#rip richard liberty

[duranduratulsa]

Now showing on DuranDuranTulsa's Horror Show...Day Of The Dead (1985) on glorious vintage Media Home Entertainment VHS 📼! #movie #movies #horror #dayofthedead #nightofthelivingdead #georgeromero #ripgeorgeromero #Zombies #loricardille #JosephPilato #ripjosephpilato #anthonydileojr #tomsavini #TerryAlexander #GaryHowardKlar #ripgaryhowardklar #GregNicotero #shermanhoward #richardliberty #riprichardliberty #JarlathConroy #ralphmarrero #vintage #vhs #mediahomeentertainment #80s #durandurantulsa #durandurantulsashorrorshow

[muzaktomyears]

We took to the stage in the depths of depression. Bruno, very much in evidence, yelled at us that we must ‘make show’, which we did, more as a release for our mounting anger rather than to please him.

“All the way from Liverpool to leap around like a lot of idiots!” Lennon summed up. For that’s what ‘making show’ was all about – jumping around aimlessly, stamping, writhing on the floor. None of us had ever acted the fool like this on stage before.

[…] We went from one extreme to the other. John and Paul were the looniest. John did his best to imitate Gene Vincent, grabbing up the microphone as if he were going to lay into the audience with it, carrying it around with him, leaping about with it like a maniac. Paul roared around screaming like Little Richard and, as the days passed, an act developed.

Stu behaved something like a puppet and managed to hold on to the sort of James Dean image he had fostered, quietly trying to stay cool in the background behind his dark shades. There was not much I could do from behind the drums other than stand up and hop around the kit with a tom-tom under my arm. George paid serious attention to his guitar-playing, trying to prevent the sets from becoming too ridiculous.

The German rockers loved it and no one realized – least of all Bruno – that we were trying to take the piss out of them. But in the end it worked against us. This was the Beatles developing, creating excitement. ‘Making show’ would eventually take us over. However, at first it was a protest for the treatment we were receiving, letting ourselves rip because of the lousy digs and the sub-survival wages of £15 a week each.

We had one number we used to put in that began very slowly and sounded like smooch music. The audience would take to the floor and get all cuddly and close, then suddenly we would erupt into a frenzied rock tempo. At first it took the Germans by surprise – to us it was another form of protest – but then they started to request the song where we changed gear in mid-stream! Another back fire.

We used to stomp around half crazed for more than seven hours a night. Making show? You’ve never seen anything like it. Sometimes Paul wouldn’t even have his guitar plugged in, but no one noticed the omission with all the noise that went on. John used to roll around on stage when he wasn’t throwing the mike in the air; then he would twist himself into a hunch-back pose. By way of a change he would jump on Paul’s back and charge at George and Stu and send them reeling. Sometimes they would give each other piggy-backs. What little music there was would be made by George and Stu and most of that was simply rhythm. Other times John would hurl himself into a sort of flying ballet leap from the stage into the audience and end up doing the splits.

While the audience was dancing, John and Paul often jumped down from the stage and bundled into them like wild bulls; or maybe they would do ring-of-roses with them. But this is what the punters wanted and had paid money for. They didn’t want to sit around the listen to original Beatles’ music – not that a lot existed at this stage – and it was obvious that they appreciated the outrageous slapstick rather than the musicianship. They started to call us the beknakked Beatles – a German slang word that described us as the mad or crazy Beatles – but we never stopped to worry about it.

[…] Many of the stories that have been told over the years about the way we used to behave on stage allege that the Beatles used to have serious fights in front of the audiences. That wasn’t strictly true: a lot of it was just part of ‘making show’. What used to appear to be a brawl on stage began at the Indra, where nightly we began to take more liberties in the cause of ‘making show’. Paul, with possibly only one string on an unplugged guitar, would rush up to John while he was singing and pretend to butt hm. Feigning anger, Lennon would retaliate. It must have all appeared to be very real to the patrons and used to wind them up, but it was sheer pretence, a mock battle in which nobody was hurt. In those early days we were extremely close and the best of friends at all times and we would go through much together in the spirit of five rather seedy musketeers.

There is no doubt that John and Paul gave their all to ‘making show’ – even If they did find it a release from the frustrations besetting us all. Lennon gradually became bolder with each week that passed, haranguing the paying customers as ‘fucking Krauts’, or Nazis or Hitlerites. Later he extended this repertoire of venom to ‘German spassies’ (spastics), indulging in his obsession with the disabled which would later manifest itself more publicly in his writings, drawings and statements during interviews. For their part, the Germans, whom he also advised to ‘get up and dance, you lazy bastards!’, rarely showed any sign of understanding and would often applaud his insults.

[…] He gave many people in the audiences the impression that he was a buffoon, but what he did on stage was simply a form of escapism for him. He played the idiot who shouted his mouth off and yelled obscenities but was the outright victor in any slanging match. It was the kind of behaviour they came to expect of him. After these bitter attacks on the people who were paying our wages Lennon would simmer down as though he had just aired some long pent-up grievance and was relieved to have got it off his chest.

I used to try and explain this abuse of audiences to myself but could only conclude that John harboured no deep hatred of the Germans and that they were simply the scapegoats for his increasing frustration at having to entertain them in a fashion that really wasn’t his style.

At the Indra we acquired a friend who would stand by the Beatles for a long time to come. She was a lavatory attendant, a lady whom we christened Mutti. Anyone over the age of twenty seemed old to us, but I reckon Mutti must have been in her fifties, hence our nickname for her, sounding something like the German word for mother – Mutter. She was in nightly attendance backstage, where our poky dressing room adjoined the toilets (where else?). When we came off stage she would be waiting for the perspiring Beatles with towels and paper napkins and changes of shirt, which was very necessary after the rigours of ‘making show’.

