment - a look of horror on his face.

"Y-yeah," he took a step back, looking upward at the grotesque creature that stood up behind you. "You're right, maybe I'm wrong here."

"That's more like it," you nodded once, satisfied with his sudden agreement. You turned back around to continue your venture only to see the large mass blocking your path. "Oh." You swallowed hard as the nastiest spit dribbled from his dangling jaws. 

You were completely frozen in place, unsure of what to do as the threat further encroached on your personal space.

"Y/N..." Kento's arm came back, a determined and knowing look suddenly on his face, "when I say so, you need to get out of the way."

You nodded quickly, eyes never leaving the creature as its spiked spine curled downward and its jaw opening wider as if preparing to take you in.

"Now!" Kento shouted and lunged forward, knife at the ready. 

Without a second thought you dove out of the way, scuffing your knees and ripping your nightgown in the process only to witness something you'd never see Kento do.  In the nick of time, you were able to turn over and watch as Kento expertly sliced through the body's center about three-fourths of the way down. 

It's strange-colored blood, a bluish-green, spilled onto the dirt beneath its body that instantly collapsed. The scent of death began to stink up the area as Kento took a few steps back from the scene, turning to you and lending a hand.

"You were right," he smiled warmly at you with a bit of the creature's blood on his face. You gripped his hand with wide-eyes and came to your feet.

"No way did you just do that," you shook your head. "My Kento? Killing a paranormal creature?" You could see the blush appear on his face through the moonlight. 

"It...felt natural, like an instinct," he explained, "and...in my vision..."

"Uh huh, uh huh?!" You grabbed both of his wrists at this point out of excitement, eagerly listening for more.

"It was as if I could imagine ten lines, a specific interest toward the seventh line" he shook his head, completely confused as he explained the best as he could.

"That...sounds like a technique!" You pointed at him. "We have to tell Suguru."

"No, no," he shook his head. "That'd only cause trouble."

"No," you corrected him, "you can help! It's clearly a problem, and if you have a technique - you can help!" He stared at you silently.  In that silence you realized something and slumped your shoulders. "I didn't feel anything...or have any idea of what to do." You looked up at him with sad eyes. "I don't have a technique..."

"Now, now," Kento began to panic, hating to see you upset, "it was just one creature. It startled you. We can't be sure..." 

You shook your head. "Suguru said it would come naturally no matter what," you mumbled, pouting like a child. 

"Y/N!" A familiar voice sounded in the distance. "What are you doing?"

"Whoa..." Kento gasped as the two of you watched as Suguru came flying in on what looked to be some kind of sea creature, definitely one of his cursed spirits. He was dressed in all black and his hair was tightly tied up, clearly a man on the clock.

"Suguru?" You were baffled by his sudden presence. 

"What happened here?" Suguru asked, leaping to his feet and absorbing his cursed spirit. He stared specifically at the bloodied ground. "Are either of you hurt?"

You shook your head as Suguru looked you all over like some kind of panicked parent. "Kento took out a cursed spirit! He has a technique, Suguru!" 

Suguru looked up at Kento who still looked to be in some concerned shock. "It was like some kind of ratio I saw. I just..." he motioned with his bloodied cleaver what he did, "and it crumbled." 

The king looked at Kento with a furrowed brow, an expression of what could be described as betrayal - as if he were jealous that you snuck out with him instead of the fact that he could have a useful technique. "That sounds like a technique," Suguru hesitantly confirmed before turning his attention back to you. 

"I...don't have one," you muttered with disappointment. 

Suguru shook his head toward your disappointment and immediately swept you into his arms, holding you tight and cradling your skull in the process. You were utterly smothered into his chest, giggling with his pressure. "Please don't ever run off like that without telling me where you're going. I don't want you to get hurt..."

"Sorry," you chuckled as he released you, letting his hands remain on your shoulders. Kento looked away awkwardly as if he were interrupting something. "How did you even know I was here?"

"Your attendant checked on you and saw you weren't there. She told one of the nobles on call tonight and they let me know," he explained. "I figured you'd be..." he looked at Kento without finishing his sentence.

[theredofoctober]

OUROBOROS— DEAD RINGERS FIC PART TWO

Cross posted from ao3

Pairing: Beverly and Elliot Mantle

Synopsis: The sisters reconnect in the most intimate manner...

TW: incest, abusive relationships

Read after the cut

---

Chapter Two: Elliot

I can't believe it. She lets me in. She lets me in.

I thought she might leave me out there forever, a pariah on the doorstep, waking the neighbours with my strident want of her, but she admits me into the house with the abrupt ecstasy of a diver suckling their first gasp of air at the surface, or of a child cut from the smothering membrane of its caul; I feel the pressure of Beverly's held breath as the door swings back and her arms close about me, and I think, "Fuck. This is where I'm meant to be."

There's no 'we' between me and my sister; there never was, only I.

She smells like fading perfume, and freshly smoked cigarettes, and the comforting cleanliness of soaped skin underneath it all. Beverly, my baby sister, is trembling, and silent, and full of tears.

I kiss and kiss her face as though to memorise every unforgettable atom of it, as though I don't see the image of her in mirrors and windows every day of my life. My sister tastes of powder and the salt of her tears, then my mouth is on hers and all I think of is heat, whether the comfort of the womb, or of thighs closed over a hand, or of coming home across the hearth—

I don't know. I don't know.

I do.

The chaos inside me is right, when our lips join, made clean as holy fucking absolution. I burst into a crazy sort of mirth at the sheer bloody joy of it, and then Beverly's laughing too, softening in the release of it, and the noise vibrates through me like the hum of the centre's machines.

I kiss her again, and this time Beverly hesitates at the intensity, at what it means, although she must surely feel as I feel, to gaze at me with so much want in her shy and lovely eyes.

"I wasn't even half a person without you," I whisper, into her ear. "Barely so much as a cell. I couldn't cope."

"Nor could I," says Beverly, still laughing, and weakly thumbs the tears from her cheeks. "I've been... clinging on. I don't know how. Like trying to breathe without lungs, I often think of it."

I was right in my perception of her at the doorway, then, the image of her sinking with me down into the bitter blue.

"Precisely, sister," I say, and kiss the corner of her mouth so that she twitches delightfully, bashful, and yet assured as she warms to me and my touch, as though we'd never been apart.

"Anyway," I say. "I brought wine. It's not shit. Quite excellent, actually. A gift from one of the mothers. She may or may not have thought that I was you."

Beverly takes me through to the lounge, turning back to glance at me from time to time, sometimes with guilt, and always with near-disbelief that I exist, in her house, rather than dissipating like foam, like one of her visions, a waking dream; I squeeze her hand to assure her, to anchor her, to let her know that I am fucking here.

I watch Beverly pour wine as carefully as the sacrament, the lines on her hands so dear to me that I long to cross the room and kiss them, but I only sprawl along the couch, thinking how Genevieve would rankle at the sight of me where she fucks my sister into the seat cushions.

"You shouldn't be here," Beverly mutters, though I don't believe she truly means it for a single fickle minute. "But I'm glad you came. I've thought about you so much it's like I see you all the time."

"You do, in a way," I say, playfully. "Besides, no matter where we are we're still with each other. Sometimes it feels like you're filling me up inside, possessing me, like a ghost. Or I wish you were. Amounts to pretty much the same thing."

"A ghost," Beverly repeats, and shudders, though she's neither religious, nor particularly superstitious.

"Topping me up with all your spectacular ether," I add, merrily, and Bev sits down beside me with the wine, and then we talk for hours, holding one another’s hands, our fingers clasped tight.

I feed from her every little look and gesture, the softness of her lips against the wine glass, which she drinks slowly while eyeing my own, depleting and replenishing in rapid frequency as the minutes pass.

Beverly, Beverly, Beverly, with her pert, precious mouth. I want to kiss her. The pink of her lips makes me think of something else.

Musing about touching her feels as natural as the urge to finish myself, or to chase pleasure in the lap of a man— more natural than either, in fact, being that we are the dual vessels of a soul. I start to think about the pale vase of skin at the throat of her sensible shirt and her breasts underneath, the sliver of wet warmth under her soft slacks that begs for my knuckles to the hilt of it.

"Ellie?" asks my sister, blinking nervously.

I set down my glass and lean in to take her face in my hands, so heated, and silken, and gently flushed with wine.

"Baby sister," I say, and my lips are on hers again, our tongues conjoined, slick slithers of twin heat in the hollows of our yearning mouths; we need each other, need, need, grasping and panting and guttering like the dying in our frantic desperation.

My lips are on her neck, and clavicle; I unfasten her stiff, stupid shirt, losing my patience and ripping at the buttons with my teeth in a snatching and tender hunger.

"Elliot!" cries Beverly, pushing at my shoulders. "What are you doing?"

I raise my head and gaze into the worried darkness of her eyes.

"You know what I'm doing," I say. "We want this. You and I. Don't we? Haven't you had the same dreams?"

Beverly considers for only a moment before sinking back into the sofa cushions, a sigh spiralling from her like autumn leaves loose on the wind.

"I've dreamt of it," she murmurs. "But I never thought we... could."

"We can do anything we fucking want," I reply, and tug the blouse free of her arms, slip off the plain, professional bra, which has left cruel grooves upon her skin, and kiss the marks the bones have cut under her breasts, the imprint of the lace on her nipples, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, all of it, all of her.

All the time I feel white bolts of arousal open me like the beginning of the world, a birth in cosmic brilliance out of the emptiness and the dark. I straddle my sister at the waist and grind against her in slow, deep rolls as I touch and suck each of inch of her from mouth to breast, feeling her squirming, needing, airless beneath me, her hands catching in my hair as she whimpers and moans my name.

"Elliot..."

"Yes, my darling."

She is so like me as I unbutton her trousers and tug them down, leg after leg; she pulls at me and demands that I have her, greedy with a mad and tender passion. When I mouth her sodden cunt through her underwear she bites back a gorgeous little scream, and I have to shove the light cotton aside and thrust my fingers within her, and lash my tongue to her clitoris and take what I have so achingly wanted.

She tastes like me. She is me.

Beverly. Elliot.

Beverly.

[johannwolfgangvongoethe]

Further Umineko Posting

episode 1, part 2

battler is in the unique position of having been a Normal Guy™ ages 12 to 18, which explains a lot of his weirder comments on wealth (i didnt choose to be born rich.... my family owns a yacht.... pensive emoji) after all, he just got there. add to that, jessica (future heir) and george (oldest of his generation) bear the brunt of expectations while he is Just above a 9yo in the hierarchy. it makes sense the story focusses on his view, he is somewhat of an outsider and its easy to explain dynamics through his eyes.

saying the natural beauty of the island and its large wild bird population should give way for a golf course was a terrible take, still.

i said before that he is a very believable 18yo. so far the writing did well to capture that weird sort of liminal period between Playing Adult and internalizing the adult play behaviours so that they manifest in Being An Adult. hope this makes sense.

another conflict has been reoccuring; the servants call themselves furniture. there has been little direct interaction between ushiromiya family members and servants so far so its hard to tell whether this mindset is employed but them or the the older servants themselves. POSSIBLY related to that, shannons winged emblem is on her thigh. no idea whether this is a funny design choice or, more dubiously, marks her in her role for life. interestingly, gohda and kumasawa seem to be the only servant characters without this emblem. their names also dont follow the same convention as kanons and shannons. possibly because they existed elsewhere before they were hired to work here, while shannon and kanon ....??!?!? grew up in this enviroment and had to accept their names from it. maybe this is what "being furniture" means, their status is quite belonging-like. genji seems to have been with kinzo forever, so he fits that category too. would be funny if they ended up being some sort of enchanted candleholders, all beauty and the beast like.

i finally saw every family member, i believe. krauss and jessicas hair colour is suspicious but oh well. kinzos mental state has been tanking dramatically. he seemed stressed out in the intro but sociable at least. now he just appears as a drunken choleric. genjis is in the weird role of enabling his selfdestruction. how much of this is him spiralling over some business he has with beatrice and how much of it is ???? dementia? i up in the air. krauss believes it to be later. it struck me when he said his father is already dead, only a phantom remains.

unhinged out there thing to say but kinzo reminds me so much of my own grandfather, though he had no beatrice..... there was always Someone bestowing evil unto him in his very potent paranoia, though. a few years ago i would not have been able to read umineko, i think. but my grandfather has been dead for a while and my family is poor and we didnt all get murdered on an island. so thats great!!! they are very similar though, lol.

also weird that i read two visual novels in a row and both of them closely describe how absinthe is prepared and looks. unlikely but not impossible. ANOTHER UNEXPECTED PERSONAL THING: funny how i Just learned about the hour of the ox from enstars of all places lmao. are both topics a staple in vn or am i just running into them by chance. whats happening.

according to kinzo, beatrices curse (everything she gave kinzo must be returned upon his death? or something?) manifests in the fact that all of his heird are incapable. i somehow think it will manifest in beatrice swallowing the family whole as if they never existed. women be eating.

i fully expect kinzo to die soon and for hell to break lose afterwards. currently the conference has the uncomfortable yet normal vibes of a family meetup but with his inheritance at stake it could get very ugly very soon. its funny genji hasnt come up in related conversations at all. it is not unlikely for him to inherit a lot as a lifelong butler and the only person kinzo tolerates around him.

oh so thats where all that comes from. huh.

"lol" rudolf said, and "git gud"

and i thought it was the witch who was supposed to murder

all siblings seem to be very business savy, safe for rosa perhaps, who openly admits that she still feels like a child. even before that battlers inner monologue informed us that being in adult in the ushiromiya family has little to do with age and all to do with success. indeed, krauss gets accused of embezzlement because there is no other way to explain the source of his funds. the siblings goals in all this seem quite clear for now. krauss needs his father financially to avoid debt and failure. eva sees herself as the most capable of the four, with an intelligent husband, son, and successful enterprise in the background. rudolf wants a piece of the cake. rosa is not yet as financially stable as she would like to be. and natsuhi is caught in the crossfire, with tons of responsibilities but little power, as she is not related by blood. her chronic headaches are probably psychosomatic and/or stress related. her own family, while not clearly explained (yet?) seems to be very unfortunate and this much nobler cutthroat enviroment is destroying her.

the girls are, once again, fighting

natsuhis struggle has much to do with gender. she is related by marriage, left another family, will never be seen as an equal in her new one, and has the expectation of producing a child. it is also mentioned she organizes the private household and family meetings, so she got stuck playing along with her conservative patriarchal wife role. this contrasts eva, who by all means is shown as empowered and ambitious (her husband took her name, she does multiple martial arts). by design those two are to be pit against each other, when they would have had no further beef otherwise.

the core issue seems to be whose child is to continue the main ushiromiya bloodline. their real problem does not lie with each other but with traditional values and expectations towards women. unfortunately being a narrative foil doesnt always mean you get to have gay sex or else we wouldnt be here.

[revolversandlace]

Blemished Silk | Chapter Twenty-One - Knock Me Down

Chapter Index

Arthur Morgan x f!OC Longfic

Mature Rating - 5.8k Words

Chapter Tags & Warnings: fOC!POV, Fluff, Flirting, Angst, Pining, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of PTSD and previous childhood abuse.

Summary: Amelia is in some desperate need of respite, finds herself in the company of Arthur.

Scarlett Meadows, Month 1899

With a shawl over her shoulders and a bottle of scotch tucked underneath her arm, Amelia made her way to the stables with both care and haste. It had been so long since Amelia had given herself some time alone, time away from numbers, from the business, from anything her head decided to focus on regardless of whether it cost her both sleep and appetite.

She knew exactly what she needed, some quiet time with the bottle. A place of warmth and safety amongst some company that wouldn’t give her derivatives or opinions. Horses were the most wonderful confidants for that. Trustful, honest, and compassionate. Everything she needed in a listener right now.

Any other sane person was sure to have journals or some such form of working through their whirling thoughts. Not Amelia, though. She wanted the company but without that look of worry or pity, or god forbid, another suggestion. She needed a good night’s sleep, increasingly aware of the dark circles underneath her eyes, how her skin was thinning around her mouth and how her hair was lacklustre.

However, sleep was a privilege that would not be gifted to her. Not until she purged her mind of all these racing thoughts.

When she arrived at the stable door, there was no sign of life outside. Even when she opened it quietly enough not to disturb any horses inside, those who were still awake lifted their muzzles in greeting. Their hot breath filled the air as it steamed from their nostrils, visible even in the dim.

The scent of leather and hay filled the air around her as she opened the door with a tentative push. She prayed that Talako wasn’t still working or worse - drunk and snoring away in the haystacks. The soft snort from the horses and their slight rustles gave her the positive confirmation that she was indeed the only other person there. It gave her a calming notion, with a sort of emotional nourishment as she closed the stable door behind her softly, smiling at the creatures.

Looking at them, Amelia thought of them in the way she always imagined a mother to look upon their children. Or how they should at the very least. She walked surreptitiously across the wooden floor, popping the cork of the bottle with her teeth, whilst she chuckled to herself. 

Was this to be her evening? Drinking and thinking about her parents and the ways that they should have been kind to her, thinking about all the things she would do differently as a parent?

No, she thought resolutely. She was here for some peace and quiet.

With only one lantern lit up near the stalls, its light cast shadows against the wooden walls, making them stand out almost like blackened bones. As comforting as she found the stables, like some sort of recluse, she knew it would not be enough to settle her mind. 