Almost nightly as well she had to prepare a needle and thread for John to repair his pants after his dare-devil Nureyev leaps. But he always insisted on making his own renovations, just sitting there in his underpants, sewing away and using something like sailor’s tacks and a few reef knots. (Needless to say the repair would give way after the next performance!) If anyone arrived backstage – male or female – while he was working away in his underwear he would simply invite them to ‘come in and make yourself at home’ and continue with the task.

Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster (1985)

[screamingreek]

Press Photos: Day of the Dead - Set of 7 Photos 1985

FOR SALE! FIND THIS ITEM & MORE AT screaming-greek.com or check out the link in my bio. Day of the Dead. A film by George A. Romero - 1985 Set of Seven, 8"x10" Movie Press Photos: #DOTD1 with George A. Romero in a Zombie Orgy, #DOTD2 with Terry Alexander, Lori Cardille & Jarlath Conroy, #DOTD3 with Lori Cardille & Terry Alexander, #DOTD4 with Joseph Pilato & Lori Cardille, #DOTD5 with Joseph Pilato & Gary Howard Klar, #DOTD6 with Richard Liberty & Joseph Pilato, DOTD#7 with a lot of Zombies Picture #DOTD2 has a small surface rip, probably from tape or a sticker. Circled in red in picture. View picture in gallery. The rest of the pics are in excellent shape! Read the full article

[ulkaralakbarova]

A down and out young punk gets a job working with a seasoned repo man, but what awaits him in his new career is a series of outlandish adventures revolving around aliens, the CIA, and a most wanted ’64 Chevy. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Otto Maddox: Emilio Estevez Bud: Harry Dean Stanton Miller: Tracey Walter Leila: Olivia Barash Lite: Sy Richardson Agent Rogersz: Susan Barnes J. Frank Parnell: Fox Harris Oly: Tom Finnegan Lagarto: Del Zamora Napo: Eddie Velez Kevin: Zander Schloss Debbi: Jennifer Balgobin Duke: Dick Rude Archie: Miguel Sandoval Marlene: Vonetta McGee Plettschner: Richard Foronjy Reverend Larry: Bruce White Ms. Magruder: Sue Kiel Mrs. Parks: Helen Martin Repo Wife #2: Angelique Pettyjohn Harry Pace: Con Covert Agent B: Biff Yeager Agent E: Ed Pansullo Miner: Jon St. Elwood Sheriff: David Chung U.F.O. Lady: Cynthia Szigeti Otto Dad: Jonathon Hugger Peason: Dale Reynolds Nurse: Dolores DeLuce Mr. Humphries’ Security Guard: Luis Contreras Carwash Attendant: Alex Cox Rabbi: Michael Nesmith Agent S: Steve Mattson Agent T: Thomas Boyd Mr. Humphries: Charles Hopkins Delilah: Kelitta Kelly Motorcycle Cop: Varnum Honey English Dustbin Lady: Dorothy Bartlett Otto Mom: Sharon Gregg Pakman: Jac McAnelly Additional Blond Agent: Jimmy Buffett Additional Blond Agent: Shep Wickham Additional Blond Agent: Gregg Taylor Additional Blond Agent: Jon Fondy Additional Blond Agent: Keith Miley Additional Blond Agent: Michael Bennett Additional Blond Agent: Brad Jamieson Repo Wife #1: Janet Chan Repo Wife #3: Logan Carter Repo Wife #4: Laura Sorrenson First Repo Victim: George Sawaya Repo Victim’s Wife: Connie Ponce Soda Jerk: Bob Ellis Tow Truck Driver: Quentin Gutierrez Liquor Store Clerk #1: Richard Furukawa Liquor Store Clerk #2: ‘Earthquake’ Hesson Nightclub Band Member (as The Circle Jerks): Keith Morris Nightclub Band Member (as The Circle Jerks): Greg Hetson Nightclub Band Member (as The Circle Jerks): Chuck Biscuits Nightclub Band Member (as The Circle Jerks): Earl Liberty Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Clyde Grimes Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Chuck Askerneese Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Kevin Long Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Jerry Miller Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Rob Lampron Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Josh Harris Scooter Guys Member (as The Untouchables): Herman Askerneese Laundry Person: Kim Williams Laundry Person: Michele Person Doctor: Wally Cronin Nurse: Monona Wali Bouncer: Cosmo Mata Club Owner: Rodney Bingenheimer Tennis Player: Jorge Martínez Tennis Player: Melanie Schloss Tennis Player: Nancy Richardson Film Crew: Writer: Alex Cox Producer: Peter McCarthy Executive Producer: Michael Nesmith Producer: Jonathan Wacks Director of Photography: Robby Müller Editor: Dennis Dolan Set Decoration: Cheryl Cutler Original Music Composer: Steven Hufsteter Original Music Composer: Tito Larriva Production Design: Lynda Burbank Art Direction: J. Rae Fox Script Supervisor: Sharron Reynolds-Enriquez Script Supervisor: Brenda Weisman Music Supervisor: Kathy Nelson Stunt Coordinator: Eddie Hice Costume Design: Theda DeRamus Associate Producer: Gerald T. Olson Casting: Victoria Thomas Makeup Artist: Sharon Francis Production Manager: Allen Alsobrook First Assistant Director: Betsy Magruder Second Assistant Director: Rip Murray Construction Coordinator: Douglas Dick Property Master: Douglas Fox Leadman: John Lafia Property Master: Ron Seigel Special Effects: Roger George Songs: Iggy Pop Special Effects: Robbie Knott Stunts: Danny Costa Stunt Double: Thomas Boyd Stunts: Rick Barker Stunts: Fred Scheiwiller Stunts: Rick Seaman Stunts: Michael Sinclair Walter Stunts: Harry Wowchuk Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Richard Beggs Assistant Sound Editor: Christopher Flick Sound Editor: Donald Flick Foley Artist: Kim Fowler Supervising Sound Editor: Warren Hamilton Jr. ADR Editor: Bonnie Koehler Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Michael Minkler Production Sound Mixer: Steve Nelson Foley Artist: John Post Sound Recordist: Philip Rogers Gaffe...