So instead of climbing into bed, taking off her shoes before slipping under the covers, Amelia chose something more familiar than either pillow or blankets. Taking a large swing from the glass neck, Amelia was almost amused by her thoughts. This was the reason for her constant busyness, the reason she never gave herself a moment to think damn straight, as all her mind knew was to revert to her childlike ways. To hide herself and tuck herself away in the only thoughts she ever knew.

And yet, that was the complete and utter irony of it all. How she longed to run away from her own mind and find some refuge in a place that did not exist. Yet the further she tried to run within herself, she found herself locked in the exact same time and place. A place she had escaped so many years ago and yet never truly seemed to be free from.

Going to the first horse on her left, she was not going to start divulging her thoughts just yet.

‘Ssshhhh…’ she cooed, reaching for the horse’s muzzle, rubbing it softly and closing up against the pen. Claudio, the latest stallion - a dark brown thoroughbred - tucked his head around her shoulder, nestling in and making quite a fuss of her.

Amelia had always had a way with horses, or most animals for that matter, if she was honest. It was the only time she felt unbridled; not having to hide behind either guise or etiquette. All they gave her was unwavering loyalty, trust, and care.

Looking up at the thoroughbred, the sadness hit her rather unexpectedly. The gentleness she could see in his dark eyes was something she could never repay to the animal.

She swallowed the guilt down - quite literally with another large gulp of the brown liquor. Thankfully, the majority of the horses were resting or sleeping, and she didn’t feel the need to disturb them. Making the way to the back of the stable with her clammy hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, she took a few more swigs before she reached the stack of hay she had been fantasising about all day.

It smelled like dust and old grasses which clung to every strand of straw. It reminded Amelia of summers past when she would spend hours playing games by herself, running across the estate grounds barefoot like some street urchin. Her dress, her hair, all a mess and covered in all manner of blood sucking critters.

It never mattered to her, of course, how she would dance around the tree trunks, how she would see just quite how long she could spin for before finding herself sick and dizzy. She would play with twigs and poke at the fallen logs with them or perhaps even use them to tie her hair away from her face as she skipped over the molehills and followed the butterflies until they climbed so high into the sky she could no longer see them.

Of course, it was never long before one of the servants found her, their distant cries as they dragged her by the wrist back to the house, only for her mother to force her into a bath so scolding hot she would bite the inside of her lip in an attempt to not cry as the maids scrubbed her raw with pity in their eyes.

It was a house filled with pearls, bearskins, and fear. A veneer of standing that only meant anything to those on the outside and not a damn thing to the child that lived amongst the walls.

Needless to say, the wildness was soon knocked out of her, but the longing remained. A controlled poise would envelop all the things her heart yearned for, an exterior of steel as she grit her teeth, said the words, curtsied to old men, and used all of her knives and forks in the right order at supper.

It was all in preparation for becoming someone else. Someone that she hoped might make the world better somehow. Somebody that would stop the madness, fix the wrongs of society.

Just for tonight. She thought to herself. A moment away from everything and most importantly from the facade she had spent years cultivating and mastering. Just for tonight, I will be free.

As she lay there staring up at the stars that peeked between the cracks of the boards above, Amelia realised that nothing had really changed. There was still no escaping the suffocating feeling of being trapped beneath the surface. Even with all that she had done and accomplished, the woman she was allowed to be would still never be enough, and she feared it never would be. There was always more to do, more to accomplish, and certainly more to prove.

Settling back into the haystack with all the pokes and scratches she expected to feel in her evening shift, Amelia settled into the warmth, looking on at the sea of black eyes and the soft snores of her horses. Another few gulps later, eyes warm and the unrelenting comfort that she finally felt, her mind wandered.

Distant memories of a life so far behind her, she almost felt as though she had dreamt it. Another time, another life. If she allowed herself, she could recall it all in perfect detail, yet even the scotch wouldn’t let her mind drift quite that far. It was although she watched ghosts dance around, to play out like a show in the theatre. She could almost feel it in flashes of darkness. The roar of her name, the thwack of a fist in her back…

Not now, Amelia forced herself to think, the drink catching up with her a lot quicker than she intended. This was supposed to be her night - a time for relaxation - not a time for her mind to trail off into the darkness she spent years pushing back from.

She looked up between the cracks of the stable roof, to where the moon sat low, hanging over the world like some sort of all-seeing eye. The brightness was almost mocking as it watched down like a silvery god, all knowing and powerful. She sipped at the dark liquid again, the mere vapours stinging her eye as she braced her stomach for the oncoming assault that liquor would often cause on an empty stomach.

Licking her lips, she may as well have tilted her head back and poured the whole damn bottle down her throat. The haunting sound of footsteps, the familiar slam of the door…

She jolted up. Blinking into the darkness, willing away the ghosts of her memory. She was sure there was something there behind the veil. Enough to make her stomach lurch and her veins turn to both fire and ice at the same time.

Amelia couldn’t hear much beyond the beating of her own heart, creating a thunderous sound throughout her body. Amelia couldn’t tell whether it was her memories, the drink, the darkness, or a combination of all of it.

Her skin prickled, making her feel as though every hair on her body became a needle. She felt as though the air itself was ready to strike with all the sharpness of a dagger.

Claudio stirred at the far end of the stable and she knew whatever she heard was real.

Blinking without a second thought, she took the bottleneck in her hand. Not in a manner that one would consume the contents - in a way that was ready to use - if she needed it.

It was hard to discern exactly what she saw, liquor or not. The shadows seemed to jump and lurch before her as she tried to concentrate on one thing, on anything.

Scrunching her eyes, she opened them again, seeing nothing and everything at the same time as the world remained silent and dead around her.

Perhaps it was just her imagination after all, or the nighttime breeze causing a door or shutter to knock against something. Straining her eyes, the shadow formed.

Amelia sat up straight, her grip tightening even more. There was someone there.

In an attempt to even her breath, the only thing should think of was the men. Those men. The men who had come for her horses.

Without daring to move, she knew what this meant for her. The outlaws, the gangs, the very worst of society, and here she was, alone, drunk, and in her smocks.

She was convinced they could hear the pacing of her heart in her throat, the smell of blood from prey to a predator. The shadow took a shape. The shape of a man.

All she could do was freeze, like some kind of possum, quiet and dead to the night and anything that crept around her. As the footsteps on the wooden floor sounded louder, she almost vomited without a single wretch.

Trying to shuffle to the side, she knew Talako usually kept a firearm behind the hay for both security and practicality. However, her arms were too short to reach behind her and she didn’t dare do anything too rash to give away her presence.

Her nose was filled with earthy sweat and leather. But there was more, something underneath all of it; something sweet and familiar, something comforting and distant all at once.

‘Miss Edwards?’ A voice called, low and deep.

She couldn’t even speak. It was although she was trapped in those god awful dreams, between life and death where the spirit world attempted to claim her.

‘Ma’am?’ He called again.

She tried to make out the silhouette all dressed in black, a holster, and a wide-brimmed hat. She was steadfast.

‘Miss Edwards?’ He said again, appearing to step closer.

It was only then, as he came closer and took off his leather hat, that she saw the outline of his face. There were very few times Amelia could truly say that she had lost her mind with relief, but this was one of them.

‘My god,’ she gasped, exhaling the long held breath, and she almost felt herself bursting into tears. What on earth was he playing at? ‘I thought… Jesus Christ, Mr Morgan!’ She hissed.

He said nothing but walked closer to her.

‘You alright, ma’am?’ He said in a hushed voice as he looked her up and down.

Suddenly aware of her lack of decorum with her night shift, liquor and hiding in hay, this must have been all rather concerning indeed.

‘Honestly! What the fuck are you doing? Sneaking into my stables?!’ Now as the adrenaline of fear wore off, it merged into somethiìng else. It was something blinding - something she was happy to waste a twenty-year-old bottle of scotch on - as she thought about wrapping it around his head.

The two stood facing each other in silence for a while, the wind blowing softly through the broken boards. He held up his hands in defence, stopping in his tracks.

‘I just…’ With a sigh and pushed back his hair, barely looking at her in the dark confines.

‘What’s happened?’ She snapped, although not meaning to.

‘It’s urm…’ He began, standing there, his hand lingering with his hat at his side. ‘It’s been a long night...’ His eyes dipped to the floor and suddenly Amelia felt rather ashamed of herself. Clearly, the man was in some disarray.

���Work.’ He said finally, meeting her gaze.

Breathing deeply through her nostrils, Amelia unclenched her jaw, folding her head back onto the hay behind her. With a small chuckle, out of her stupidness rather than anything to do with Mr Morgan, she stretched out her arm with the bottle in hand.