[theoutcastrogue]

RIP Shane MacGowan (1957-2023)

The Pogues - The Sickbed of Cúchulainn

McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head There's devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands

When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone Frank Ryan bought your whiskey in a brothel in Madrid And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids

At the sick bed of Cúchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer But the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair

And in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout But they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out They took you out into the street, kicked you in the brains So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again

At the sick bed of Cúchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair

You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl There was lousy drunken bastards singing "Billy in the Bowl" They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church

Now you'll sing a song of liberty for Blacks and Paks and Jocks And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground But you'll stick your head back out and shout "We'll have another round!"

At the graveside of Cúchulainn we'll kneel around and pray And God is in His heaven and Billy's down by the bay

So are the Pogues like Rogues but missing a leg?

(I audibly groaned. Well done, you.)

But yes, the Pogues are most definitely Rogues.

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags: (will add tomorrow)

Warnings/ Ratings:

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

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

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

The date has been flawless. The best date you’ve had.

Richard is amazing to talk to and appealing to look at. He makes you feel safe and secure, yet also ignited and pleasantly destabilised. His laugh is music. His smile is sunshine. He is at times serious and in other moments delightfully playful. His gentle, quiet nature suckers you in to him, and once you are in the circumference of his warmth, you simply don’t want to leave.

You want to treat this special man to all the love he deserves.

You reflect, as you walk together towards your street, hand-in-hand, that it feels as though you’ve known him for years - and, of course, you have. You simply hadn’t been paying adequate attention. It is evident that Richard has, however. That he already knows you and understands you better than you could have imagined.

So, now, as you step up on to your porch, Richard stands a couple of steps below you, his cola-coloured eyes big and gentle and sparkling as he looks up at you. You loop your arms so that they rest on his shoulders, your fingers dipping into the glorious manicured curls at the nape of his neck. You had hoped that Richard might respond by winding his arms around your waist -or perhaps gripping your hips or your ass, to be quite honest- but instead, he stands there, taut with nerves, and yet his arms hung limply by his sides.

He seems so responsive; so receptive to every small touch you give him, the man humming lightly as you stroke his soft skin, and yet, he hasn’t returned the favour. You wish he would touch you, but, in resignation, you smile softly, guessing that if Richard won’t take the initiative, you will simply have to. After all, you’ve been desperate to kiss the man all evening. So, with a gentle smile and a search of his eyes, you shift one hand to cup his shapely chin, tipping his face up towards you.

“I want to kiss you, Richard. Is that okay with you?”

Keenly, he lets out a half-strangled affirmation, the weight of his plea creasing the space between his brows. “Please.”

And so, you pick up his unsure arms and you guide them around your waist, until his hands tentatively settle, polite but also firm and broad and warm around you, and you rehoop your arms around his neck, readying to move in for the kill.

Dipping your head down, you inch yourself closer and closer towards Richard’s lips, and you wonder if his heart is hammering the way yours is. You take in the beautiful sight of his eyes fanning closed and chin tilting up eagerly towards you, before your own eyes follow suit, your noses bumping awkwardly as you tilt around each other. The first sensation you feel is his moustache, the thick brush of it tickling your lips and causing you to faintly moan as you feel this small indication of his closeness. This breathy, broken sound from you causes Richard’s hands to tighten around your waist, finally, and with either a surge of bravery or a collapsing of his resolve -perhaps both- it is he who closes the remaining distance, his warm lips keenly meeting yours.

At first, it is a chaste, closed-lipped kiss that, even so, makes your legs tremble almost immediately. His soft lips are so moreish that when you break from him, leaning your forehead against Richard’s -both your chests heaving and your breaths practically one- you immediately sink back again to his lips, needing to taste him again.

You smile into the kiss as you become accustomed to the sensation of that glorious moustache, scraping lightly against your upper lip and cheek and nose, and you feel desire sink all the way through the pit of you like a stone as Richard’s tongue delves gently into your mouth. This surge of his kiss is like nothing you have felt before, and whilst Richard may seem timid, and while his ministrations may be gentle and slow, you could swear you have never felt a more assured tongue in your life.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask urgently, your voice a broken, breathy thing, the air for your words ripped from his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to, very much,” Richard answers just as quickly, his eyes dancing with a delicious brewing heat as you take his hand and lead him into your home.

Your lips find him again as shoes and jackets are shrugged off, strewn haphazardly in the hallway, his kisses slow-moving and deliciously sweet, sending a cloying desire like warmed syrup sinking to the pit of you. Your stomach flips each time you feel his tongue against yours, as though your core intends to mirror the languid circling of his tongue, and suddenly you are already throbbing there, thinking of where these burgeoning kisses might be leading.

“You’re so beautiful,” Richard breathes, sinking on to your lips again, and your legs weakening beneath you.

You lead Richard deeper inside your home, and you vaguely consider your options, but with this hazy, hungry heat all around you, dragging him to your bedroom by the hand seems like the only viable course of action. 