‘Sounds like you need this as much as I do.’ Looking back towards him, he eyed her curiously.

Covertly, she pulled the shawl back over her shoulders.

‘You ain’t wrong there,’ he said, taking her offer. ‘May I?’ He nodded to the space of hay next to her as she nodded and smiled.

‘Unfortunately, Mr Morgan,’ she began, fishing for her cigarettes in her nightgown, ‘you haven’t caught me at my best.’

She was hoping for some rhetoric, something polite perhaps. However, if by now she was still expecting anything from Mr Morgan, she was deeply mistaken. He took a few swigs and handed the bottle back to her.

Passing him a cigarette, he took one cordially, pulling out his matches and lighting it on the bottom of his boot and offering her the flame.

For several moments, the smoke hung between them, in place like a tombstone, there wasn’t a single soul around, apart from themselves.

Amelia sighed as she flicked the match away, letting it fall to the ground. As the embers died, she noticed that his expression softened, the corners of his mouth turned upwards slightly, even in the darkness.

He sat close enough to her that she could smell the scent of musk and cedar, a smell she was growing increasingly familiar with. Yet there was something that corrupted it, something acrid and burnt like a campfire.

Amelia frowned and looked up to meet his stare. For a moment, she swore that he stared right through her. Her breathing faltered under the heat of his eyes as she wondered if she had imagined it all.

‘You out here by yourself?’ He questioned, looking at her from the corner of his eyes and he slumped his elbows to his knees.

‘Yes,’ she whispered meekly, hardly wanting a lecture and feeling acutely bashful and how she must look. She was tired, angry, upset, and after the last moments, at quite a tipping point.

‘Well, if you ain’t in the mood for talkin’,’ he held out his hand, gesturing with his gloved fingers for the bottle, ‘that suits me just fine.’

Handing him the liquor, which was disappearing at some rate, they both seemed as equally tense as one another.

She didn’t think it was proper to ask about his night, and he was hardly a prying man, either. They could drink in silence for all Amelia cared. However, she didn’t want to do it in awkwardness. The alcohol had given her enough confidence to at least offer some kind of olive branch.

‘My business… It’s… I’ve done everything. Everything.’ shaking her head, Amelia took another drag of her cigarette. ‘And yet still, they try to take it all from me. Leave me with nothing. Leave my staff with nothing. Throw us to the dirt to exploit more and more…’ She trailed off, feeling her words catch in her throat.

In his usual characteristic manner, Mr Morgan said no words, letting the silence sit thickly between them.

Aside from the odd huffing of the horse nearby and their own heavy breathing, the world appeared so silent. So dead.

Amelia felt the urge to be near to him, to feel the warmth of his body beside hers, some form of comfort in his no doubt warm embrace. Yet she remained still, letting out a heavy sigh as she clung to her shawl, gripping it at her chest like a child with their favourite blanket as they climbed into their bed.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Amelia said simply, sad and realising just how small she felt. How small she always felt in the world of those who wanted to dictate the fate of others.

She was so utterly powerless, everything she had strived for, a life she so desperately wanted to give everyone and anyone who deserved it. She had fought, played the game of chess, stood against the South, paid her dues, and yet none of it mattered.

Slumping almost into herself, she passed the bottle back to Mr Morgan. The ends of their cigarettes lit up a small space around them. Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest place to partake in fire and alcohol.

‘Well, I don’t know much about business,’ he said, his deep voice rumbling through her, ‘but I know you don’t let greedy folks take what ain’t theirs.’

He scratched at his knee with his thumb, as if removing a small piece of dirt.

‘You almost sound as though you are speaking from experience, Mr Morgan,’ she said, unable to find the courage to look up at his face. Instead, she focused on her hands clasped together tightly.

He let out a small chuckle, nodding thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, somethin’ like that, I guess,’ he said, taking a swig of the liquor. He reached forward to stub out his cigarette on the ground.

‘I feel like such a fool,’ Amelia said, her voice brittle as she felt the tears steam in her eyes as her throat gave a stiff ache with the promise of all the emotions that could spill free from her at any given moment. ‘I really thought I could be something different... someone who made a difference.’

‘Ain’t no shame in trying, ma’am,’ he said to her softly, passing the bottle back to her.

Sitting up straight, he turned to her slightly, resting his elbow on his thigh as he ran his hand through his hair.

‘What do you wanna do?’ he said, his eyes staring at her intently as the question forced her heart to hammer in her chest.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but her tongue became dry in an instant, unsure how to respond. It was as though all the breath had been squeezed from her. She was sure Mr Morgan could hear her heart thumping underneath her ribcage and her mind spun at the question. Like a featherless bird trying desperately to stay aloft, she felt lightheaded as her hands tingled with a sort of expectation.

Amelia was not unaware of the way he would look at her, the soft smiles and looks that lasted longer than they would have done in polite company. Whether all of that was for her, or whether he was like that with most women, was another matter entirely. 

She could convince herself that perhaps it was her imagination, that perhaps, like most other things, she gave it more thought than was truly warranted. Yet there was something that whispered at the back of her mind that told her otherwise, that told her that maybe, just maybe, it was something else.

Her cheeks flushed, knowing the thoughts she was having as she realised how long she must have been quiet for.

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ she managed to choke from herself, her eyes dropping to the floor, anything to avoid that darn oceanic gaze.

‘There’s always choices, ma’am, and you’ve got this far,’ he said, turning back towards the darkness in front of them. ‘I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’

‘I just… I don’t know,’ and that was true. Should she sell the assets or at least give those contracted to her some sort of life? God; contracted. The sentiment was beyond ironic. She kept them as legal slaves. Yes, there were dividends, yes there were doctors and dentists and even schooling, but she was still their Mistress.

Amelia closed her eyes and took a big gulp of the liquor, savouring every swallow before handing the bottle back to Mr Morgan.

She tried to focus, to see past her own selfish desires of saving the people working under her, to the reality of what she would leave behind, and none of it seemed like a decent prospect.

‘I’ve entrenched myself so deep now, I do not even know where…’ filled with melancholy, she returned to her smoking, taking the bottle back from Arthurs’s hand without courtesy or politeness. ‘All I ever wanted was to be fair.’

Mr Morgan grunted, taking the bottle back for himself with little candour and taking a large gulp of liquor himself.

They drank in silence, Amelia watching the flames dance across the end of her cigarette and wondering exactly what she did want. Yet as the alcohol settled, there was only one thing in that moment she truly wanted.

She gripped the edge of the haystack with her hands, leaning forward as her mind swayed from the scotch as she tried to focus on the end of her boots in an attempt to rid herself of her unshakeable desire.

‘How is your arm?’ She said, still gripping to the edge as she turned her face across her shoulder, her cheek nestling in the lace of her shawl.

Mr Morgan tilted his head, rotating the wounded arm ever so slightly.

‘Had worse,’ he said, offering a small smile. ‘But it ain’t bled again, thanks to you.’

Amelia swallowed hard, forcing a nervous laugh as she shook her head, pushing down her feelings, willing them to go away. She couldn’t allow herself to get lost in the moment. 

He handed the scotch back to her, and she took it earnestly, anything to help ease her tension, although as she looked at the bottle, with just over half left, she feared anymore may cause her to do or say something imprudent.

‘Do you ever feel like running away, Mr Morgan?’ She slurred ever so slightly, bemused by her surprising amount of composure in her speech. ‘To just take your horse and ride?’

He was silent for a moment. Stubbing her smoke out on the glass bottle, she threw the end and took another sip.

‘All the damn time.’ He said.

There was a sadness in his voice. It was so subtle, but it was there nevertheless. She had never heard him be anything other than a straight-talking man, but something in his words made her soften to him all the more.

‘Where do you think you would go?’ she said gently, as she felt her composure dropping all the more.

He turned to her with a cynical expression, his eyes narrow as though he was trying to catch her in some sort of lie, but then tempered, finding refuge in the bottle once more.

‘I dunno. Somewhere new, I guess. Somewhere wild.’

They sat there for some time, wrapped up in each other’s thoughts, passing the bottle and cigarettes silently between them. There was no awkwardness, however, just silence. Perhaps Arthur Morgan was the drinking companion she was looking for, after all.

‘And you, ma’am?’ he said after some time.

She sighed, pondering the question. She always wanted to return home, but that was hardly ever an option anymore, nor had it been for many years.

‘Somewhere free, I suppose,’ she said, swirling the liquor in the bottle, watching the ripples crash against the inside of the glass. The soft night air blew through the stables, and other than a few sounds from the horses, the night was perfectly still. Almost peaceful.

Arthurs nodded slowly, seeming to understand completely as he stared up at the ceiling above him.

‘Why did you come here, Mr Morgan?’ Amelia’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but in the midnight air, it sounded so incredibly loud to her ears.

‘Needed to lie low for an hour or two. The estate was close by. Figured I’d sneak in, sneak out.’ He brushed his hand down his jeans as he leant back to look at her.

She could not say that she was particularly pleased with his answer. Was he in some sort of trouble? If she was being more honest with herself, she was hoping for something different. For what, however, she wouldn’t dare say.

He was a difficult man to read at the best of times, and she was sure any other man in his position would already be having their way with her on the haystack. Perhaps she was pining, after all, hoping for something that was simply not there.

Yet as she looked on at him, she could tell there was something on his mind, something that troubled him that he wore like a mask across his face, etching itself into his features.

She wished she knew enough to ask him what it was, to probe deeper and learn the reason for whatever turmoil raged within him. It was as though she was watching a storm brew on the horizon, a distant rumble of thunder emanating from him.

‘Do I need to be concerned?’ She asked, realising it had been some moments since she spoke.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Very well then. As long as it’s nothing nefarious.’ Amelia said with a small smirk, as he continued to stare out into the shadows, his eyebrows low and tense. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘please call me Amelia.’

He turned to look at her slowly, the most curious expression on his face as though he was a doctor studying some new disease, almost a sense of fascination replacing the desolation she had seen only moments ago.

‘Very well,’ he said, offering the bottle back to her, which she took without hesitation. ‘Amelia.’

She beamed towards him, the sound of her name falling from his lips like a promise of better things, things that only a man like him could provide her.

As she tilted her head back, she expected the scotch to come gushing towards her and little did. As she pulled it away from her mouth, she saw how little was left in it.

Letting out a small giggle, she passed the bottle back to Mr Morgan, who too chuckled at the bottle, shaking his head slightly and finished it in one.

A small hiccup interrupted her thoughts and Mr Morgan, rather un-gentlemanly, chuckled.

‘It’s not funny,’ Amelia protested, her hand covering her mouth as another hic left her mouth, although she too struggled to contain her laughter.

Mr Morgan’s mouth had twisted into a smirk as he began to laugh, truly laugh, at the sound. She hadn’t released it before, but she had never heard him laugh before and it was earthy and rich, and a sound she never wanted to forget.

She would have felt embarrassed, yet the scotch aided her amusement as she tried her best to stifle the involuntary sounds.

‘Well,’ Arthur began, and the laughter died away, ‘if your plan was to get drunk'n wake half the estate up, I’d wager you’ve succeeded.’

Amelia grinned to herself, for he wasn’t wrong.

‘It’s been a very bizarre evening, I must admit.’

Their laughter died off, but their impish smiles still toyed at the corner of their lips, as Amelia relaxed her breath, her eyes closing every so slightly with the promise of sleep.

‘They do say laughter is the best medicine,’ she said, tucking her shawl tightly around her as the spasms in her ribcage seemed to have truly abated.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he said with a nod, ‘well, now I’ve drunk you out scotch, Amelia,’ he took his hat and stood in front of her with his hand outstretched, ‘best see you off safely.’

She knew he was right, but was annoyed that her unexpected visitor was to leave so soon. Not that she was entirely sure what she was expecting. For him to stay up all night with her so they could pine for each other in silence? She scoffed inwardly. But also, it hardly sounded like the worst thing in the world.

‘Very well, Mr Morgan.’ She stood slowly, feeling the liquid roll around in both her stomach and head.

It really would not be fitting for any of her staff to find her passed out drunk and half-dressed in the morning.

Grabbing at her shawl and taking his calloused hand gently, she tried to not feel too giddy as she looked at the floor beneath her.

‘Carefu-‘ Was all he managed to say before Amelia felt herself falling through the air as her foot stumbled on her skirt.

She let out a small cry, preemptive with the fear of her face connecting with the stable floor. Yet it never came. She felt the warmth at the small of her back, and within a second, there was no longer any space left between her and Mr Morgan.

Her hand had somehow managed to knot itself in his black shirt. She didn’t dare look up at him.

‘I…’ was all she managed to stutter breathlessly into the chest before her, as neither of them moved. It was daft, but it was only then as Amelia stared blankly into his chest that she realised how much taller than her he was, and how broad he was.

She expected him to step away, make a joke perhaps at her intoxication, but instead, they both stood there in intense silence.

The seconds stretched into minutes until she found her courage and dared to raise her gaze and look upon his bright eyes. He was staring directly back at her, searching deep into her own. In those brief moments, everything about him seemed to change. Swallowing hard, regardless of the darkness, she could see the faintest of scars nestled under his thick stubble and the light scattering of freckles on his skin.

She could smell the smoke on him, like an acrid cologne, the smell of cedar, sweat and smoke all mingled into one.

Her blood thumped in her ears and between her thighs, and his rough hand trembled ever so slightly on the low curve of her back, filling her body with a heat that burned even stronger than the liquor.

Her lips parted, and she stood there, stunned, trying to think of something to say. Utterly speechless, all she knew was that she wanted him desperately. She wanted him to kiss her deeply, take her to her chambers, and not leave until the morning.

Amelia could see it on his face, the uncertainty, the need.

Clearing his throat, she felt the hand drop from her back and he stepped back from her and leant down to retrieve his hat from the floor.

Stunned, Amelia’s eyes follow him. Was he truly going to leave her like this? Then, the shame hit her. Perhaps it was the case that he didn’t want her to tumble, an instinct, and that he held no desire for her.

‘It’s late, ma’am,’ he said in a low gravelly voice, not even meeting her gaze as though what had just happened had never even transpired. ‘Make sure you get back safe.’

With that, he skulked back into the darkness and left Amelia in the stables.

She stood there for some time, blinking with shallow breath, staring into the darkness. In her head, she thought that he would return to her. To change his mind and silently grab her and show her all the pleasures she had never felt before.

However, he never came back. And after some time, Amelia resigned her false thoughts and made her way back to the house.

It was as quiet as when she left it, and thankfully, all of her staff were asleep. Making her way up the stairs, she supposed that if she did run into anyone, Amelia would make some excuse about being peckish and went to search the pantry. Not that she needed to make up a story for being awake out of hours.

Fortunately, she made it to her bedroom without any interruption and she slumped in front of her dresser.

Amelia felt utterly foolish as she slowly began to pull the pins out of her hair. If he just told her plainly that he did not think of her in such ways, she could be done with acting like a silly young maid. She could put the notion to rest and go find someone else to quiver over if she pleased.

Yet if he didn’t, if he truly felt nothing for her, why did he hold her there? Why did his hand tremble whilst she was pressed into him in the dark, and why, for the briefest of moments, did she see his eyes look at her lips?

Unable to get the thoughts off her head, Amelia untangled her hair with her fingers as it tumbled to her waist. Tormenting herself wasn’t going to give her any answers. Even if she had drunk all of that liquor, she wouldn’t be able to read the man’s mind.

Crawling into bed, she could still smell him, feel his heat, and touch. None of it mattered, and she just prayed silently that she hadn’t made things too uncomfortable for the next time they were to meet.

[mild-and-hammered]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56871634 <-Check it out here

or read it right here

Five Times Bruce Wayne Flirted With Clark Kent (And One Time Clark Flirted Back)

One

Brucie was in top form tonight. Behind the mask that was his playboy persona, Bruce himself was having incredible fun as well. He actually had a night off, and he was spending it at a gala. Normally that would irk him but, well…

Bruce wasn’t that far from Brucie, deep down. 

Almost as if we’re the same person, he thought wryly. 

And once in a while, when he was in the mood to party, why not enjoy the party? He was rich, hot, and for once, actually indulging in alcohol. It was way harder to enjoy even a very good party if you are the only sober person surrounded by socialites too drunk to hold a conversation. Bruce felt good (barring a few bruised ribs) and he looked good, and he was looking for someone to chat with, maybe even flirt with. He wanted someone new…someone interesting…or at the very least someone funny. 

His eyes lit on Lois Lane. She was always good for some sharp banter. She’d cracked the outer layer of the Brucie shell immediately. She knew he wasn’t an idiot, so that always gave him the rare opportunity to actually trade barbed remarks. She got an interview and he got a conversation that wasn’t mind numbing, and they both escaped boredom. 

She threw her head back and laughed, long and heartily, at something her companion had said. It caused several people to turn and look. Lois was a magnetic woman anyway, and her laugh was genuine and infectious. His eyes, however, were on her conversation partner. 

Bruce was used to cataloging every room he entered, the people, the exits, potential threats and potential allies. He was surprised –and intrigued– to realize he’d missed this. 

This was six-foot-three-inches of shy charm and muscles in a really bad suit. He had a geeky air about him that Bruce was ready to jump all over. And he’d made Lois laugh; the intrepid Miss Lane had a high bar for conversation partners, and it was as good a recommendation as any. Bruce sauntered over, falling into the practiced slink of a hunter stalking its prey, in this case, the hot brunet with the dorky glasses. 