“Do you... want to come to my bed with me?” you ask, voice levelled with need and stomach buzzing with the pleasant thrum of nerves.

He answers affirmatively and you waste no time, until you are both seated on the edge of your bed, continuing your slow, sensual make-out session, bodies twisted towards each other. Richard kisses you deeply, opening your mouth up to him, until he breaks from you with a wracked groan, squirming with slight discomfort and apology as he adjusts himself, to better accommodate the growing bulge between his legs.

When he spreads his denim-clad thighs, like that, they look so sturdy and appealing that you want to climb him. Want to straddle his lap and writhe your heat right over his tenting arousal.

Still, you hesitate. He’s eager, you know that much; and God, so are you. However, he still seems nervous about reaching out to you or taking the lead. His hands never stray far from zones he may consider more polite or more comfortable, despite the fact he has happily allowed your hand to inch up and up his clothed thigh and towards that tenting crotch of his, his pretty, wracked moans spurring you on.

So, as he breaks from you, momentarily, you pull back to search his eyes.

“Would you… Would you like to touch me, Richard?” you suspire, wanting to progress this further, but only if he’s comfortable. 

As you regard him, you note that you have never seen a man look quite so dishevelled with need - both literally and figuratively. Your hands have upset his perfectly fixed curls, mussed tendrils now draping over his forehead. His kiss-plumped lips are parted to accommodate his now ragged breaths, and he looks almost forlorn - pained with it, as though he might end if he isn’t kissing you again within moments. “Yes. Please.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he responds, brow furrowed with weighty desire and eyes searching yours.

The tone with which he responds to you, sunken with need, has a hard swallow trailing down your throat. An immediate and impossible ache building between your legs.

“How about… here?”, you say tentatively, gingerly taking his hand, and moving it beneath the fabric of your dress until his warm fingers meet the bare flesh of your thighs. His thumb instantly sinks in to knead you as he works his hand up further, inching towards your core, exactly where you need him. 

“God, you’re so soft. You feel so good.”

“C-can I touch you?” you ask, as he inches higher, and it comes out as a plea. You need to. Need to touch him. Everywhere. You need to feel him under your hand - feel him all over you. On you. Against you. Buried in you. Fuck, you need him.

With your question though, Richard’s hungry eyes are momentarily clouded by apprehension, and so, you take a moment to rein in your snowballing desire; to properly check-in with him.

“Let’s talk for a minute. Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” your voice soft and soothing, your hand smoothing over his thigh.

Richard flutters his eyelashes and looks down at his lap, withdrawing his hand from under your dress. Your skin shivers, instantly cold with the loss of him. He nods, slowly, soberly, his face set and moustache downturned. Then, when his words come, his voice is small and sad. “I asked my buddy at work for advice. Said I had a date with someone out of my league. Somebody so perfect, and that I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You shake your head in disbelief. Your one single desire now, is to set his misapprehension to rest. “Fuck that. I’m not out of your league, Richard. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect.” You cup his cheek again, planting a kiss on that now familiar spot, right on the tip of his cheekbone, a spot perfectly contoured to your lips.

His eyes flick back up to yours, shining with gratitude, but he still looks unsure.

“Perfect,” you repeat, dipping to press a kiss to his opposite cheek. “Gorgeous.” To the tip of his nose. “Sexy.” To the corner of his lips. “Handsome.” To the column of his neck. Meanwhile, smoothing your hand over his thigh and arm and chest, keeping your desire stoked but mainly aiming to offer him comfort, and to bolster his wavering confidence. 

A smile claims Richards eyes, at least, if not his lips, and he brings his hand to your face, caressing you gently in gratitude. You pull up to search his eyes and his expression says it all.

You are beautiful.

And, despite his nervousness, his timidness, when Richard next speaks, there is no hint of self-consciousness in his voice. Not an ounce, his kind eyes backlit with lust. With that now familiar, gentle, nuanced heat. “He said… Said that I should eat you out like a man starved.”

To your credit, you try to speak. You really do, your mouth opening and closing again wordlessly, but all of a sudden, you have lost language. You can barely breathe. Can barely form a coherent thought. Barely an incoherent one. Barely a -

“Would you like it? If I did that, bonita?”

You whimper. You actually whimper, as he sits there, coolly holding your face in his broad palm, caressing you with the pad of his thumb. Behaving as though he’s an innocent thing and yet making you feel like this.

“I would not be. Opposed to. That,” you muddle out, barely, your voice trembling with need. An insistent pulse between your legs, causing you to press them tightly up against one another, just for a morsel of relief. “But… you. Ohhh.” His thumb brushes over your cheek. Towards your mouth. “Y-you don’t have to. Um.” Skims your lower lip. “Ahhh. Do. Anything you. Uh. Don’t want. To.” The pad of his thumb pushes inside, just deep enough for the tip of your tongue to meet it as he grazes over you. “Uhhh.”

Richard nods in understanding, and when your tongue fleets out to taste the tip of him, his eyes darken deliciously, pupils lust-blown.

You, meanwhile, are vapour. Your breath is ragged. Your arousal is soaking through your dress. You can feel it.  Feel your own slick, a mess on your thighs.

And yet, you can tell there is more he wants to say, so you encourage him to go on. “Richard?” you plead.

“I... I want it to be perfect for you. You’re so perfect. But I...” his moustache twitches as he sucks his own lips between his teeth. His hands drop dejectedly into his lap, and he can’t meet your eyes, fixing his gaze on a spot of carpet. “I want to. So much. I‘m aching for you.”

Then what? You search his beautiful big eyes, reaching up to gently tuck a cute, hanging strand of curls away from his eyes and urging him to go on.

He reaches behind his head, to self-consciously stroke the nape of his neck. “The last woman I was with... It wasn’t... She didn’t like the moustache. And she... she said I was... too big.”

Fuck.

Your hand drops from his face into your lap, and your jaw slackens in shock as you let his words sink in. Meanwhile, his face becomes tinged again with that undertone of crimson you’re becoming rather familiar with.

Too big?

“Fuck, Richard,” you breathe -or, rather, can barely breathe- as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, nervously, humbly awaiting your reaction. He really has no idea what he’s doing to you, does he? How perfect he is? You can feel the heavy pulse of desire throbbing between your legs once more - even more so now. A slow-crawling heat under your skin.

Can he really be so... endowed?

Can he really be so shy and so hot at the same time? (Yes, apparently, he can.)

You gulp. You take in a breath to speak and then literally say nothing. You consider, so help you, burying your face in the mattress and silently screaming. But, somehow, you hold it together.

“That’s. Wow. Well, we can definitely figure that out. Together, Richard. Can work around… That,” you reassure, your blood rushing in your ears, your hand slowly trailing back up his thigh. “Will you… will you let me take care of you?”

Looking reassured, he nods. He smiles softly. His eyes ardent as he looks at you.

You reinstate your hand on to his sturdy thigh, and you begin your slow, languorous crawl up towards his crotch, following the seam of his pants like a trailing spark along a fuse line. As you inch further, his eyes flutter shut and he groans when you reach the junction of his legs, lightly ghosting your fingers along his straining zipper.

“Can I... see?” you purr. “Are you hard for me, sweet man? Can I take you out of your pants?” 

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes. Please.”

You proceed when Richard eagerly shifts position for you, parting his thighs for you and leaning back on his hands so that you’re able to unbuckle his belt, and to slowly release his zipper.

You’re playing really well at having any shred of self-control left, for his sake, but in reality, you’re a trembling, wet mess, overtaken by a furious, barrelling need. You simply can’t take this. Shit, you wonder if you will actually, very literally, be able to take this. Take him. Still, you certainly don’t want to stop, and so, with Richard’s cooperation you tug his jeans and his boxers down on his hips, and, biting down on your lip, you release his proud length.  

“Fuck,” you say, almost inaudibly as you drink the sight of him in.

He wasn’t exaggerating. He is big. He’s long, but perhaps not the longest you’ve ever had – a fact you are honestly thankful for. He certainly is thick too – especially thick, his contoured head ruddy and gleaming for you. Launched on an urgent breath, you ask if you can touch him, and when he encourages you, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, his length warm and heavy in your hand. He fills the circumference of you in such a pleasing way, hard and velvety and thickly veined. He eagerly strains against you; engorging even further against your touch.

“What do you think?” he asks shyly, intently watching your fingers tease and skim and squeeze him. “Can you work with this?”

“You’re perfect. Fuck, Richard. This is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean it?” he asks, modest as ever.

“Every inch of you is perfect, sweet man.” You want to prove it to him. And you know exactly how. “D-do you… Do you want to feel how wet you’ve made me? How much I want you, Richard?”

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, his voice quaking, desire knotting his brows, and, you stretch out on the bed beside his already half-reclined form, the mattress dipping beneath you. Eagerly, you return his hand to your thigh, where his girthy fingers resume their slow path towards your core. This time though, Richard doesn’t stop. Positioning himself, propped on one elbow, he turns on to his side, his other hand travelling under your dress - inching, achingly slow, all the way up your thigh. He traces a warm, steady, torturously slow pressure along your clothed slit, over your aching nub, until he reaches the top hem of your panties -silly, silky little things- and then, he pushes the elastic hem aside, dipping his two, thick middle fingers down into your folds, gliding effortlessly through your slick until he curls towards your entrance.

You shudder from his touch, submitting an open-mouthed moan to him already as he skims through your wetness, his half-bared cock twitching against his soft, rounded stomach in response to the feel of you. The sound of you.

He pulses and swirls his fingers up and down over your heat, simply gathering and playing with your arousal, and you can imagine what he is feeling beneath his fingers. You can hear your own wetness, your sweet nectar aiming to sucker him in.

It works.

“Please. Can I taste you?” he asks, in that wrecked voice again- the one which ends you.

Your eyes traverse him, hungrily. His mouth tipped open, needy breaths circling beneath that flourishing facial hair. His forearm exposed and veins popping as he works his fingers against you. His cock. Fuck. His delicious cock looks so hard and ruddy, the head of him practically crimson -fit to burst already- and the man must need some relief, and yet all he can think of is sinking his mouth to you? Not that you’re complaining, mind you.

What most gets you though – still – are his eyes. Those gentle, heat-infused, heavy-lidded, lust-laden, adoring, cola-coloured eyes.

Still, you throw your head back, as his fingertips continue to haphazardly explore your folds, your hips bucking and writhing readily, messily against his fingers. “You… ohhhh. You don’t have to do what your buddy said, you know? Only if you want.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, please. Hermosa. Please.”

Fuck, those beautiful brown eyes.

You never imagined you would end the evening with this handsome man begging to eat you out, and you don’t have it in you to resist, not even for a moment. Instead, you nod eagerly, scrambling to spread your thighs for him and hitching your dress up over your hips, opening for him with slick and eager hinges. Richard’s exposed member gleams for you, peeking out from his jeans, and each item of his clothing now looks like it is an impediment; however, he wastes no time on that. Instead, he simply begins a slow, deliberate peel of your panties down to your ankles, and, as you expel a string of affirmatives and pleas into the air, he sinks his face towards your heat.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the feel of his supple, eager tongue writhing against you, nor the feel of his lips engulfing you, his moustache scraping your sensitive skin ever so slightly as he munches over your clit. You weren’t wrong either - he is definitely, unequivocally not afraid to make a mess of himself. At all. In fact, you wonder if he has forgotten this is for you, as he truly does seem intent on tasting you, drinking from you as though he’s slurping on a milkshake, or relishing a cherry sucker. You think he might drink you dry. Or, you would think so, except you are getting wetter, as his assured, quietly confident tongue laps and probes and licks at everywhere it counts.