“Miss Lane,” he purred. “How wonderful to see you, and laughing as well. Such a rare thing to see you laughing at something other than me, I don’t know whether to be delighted or disappointed.”

Lois scowled at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I’m sure you’ll give me something to laugh at later.”

“I intend to, but tell me, who is your,” Bruce paused, looking the brunet up (and up a little further) and down. “Absolutely delightful friend.”

The man blushed and Bruce had to stop himself from letting his playboy smirk slip into a genuine grin. The man was simply too much, blushing red and shuffling his feet, all while built like a cuddly linebacker. Bruce was going to have fun. 

“Clark,” the man said. “Clark Kent. I work with Lois at the Planet. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Wayne.” He held out a hand the size of a serving platter. Bruce took it, smoothly running his fingertips along the inside of his wrist, then turning the hand over to, instead of shaking, press a kiss to the back of unblemished knuckles. 

“Mister Kent, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”

And to his delight, it was. Sure, he didn’t end up having a quickie in the bathroom, but perhaps that was for the best, since the paparazzi would have had a field day and he didn’t want to have to hire yet another PR team. Instead he basked in the wonder of pleasant and intelligent conversation with an incredibly attractive partner, who kept blushing like a tomato every time Bruce said something even slightly above pg13. 

Two

Bruce wasn’t genuinely interested in buying a newspaper, but Lex Luthor was interested in buying the Daily Planet. It was mostly Justice League business. Luthor could only want one thing from the Daily Planet–some sort of access to Superman. If he thought he could intimidate Lois Lane into revealing her sources, Bruce felt quite certain the man had a reckoning coming. Still, why take the chance? 

And it was also personal. Because Lex was a showy jerk. Bruce was also a showy jerk, but he was a showy jerk who paid his employees, every last one of them, a livable wage with every benefit Bruce could tack on. Lex Luthor had gone to the press about it, and called him a bleeding heart liberal because he wanted the people who worked for his company to not starve. Bruce had already been out for blood, but then Luthor had made a rather snide comment about Bruce’s parents’ business acumen. Anyway, he was going to buy a paper just so Luthor didn’t get his grubby hands on it, then possibly uncover lots of inflammatory things about his business practices to the public, and maybe see if he could sleep with one of Luthor’s exes just to top it off.

“Mister Wayne,” came a familiarly cutting voice. “Dabbling in the news industry now, are we?”

Bruce leveled his most charming grin at Miss Lane, who remained resolutely uncharmed, but smirked knowingly at him anyway. 

“Well, I don’t know if you heard, but Mister Luthor and I have a bit of a rivalry,” he said in a stage whisper. “I heard some buzz about him acquiring the paper and thought I’d have a look.”

“Prince of Gotham wasn’t enough, now you want to rule the Planet too?” Lois said, smiling a bit more warmly. 

“I think emperor of the world is a better title,” Bruce said, leaning his hip against a desk and ignoring his assistant who was trying to usher him into a meeting with the editor. “But this will have to do.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” came a different, extremely welcome voice. “Ope, let me just…you have a bit of–oh dear.”

Clark Kent was standing, bewildered, in a pile of papers slowly fluttering to the ground. He had about a half cup of coffee spilled over himself, and the other half was on a red headed young man that, Bruce would swear, he’d seen doing photography for events. 

“Jeeze, Smallville, " the ginger laughed. “You’re a disaster area. At least the coffee was iced.”

“Jimmy I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

“Yeah, it’s only on my jacket. You should take a look in a mirror though–hey is that Brucie Wayne?”

Clark looked up with a deer-in-the-headlights expression from where he’d already knelt to pick up the papers. Bruce joined him, unbuttoning his suit jacket so the back vent didn’t crease. He let their hands brush as he gathered papers and loose post-it notes with scribbled writing. When they had a handle on things Clark stood, offering his arm to Bruce to help him up in a way that could only be described as chivalrous. Damn. Bruce really was going to climb him like a tree. 

He brushed something chocolatey off the arm of Clark’s offensively polyester sweater. “Sprinkle?” He asked idly, noting the definition of the bicep underneath his hand.

“Mocha chip,” Clark said, ducking his head and making his loose curls bounce. “From my, ah, frappuccino.”

“So you like it sweet,” Bruce said, letting his hand move a little higher up the knitwear-wrapped shoulder. 

“I guess so,” Clark chuckled, making a gesture as if to rub the back of his neck with his hand, but realizing a second too late that he had papers in one hand and Bruce on the other arm. “I suppose you’re very sophisticated with your tastes, black artisanal roasts maybe?”

“Blonde espresso with toffee nut syrup, actually,” Bruce said, leaning in. The sweater really was terrible, but Clark was warm and seemed inclined to let Bruce hang off of him. 

“So you have a sweet tooth too, huh?” Clark said, smiling shyly. That little dimple on his chin was…familiar.

“What can I say, I like my coffee like I like my reporters,” Bruce said, tilting his head teasingly and arching a brow at Kent. “Sweet, strong, and really hot.”

The poor man dropped all his papers again. 

Three

Sitting around the table with the Justice League, Bruce was, unusually, distracted. He was listening, but mostly he’d said his part, and now the others were discussing the information he’d doled out. He was staring at Kal El. 

Kal El was holding a big, sugary frappuccino. It had mocha chips on it. Bruce didn’t believe in coincidences. He cataloged his colleague and…yes. The dimple, the loose wavy curls, tamed by either gel or some sort of Kryptonian force field generated by the suit. The big blue eyes…yep. Clark Kent was sitting at the table. His posture was utterly changed, instead of his shy slump his back was so straight he looked like an action figure, the effect only enhanced by the skin-tight suit and strong jaw. 

This was too fun. Could he make Kal blush? Or had that been an act too? If it was, it was an excellent one, and Bruce should know. The idea that some quirk of Kryptonian xenobiology might allow Clark to blush on que intrigued Bruce, but not quite as much as a different question. Did Clark know who he was? Had he stood at that gala, blushing and smiling while Batman made light conversation and heavy innuendos? If so, why? Why let Bruce linger with his hand on his arm at the Daily Planet?

There were two logical possibilities. One: Kal El, alias Clark Kent (Or was it Clark Kent, Alias Kal El, if Bruce asked, what would he say was his real name? Which identity was closer to truth?) did not know that Brucie Wayne was Batman. At first thought, this seemed impossible. The man had x-ray vision, super hearing, and worked with Batman on a regular basis. However, Kal had always been very insistent on respecting the privacy of others as much as was possible with his powers. In addition, Bruce had taken several active measures to disguise his identity, including the voice modulator in his cowl, among others. So, perhaps he hadn’t known. In which case, he’d allowed Brucie Wayne to flirt because he wanted to.

Possibility two: Kal did know who Bruce was, and let him flirt anyway. It was a distinct possibility, due to his powers. Kal, Clark, whoever, wasn’t the sort of person to give away secrets he’d learned by accident, and would never knowingly compromise Batman’s safety. That left the flirting. Clark had participated, receiving every salacious compliment with blushing smiles and shy thanks. The question of motive…well. Bruce was suspicious by nature. He considered briefly that it was a ruse to humiliate him, gain information about his identity, or simply have some minor blackmail. The counterpoint to that thought was that Bruce…didn’t trust Clark, he probably didn’t trust anyone, but he did trust Clark not to do that. It was against every facet of his very being to do something so underhanded, and he was deliberately unsexual as Superman. It didn’t stop people from finding him sexy, but it made him less threatening in the eyes of many as well. Why would he then stoop to a pg-13 version of a honeypot for minor blackmail. If the alien had believed he needed to know Batman’s identity, for whatever reason, Bruce truly believed he’d at least ask first. So, not a trick. For the motive that left…wanting to. Yes, Clark had stayed by Bruce’s side at the gala, making polite excuses to ward off anyone else trying to gain his attention, because he’d wanted to be flirted with by Bruce. 

Two possibilities with the same underlying truth. Kal El thought Bruce was hot. The only lingering question the world’s greatest detective had to answer was…did he think Batman was hot?

Cornering Clark El – Kal Kent– Bruce thought to himself wryly, was easy. Superman always lingered after meetings so that he could chat with any stragglers. His do-gooder nature combined with his naive hope to make him try to combine several neurotic and isolated personalities into an interdimensional crime-fighting team. In spite of himself, Bruce rather admired it. He himself wanted nothing to do with team bonding, but accepted it as a necessity. When he was finally alone with Superman, though, he allowed himself to admire…other aspects of the alien.

“I wanted to talk about your suit,” Bruce said simply, letting his voice modulator pitch his tone into the familiar growl. 