“Unnng. Dulce. Como duraznos en almíbar,” he praises into your heat.

Sweet. Like peaches in syrup.

You mewl for him. You writhe yourself desperately, embarrassingly, but this man moans eagerly into your heat as if he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as you are. That can’t possibly be true, however. It can’t be true because you are positively alight with ecstasy. You are experiencing such an abundance of it that you can scarce handle it, pleasure both balling and knotting tightly at your centre, and zipping out to every extremity. Your body bows and bucks under the weight of it and at the same time soars, weightless, to another plane.

When you think you couldn’t possibly take any more, Richard’s thumb begins a slow circle of your entrance, tracing around you. Dipping in to you. When his thumb slips in to fully puncture your heat, your juices spill over him, like you truly are a ruined peach, your fists clenching wildly in the sheets. You are his fruit. His ruined, ravaged fruit, existing and perishing only on his tongue. Coming to life and ending when he tastes you.

“Fuck, Richard!” you exclaim, as your peak threatens to overtake you so soon, and you worry that the sound was too weak for him to hear it; however, the man is apparently attentive as ever, even when he’s lost in between your thighs. He stops immediately, lifting his pretty eyes to yours, running his hands up and down along your quivering legs, trailing his fingers reverently over your mound and your patch of hair.

“You’re shaking, bonita,” he says, sounding awed.

“F-feels too good. But I want you inside me. I need you. Please. Will you – W-will you undress and lie down for me?”

It’s all you want. He is all you want. And you can’t explain why, but when you do fall apart for him, you need it to be together. Perhaps, so that when you unravel, you can bind yourself to him. You will tie those knots so tightly, you think, that they will not come undone.

In response to your request, Richard looks positively wrecked with need -and still a little nervous- but he obliges you, and your eyes keenly watch him as he slowly relinquishes his clothes. First his lower half, jeans kicked off to the floor. Then his shirt. He hesitates, when it comes to his white undervest. He looks so appealing in it that you wouldn’t mind if he kept it on; and yet, you are endlessly pleased when he peels it over his head, revealing his smooth chest and stomach and arms to you, your hungry eyes wandering over his form.

“Mmm. Gorgeous man,” you praise, rolling onto all fours with a surging, tidal wave of desire, trailing kisses and skimming your hot, wet mouth all the way down his bared torso as he kneels on the bed. He tastes faintly of sweat; salt on your tongue.

“Tell me what you want, Richard.”

“I… I need to feel your skin. Feel all of you,” he pleads hoarsely, and so, you follow his lead, tugging your dress over your head, and, with a ravenous, seductive stare, slowly releasing yourself from your bra. Richard’s jaw actually goes slack as he takes in the sight of all of you, entirely bared for him, the word “wow” gently suspiring from the pillow of his lips.

You smile as you guide him on to his back, and, tucking your body into his side, propped on one elbow, your hand smooths over his chest as you kiss him deeply. You taste yourself on him, a sweet, heady musk lingering on his moustache; and then, your hand traverses his chest and soft stomach, inching closer to where you crave. His body shivers under your hand as your fingertips stroke him at a spot where he’s evidently a little ticklish. He half-giggles, but the sound transforms quickly into a stuttered moan as your reach his arousal, a single finger circling the head of him.

Your fingers have barely so much as grazed him there and his cock is twitching, his hips bucking in search of your hand and his shapely chin tilted up towards the sky.

“Fuck. Are you sensitive there, baby?” you purr, and, as your fingers curl gently around him again, he nods vigorously – desperately- his expression almost tortured and his arms pinned by his sides.

“Yes, Ma’am. It feels so good when you touch me. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He shivers again -in a whole new way- as your thumb swirls, gingerly, spreading the glistening pearl of precum around the head of him.

You believe the man – that you make him feel good. He expels a breathy, gasping moan, or a tortured half-chuckle every time you so much as brush him. His might even be the most sensitive cock you’ve had, you think, and you watch, enraptured, as his pleasure plays out over his face, his hands fisting into the sheets at his sides as his body writhes for you. Still, you want more. You are greedy for him. Want to feel him everywhere.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Richard?”

“Do you want to?” he asks, and you nod, slinking cat-like down the bed, until you are in position, your mouth settling over his cock.

“You look delicious,” you purr, and when he pleads with you, you dip your head, your tongue laving out to encircle him in a wet, writhing embrace. He’s moreish here too, and so, you sink your lips down around his straining mass. He’s big, and he stretches your capabilities. You can’t even take all of him right away, but you give it your best effort as he moans beneath you.

“Unngg. No-one has ever fit so much,” he praises in disbelief as you take him deeper, humming around him, your head bobbing languorously over his shaft. Richard bucks his hips up ever so gently into your mouth - very careful not to drive into you further than you can take him. His hands come to rest tenderly on your head too, and his fingers smooth so delicately over your hair - reverently even. He doesn’t make any move to grab you to push you down on him- even if you might like that, or he might like that, at a later stage. Right now, you are more than content with this rare, unparalleled gentleness. This delicate, tender joy.