“Of course, B,” Superman said, all big-blue eyes and easy smile. “What about it?”

Bruce stepped forward, smoothing a gloved hand up Kal’s arm. It wasn’t the fluttery touch he’d used as Brucie, but a firmer drag, up from the wrist, over the forearm and bicep and across the shoulder to the clasp of the scarlet cape. “I think you should consider opting out of the cape once in a while,” he said.

Kal’s posture had changed, uncertain, but not at all closed off, leaning slightly into the touch of Bruce’s hand. His brow, however, furrowed. “I can’t imagine you’re against capes, B,” he said. Was he pouting? That was ridiculous. It should look ridiculous. It looked…

Bruce swallowed subtly. “No, obviously not,” he said, letting his hand fall, trailing just a few centimeters across a blue-wrapped shoulder before disengaging. “But I think you’re hiding some of your,” he pitched his voice even lower, a growl becoming barely more than a throaty rumble. “Best assets.”

Kal El’s face suddenly matched his cape exactly. 

Four

Bruce was back at another League meeting. He had been mildly enjoying it, considering the furtive glances Superman kept shooting him. Then the meeting took a turn for the worse. Individually tracking Luthor’s actions had finally lead to enough clues, collected by the combined efforts of Green Arrow, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Superman, and Bruce himself. They all pointed to the Metropolis Museum of Art’s exhibition opening gala two weeks from then. Lois Lane had confirmed her attendance, and Luthor was plotting to draw Superman out, with her as bait. Where Bruce’s expertise had come in was with Luthor’s co-conspirator, Scarecrow. The working theory was that Luthor hoped to incapacitate Superman with some altered version of Fear Toxin. 

Clark was arguing. He looked so good when he did that. 

“I will not allow Lois to be bait and that is final,” he snapped, perfect jaw clenching.

“Surely, if you were able to explain the situation to her..,” Green Arrow was saying.

“But I can’t. Yes, she would agree to be bait, that’s what makes her Lois, but I won’t agree to that, that's what makes me…me.”

Clark sat heavily, sighing. “I can go to the gala in her stead, in disguise. She’ll be safe and who knows, Luthor might even call off the plot when he doesn’t have his bait.”

“You,” Green Lantern said, “Could go to the gala, in disguise? Supes I think you’ve got Kryptonite in your brain.”

“I promise, it would work,” Clark said. His posture changed, not into the full slump of his every day persona, but the rigid spine loosened some. “I think I should tell you my identity. It’s time you all knew.”

There was a pause. The League had known that Kal El had a secret identity, or at the very least, had people he was protecting, people that, in his own words, were “not like us, gentle quiet people who make easy targets.” They had all pretended not to notice his slightly misty eyes when he’d said that.

“I agree,” Bruce said at last. 

Green Lantern huffed awkwardly. “Of course you do,” he said, tone a strained sort of jovial. “It’s probably been driving you nuts figuring it out, right?”

“I mean that I believe my own identity may be useful in this case, and I believe I should reveal my identity as well. We have worked together enough, I believe it is time for a deeper level of trust among us.”

“Oh shit,” said Lantern.

“I’ll start,” Arrow said, sending a wink to Bruce. Alone among the Justice League members, Ollie knew his identity, he was, after all, one of Bruce’s oldest friends. Once he’d begun his time as Green Arrow, Batman had shown up at his door, intending to simply give advice on how to hide his identity. He had, to his total shame, accidentally called the man Ollie instead of Oliver when the new hero looked downhearted at being caught out. They agreed to keep each other’s secrets. In addition, Ollie agreed to keep the secret that Batman had outed his own identity in such a stupid way, in exchange for some Wayne Enterprises arrows and being allowed to tell Dinah. 

“My name is Oliver Queen, I’m Green Arrow,” he said, as if he were in an AA meeting, peeling off his mask with a flourish and a wink. “My incredibly hot wife is Dinah Lance, she’s sorry she couldn’t make it tonight. Anyway, I have an invitation to the gala, I wasn’t planning on going because the guest speaker is such a bore, but I’d be happy to show to keep people safe.”

“Will Black Canary kill us if she finds out you told us?” Flash asked, nervously. 

“Nah, Dinah and I have discussed our secret identities and we have a policy. Besides, revealing one identity is almost the same as revealing us both, she understands.”

“Okay,” Flash said, nervously. “If you say so…um. I wasn’t really prepared to do this but I can go next.” 

Bruce felt a twinge of pride and sympathy. Flash was younger than most of them, he was pretty sure. He also had deduced his identity with at least an eighty percent certainty, so he wasn’t shocked when Barry Allen introduced himself shyly. 

“Good to meet you, Bear,” Lantern said, grinning lazily. “I know it’s something of an open secret, but I’m Hal Jordan, I’m Green Lantern, and I’m a total badass.”

Barry stuttered at the nickname. Everyone else rolled their eyes. 

“It is not a secret,” Aquaman said. He was often quiet, not taciturn like Bruce, simply waiting until he had something to say. “I am Arthur Curry, King of Atlantis. I am happy to pledge what is at my disposal to assist you all in keeping your secrets and securing the people who matter to you.” Superman shot him a grateful smile, Batman nodded solemnly. 

“Another open secret, I am Diana, Princess of Themyscira, but I use the alias Diana Prince when I can. I believe I am an excellent choice to appear at the gala undercover,” Wonder Woman said. 

Glances turned to the remaining League members. J’onn J'onzz waved them away, they knew him, and he them, obviously. That left Batman and Superman. Bruce decided to let Clark off the hook, the poor alien still looked nervous. 

“I am Bruce Wayne,” he said, simply, removing the cowl.

“Holy shit,” Hal whispered. “Weren't you in Playgirl magazine?”

“Which time?” Bruce asked, sending Lantern his most dazzling celebrity grin.

Barry was looking mortified, Bruce gave him a questioning look and he gulped. “My coworker has your shirtless calendar at her desk in the lab,” the scientist said at last.

“I should own up,” Ollie said, laying an easy arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “Brucie and I have known about each other’s nightlives for a little while now, seeing as he’s my brother from another mother.” He grinned at the group, obviously proud of himself for knowing what they hadn’t. Bruce shoved him off.

“Can’t be your brother, you were raised by wolves,” he grumbled good naturedly. 

Jaws were dropped all over the room, but Arthur spoke. “Thank you for your trust,” he said, and for the most part that was that. 

Kal El was blushing though, mouth slightly open, cheeks pink, although not the full-tomato red Bruce had seen a few times previously. He was staring at Bruce in what he could only define as mortification. 

“Go on then, Supes,” he said with a wink. “This is sort of a show me yours and I’ll show you mine situation. 

Kal El stuttered and blushed further, but took a deep breath in. “My–My name is Clark Kent, I am also Kal El, the last son of Krypton, but I was adopted and raised in Smallville Kansas my Martha and John Kent. I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet, which is why I can have Lois swap with me easily.”

“Thank you for telling us, Clark,” Diana said gently. “We’ll keep an eye on Smallville, subtly, of course. Does Miss Lane know your identity?”

Clark shook his head, looking down. “I haven’t told her, although I think she knows something is up. But I could pull some strings, ask her a favor for a couple reasons, and she’d swap with me. She’d be out of danger and I’d be undercover.”

“But you would be exactly where Luthor wants you,” Bruce said. He didn’t want to imagine Superman dosed with enhanced fear toxin. 

“Luthor wouldn’t know that,” Ollie pointed out. “And there would be so many of us there undercover if something did happen.”

“If we’re undercover we can hardly all run off to become our hero personas though,” Clark said. “People would make connections, surely.”

“They haven't found out about Bruce,” Ollie said. “He rescues his own galas about a third of the time.”

“It wouldn’t be just one person though, it would be all of us. And if a gala in Metropolis is in danger, it might even be suspicious if Superman didn’t show,” Clark said, biting his lip. He still wasn’t in the same shy slump Bruce had seen him wearing in his civilian guise, but he was more open with his body language now that the League knew. Biting his lip, though…Bruce was going to get in this man’s little red shorts if it was the last thing he did.

“Clark Kent has a remarkable talent for going unnoticed,” Bruce said. “I think we make two plans, one for if Luthor holds you as bait for Superman, and one for if you can slip away. The rest of us will have to focus on Scarecrow to make sure fear toxin doesn’t even enter the equation. 

Clark nodded, still biting his damn lip, then took a sip of his water. He licked his lips after. Bruce was going insane. 

“So, our super reporter plays bait,” Diana said. “Hal and Flash if you could actually loiter outside the gala, in case we need backup, that would be great. Arthur and J’onn, we’d appreciate backup as well, if you can. If Clark is unable to escape to suit up, I’ll rescue him as Wonder Woman, filling in for Superman. I think one rescuer is enough to help, but negate suspicion. If I can’t get away, Bats and Arrow, one of you should, but I have the lowest public profile.”