With relish, you continue. He makes such pretty sounds when you have him under your tongue, and yet, for how sensitive he is you are certainly impressed with his stamina. After a particularly deep bob down on to him, you surge off his length, using your hand to rub your slick into him as you look up at him, finding you have him transfixed.

“Need you inside of me, Richard. Can I get on top of you?”

This ache between your legs is becoming untenable.

“Unngg. Want to be inside of you so badly, bonita. Are you ready for me?”

Indicating your readiness, you shift yourself to straddle his hips, your core practically dripping over him as you settle your arousal over his. You writhe him along your folds, coating him in your juices, before rising up on your knees. You have to rise a little higher than you’re used to, to reach the tip of him, and eagerly you settle the blunt pressure of his ruddy, gleaming head at your entrance. You can barely steady yourself in position as your thighs and core tremble for him, in mere anticipation of him filling you. You are grateful when Richard’s hands come to lightly grip the meat of your hips -steadying you, supporting you a little- thumbs caressing your soft spots.

You tug in a breath as you prepare to spear yourself on him, the air faltering in your lungs as you pause where you are, just for a moment, Richard looking up adoringly from under you.

“Soñé contigo por tanto tiempo,” Richard whispers, barely audible. I have dreamed of you for so long. You’re not sure whether it is his sincere, heartfelt words igniting this pleasure within you or the slow inch and drag of your wet heat down his thick, veined shaft. Likely both, but either way, you know you want more.

“Uhhh. Slow. Slow, bonita,” he groans, as you begin to sink all the way down on him, his steady hands guiding you, now cupping your ass, staccato breaths escaping his parted lips as you engulf him. You take him, slowly, gradually, feeling him inch by inch as his girth and his length stretch you open. As you take him to his base, all the way, the full weight of you settling on his hips, Richard’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “God, it feels so good inside you. Can you take me like this?”

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and you nod, stilling as you adjust to his size. He’s a lot, but it’s a pleasant kind of pressure as he strains against your walls and all your sweet spots. “Can you… take a little bit more, hermosa?” Fuck, how does he have even more to give?

“Say stop if it’s too much,” Richard pleads. “Promise?” When you nod, Richard slowly plants his hands on your hips and pulls you down on to him, just a little, as he bucks his hips up, ever so gently. You cry out, your face contorting in disbelief and your head arcing to the sky as Richard fills you to your limit. Meanwhile, Richard is studying your face with gentle concern, feeling it out, checking you are comfortable, letting you slowly reconfigure your insides to the shape of his girth and length. He’d never hurt you. He’d simply never.

And, even though he has filled you all the way up, it feels so good.

Richard stills under you, until you are ready. His fingers trail tenderly over your thighs and belly and breasts. Over the mound of you. Your legs are shaking, folded and clamped down around his hips, and you’re not sure that your weakened limbs have the strength to allow you to rise on his length. But damn it, you will give it a valiant try.

“I need to move,” you beg, even though you are in the position of control, and Richard looks up at you with big pretty eyes, and God, he’s buried in you that you can feel him all the way in your guts. You gasp, whimper, as, gingerly, you rise up, feeling the fullness and drag of him against your walls as you start working and undulating against him, feeling out all the angles which feel best and…

Fuck there are no bad angles.

As you melt, become molten, Richard is your stiffness and he gives form to your boneless, bodiless flesh. You are full, all the way up. You are so full and it could feel urgent and dirty, having his cock deep in you like this, but it… doesn’t. It feels… Fuck. It just feels…. right. You can only describe it as a caress, as he comes to be held safely and tightly inside you, and you begin to move slowly, wanting -somehow- to imbue each drag of him over your walls with the care and affection you feel for him. The adoration you feel so deeply; as deeply as he’s buried in you. Deeper.

“Richard,” you plead, and you hinge forward at the hips, until your chest sinks down to his, your lips on to his lips, and as you undulate on his body you cling to him. Bury your face and your tongue and your hopes and your dreams in him, as though, if you plant them deep enough you can take root and call him home. As if you are a fruit and you need his ground to grow.

In turn, he holds you, arms wrapped around you, fingers caressing your back, moustache scraping against your cheek, your lips, your neck as speaks honey into your skin, nourishing you with sweet, wholesome praises. And, when he’s content that you can take him, when you’ve shown him how you can, Richard starts moving too, working in tandem with you as your bodies roll and heave together.

You show him not only that you can, but how much you enjoy taking him. There are sounds of pulverised fruit, leaking over him, his cock pushing your juices out of you, as though there is no room inside you for anything else but him. And, as your tightness surrounds him, his arms surrounding you in turn, he bestows you with simple yet jewelled praises, calling you all the beautiful names under the sun in both of his tongues.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and you both embody tenderness, all caressing fingers and lips and sugary, grateful noises. Clutching hands and arms, drawing the other closer, deeper into this tangle. As he stokes you, you can barely stand these sensations. You can barely comprehend something so pure and so perfect.

He glides into you now, your slick everywhere, your sex increasingly loud and obscene as his beautiful cock is suckered into your wet, liquid heat. As you quicken your pace, Richard’s mouth settles over your shoulder, teeth lightly gripping your flesh as he stifles a moan into your skin. Then, his breaths are billowing gusts fanning over you, and you can guess that he is trying to bring his approaching release under control.

By this stage, you are overwhelmed, your legs spent and tremoring, and you can barely rise and sink on his length anymore for shaking. You have become weak for him, practically liquid from this slow, torturous build. You need Richard to be your stiffness and your joints. You need to be a fluid thing beneath him, or else, you think, you will perish.

“Lie down for me, bonita?” Richard whispers sweetly, so attuned to you, and, seeing, as you flounder with need, your full weight almost limp on top of him, that a change of position is in order.