Bruce nodded. “And if Clark isn’t detained, Superman rescues the gala while we mitigate Scarecrow.”

The meeting continued as they plotted potential methods of finding fear gas containers, and discussed the likelihood of Luthor simply using fear gas, or if Scarecrow would be making a personal appearance. J’onn volunteered to monitor from afar, so Bruce made sure the team had tiny body cameras that were up to date and running on a good connection.

“I’m really glad you’re you and not just some rich guy,” Barry said, noting the camera no larger than a pinhead. “Because otherwise this would be really creepy.”

“It’s still a little creepy,” Hal said. “But we’ve known you’re a little bit of a freak, Bats.”

“These are kept at the watchtower for a reason,” Bruce huffed. “Personal usage of them would be a violation.”

“Unless someone’s into that,” Ollie said with a wiggled eyebrow that made Diana punch him lightly. Arrow rubbed his arm ruefully, because a light punch for Diana didn’t mean much.

The meeting finally adjourned, plans for the gala settled. Clark, who had engaged with the discussion, mostly about mitigating potential civilian damage, seemed suddenly twitchy. They were once again the last two, but Superman seemed, for once, to want to leave as soon as possible. 

“Clark,” Bruce said, stepping forward. The man’s eyes looked everywhere but at Bruce. “I just wanted to say, I truly enjoyed talking with you at the last gala. I hope this one goes smoothly, so we can continue our discussion on censorship in the media.”

Clark finally looked at him, blinking a few times. “Did you know? I mean…”

“I didn’t know until the last League Meeting, you had your coffee order, and I’d thought you looked familiar. I came up to you at the gala because I wanted to.”

“You…wanted to…talk to me?” Clark said. 

“Yes of course.”

“Oh,” Clark said softly. “I hope I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted. “If anything, that’s my line. I know the Brucie persona can be quite forward.”

“Of course, I’m not uncomfortable at all, Bruce. Thanks for checking in.” His smile was shy again, and his blush was back, lightly painting over the back of his ears and neck as well. “I should…” He began to fly away. Bruce couldn’t let him leave without making sure he understood Bruce’s intentions.

“Brucie’s persona isn’t why I flirted, you should know. I flirted because you look like a corn-fed, midwestern version of a wet dream.”

Bruce winced as Superman flew into a door frame. 

Five

Bruce looked good. He looked so good that three waitstaff stumbled as he entered the gala. He was in his best suit, which, when one owns as many suits as Bruce did, is a matter of inches. In this case, about half an inch tighter than proper, all over. The fabric was navy blue, so dark it was almost black, and he wore his silver shirt with the top two buttons undone. His hair was meticulously styled so that it looked as though it had been neatly slicked back, and then someone had enthusiastically run their hands through it. 

Weaving through the clusters of people in the Metropolis Museum of Art brought him into contact with dozens of familiar faces. He tracked each one mentally. The gallery floor was familiar to him, and in his mind he was updating the map with each of the new exhibits. Diana was stationed in the north west corner, Ollie and Dinah had the east side, Bruce gravitated toward the southwest corner, where Clark Kent was talking with a junior curator, notebook out. Bruce spotted a familiar face in their little group and casually changed course. The director of acquisitions for the Metropolis Art Museum had bought several pieces from the Wayne estate, and Bruce pulled his name from memory. 

“Isaac,” he said, with a sparkling smile. The elderly man turned in bafflement, then smiled as Brucie Wayne shook his hand. “Director Loderite, it’s so good to see you again. Congratulations on the gallery opening, by the way.”

“Ah, Mister Wayne,” the acquisitions director said uncertainly. “Thank you very much, although I’m sure you know, I have very little sway over the actual exhibits–”

“You’re always so humble,” Bruce said. “Introduce me to your friends here?”

And that was all it took, Bruce was in with the little cluster in the southwest corner. When he warmly shook Clark’s hand, making a flirty comment about how nice it was to see Clark again, he slipped a thin cloth between them. The air filter was a basic design, passing as a plain handkerchief. It wasn’t anything nearly as advanced as the gas mask Batman routinely kept on him, but it might buy Clark a few extra minutes. Bruce twitched at his own silver pocket square, letting Clark know that he was similarly prepared. By the time the gala had opened, Hal had managed to stash the Batsuit in a storage closet just outside the hall, so Bruce would only need a moment before he could put on his proper respiration mask, but hopefully that was a last resort. Diana, in her tweed suit, had her gear underneath her clothes. 

“So thrilled to have an excuse to talk with you again, Mister Kent,” Bruce purred loud enough for a couple of passing socialites to take notice. “You look just super in that suit.” 

Clark glared slightly, but his face was red. Bruce took the opportunity to look around them, keeping an eye for anyone showing more than a passing interest in Clark. There were several, but most people seemed to either be sizing up Clark as a possible date, or looking at Bruce. 

And the thing was…Clark was just as good of company as the first gala. Time blurred, people shifted, Bruce ran cold fingers up the sleeve of a terrible off-the-rack jacket and pretended to fix Clark’s collar. He feigned dizzy drunkenness and collapsed onto Clark, checking over his shoulder for either villain. By the time his com buzzed in his ear that scarecrow had been apprehended without ever getting into the event, he’d almost forgotten why they were here. And Clark was blushing. 

It had started just at the tips of his ears, and Bruce’s gaze had tracked it as it made its way across his cheeks, trailing up to his hairline like watercolor bleeding across paper, then down, tantalizingly, under the collar of his shirt. 

Lex Luthor’s arrival spoiled the mood only slightly. If the man was busy trying to find the Planet’s reporter, he’d be easier for Diana to hunt through the ballroom. 

“Mister Kent, I think you and I should go somewhere…cozier,” Bruce said, pulling Clark by his horrible tie through the ballroom and to a small closet Bruce had spotted on the building plans. The hold on the tie was necessary, because Clark was naturally more concerned about others than himself. With Ollie, Dinah, and Diana all closing in on Luthor, Bruce was more than fine with removing himself and Clark from the equation, especially with Wally and Hal for backup. He played it up a little, seeing a few paparazzi eyeing them, and not above taking the opportunity to stake his claim.

The closet was a little smaller than it had seemed on the plans, but nothing they couldn’t handle. The light was dim, but he could see the familiar, slightly unfocused look in Clark’s eyes. He was listening in on the ballroom. After a few minutes, he smiled at Bruce. 

“They got him.”

+1

Bruce’s hand was already on the handle of the janitor’s closet, but a warm, larger hand stopped his. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Mister Wayne,” Clark said, taking a half-step closer. In the tight quarters, this put them chest-to-chest. “I thought you wanted to get cozy?”

“I– yes, but–”

“But what? You’ve been eyeing me all night, gorgeous, making oh so many little comments. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the first gala, or the Planet, or the watchtower.”

“Clark–”

“Say yes, Bruce. Or say no.”

“Yes.”

And then Clark was pulling back, shucking off his terrible suit jacket, and Bruce was the one who’s face felt a little extra warm. 

“What–”

“C’mon Mister Wayne,” Clark purred, and oh shit, suddenly it sounded dirty coming from him. “You were the one who made such a show of pulling me into the closet. Didja think we would play cards?” Hands were on Bruce, tracing the same paths his had earlier in the ballroom, up his arm, around his collar, the other slipping inside his jacket and untucking his shirt. “You’ve got a reputation to maintain, I’d be disappointed if the press saw us leaving looking too…neat.”

 Bruce felt like his entire brain had been factory reset. Surely Clark, Clark, Kal El–Superman– wasn’t pressing up against him like they were teenagers in the back seat of the car? Where had all of this been when he was stuttering and blushing whenever Bruce flirted? Why was Bruce so utterly unable to do anything but stutter and blush right back? And why oh why couldn’t he stop thinking about the way the hand around his waist, under his now utterly rumpled shirt, was teasing a thumb just under the waistband of Bruce’s trousers? Bruce got back a little of his own, pulling at Clark’s tie again and saying, “and here I thought you were a good Midwestern boy.”

Clark snorted. “No you didn’t. Anyway, you’ve got exactly what you’ve been asking for, I’m not wearing the cape, I’m just like your coffee, I’m your midwestern wet-dream. So now, put your mouth where your money is.”

Bruce was holding on to the rickety utility shelf that his shoulder was pressed into, trying to keep his knees from buckling. “That’s not how that expression goes?”

“You have a lot of money, Bruce, I’m much more interested in your mouth.”

The shelf broke in his grip. 

---

@mylifeisfruk4ever it's finally done

"Clark can't handle Brucie Wayne, ooh Clark gets all flustered around Brucie" I mean...sure.

But imagine how flustered Bruce gets when Clark actually flirts back