He draws out of you with a shudder and rolls you, carefully, his own body following and chasing yours. Richard’s weight settles pleasantly on top of you this time, and, as you fumble into position you spread your legs for him, wrapping your thighs and arms tightly around him. You hold him close to you, your hands cradling his head, fumbling through his grizzled curls, now mussed wild tendrils falling around his face. Then, ever so gently, dipping to kiss you sweetly with that assured tongue, Richard re-sheaths himself, sliding easily inside you now with a divine caress of skin. He feels overwhelmingly good. He feels like heaven reaching inside you to kiss your soul and you pray out loud, your moans greeting his kiss.

The angle and the pressure like this is something else, the press of Richard’s soft stomach and hips and the driving of his cock pushing you pleasantly down into the mattress, your body given a little bounce from the springs which helps you set a perfect rhythm together. You are moments away from unravelling, already, as Richard pistons in and out of you, over and over, a glorious pressure building as you are wrapped up safely in the warmth and scent and sound of your sweet, perfect man. You are lost in the feel of him, both of you clammy and breathy and sheening with sweat as you writhe and combine; and fuck, you want to unravel. You need to.

You want to unravel so you can bind yourself to him with more than this ephemeral tangle of limbs. You want to get lost in him, in a way that makes you feel found.

“I’m going to lose it for you, Richard. It feels too good. I... can’t take it. I… It’s too much. I’m… Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Richard is spurred on by your praises, his pace becoming quickened, his thrusts slightly harder. He sinks into you with vigour, though not with any need to dominate or take from you, you think. Simply as an expression of the overwhelming need to be closer. Deeper. More held by you. To hold you in return. It’s not close enough, even as you hold him tightly in your arms. You are so greedy for him that you don’t think you could ever get enough, even as it’s all too much.

You moan. You moan like a sob. Like a plea. Like a prayer. And he shushes you. Soothes you. He shushes you while he’s buried so deep in you -burying himself so deep in you- that you are fucked wide open. There’s something so pure and yet so wicked about the contradiction of his gentleness and this huge, undeniable force in your centre. You feel that he has crawled so deep up in you that he can never leave; and you want it that way.

“Can you take a little more, hermosa?

Fuck. No. Can you? But, yes. Please, yes. God yes.

“Yes. Please, Richard. Give me everything. I want all of you inside me. Need you.”

He thrusts his hips forward. He’s been holding out on you.

“Ohhhh, just like that,” you plead, voice ragged and your moans escalating, both your bodies slick with sweat now as you tangle together. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Richard! I need. Unnggg. Fuck. Need you deep inside me, just like that. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” You plead desperately with him -as if you even need to bargain- your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip and your hands reaching for him, tugging him closer to you as he drives his length into you over and over, pressing you harder into the mattress as you sucker him into your tightness.

His lips sink to the column of your neck, that moustache grazing you there, his own rich sounds of pleasure reverberating against your skin, his voice humming so close it sinks into your bones.

“N-never want to stop,” he gushes hoarsely into your skin. “Always want to be inside you- feel you wrapped around me, preciosa.”

His words are sincere. Earnest. And, with his words, and the repeated drag of his perfect cock, and his warmth enveloping you, you finally cry out, omitting a wracked, disbelieving moan as your pleasure pulses through you; toes curling, head thrown back, body jerking and spasming beneath him. This is an orgasm which keeps on giving, deep and strong; waves of bliss rolling through you whole body. A star bursting out from your centre. A flood. Quite literally a flood, intense and urgent and everywhere, and you look down at yourself. This is something else. Something more. A bigger heaven. You hear a new sound even, and you look down, realising that Richard’s cock has you squirting all over him, your release gushing and sloshing wet between your bodies as he continues to thrust into you, coaxing you through your peak and deepening your earth-shaking orgasm with every single movement.

“Ohhhh fuck... Richard-” you cry out, in what can only be described as awe, almost sobbing with ecstasy, your legs violently twitching and trembling as they wrap more tightly around him “-no-one’s ever made me do that before!”

Despite his gentleness, his control, this flood seems to overcome Richard too, and his thrusts become sloppy, as though he can barely stave off his release long enough to keep going, his body going near limp over you for a moment. You even swear he gets harder and bigger and deeper -if that was even possible- when he realises exactly what he made you do. When he realises that you soaked him. Flooded him. Your liquid and your juices shining on his stomach and coursing down his sturdy thighs.

You worry for a moment- you wonder whether he minds or if he likes it, as your release coats his skin and the tangle of sheets, but you needn’t worry for anything more than a moment. In response to your deluge, Richard looks at you as though you are a divine being, and, if you thought he seemed dishevelled with need earlier, this is something else. He’s undeniably into it. Indeed, as he takes in the sight of you below him, bared and writhing in ecstasy amidst a tangle of wet sheets, he stutters moans into the air, his thrusts become more determined, his cock pumping into you with refreshed vigour.

“N- never done that b-before?”

“No, Richard. Fuck. You made me-”

“-I’m going to make you do it again,” he purrs, and it is not a command at all. He never loses his characteristic gentleness. It is half a plea and half a promise, his sincere as ever. “Do it for me again, Bonita,” he coaxes, and he sounds thoroughly levelled by you. He sounds like he can’t get enough of you.

Fuck. You don’t know if you can...

“You can do it, baby. Please. Soak me again.”

You don’t think you can, until Richard is talking to you like that, with profuse, sugared pleas, and until he is hitting you exactly where you need, how you need, all over again.

You practically scream with it, weep with it, curse with it, sending a hoarse, high-pitched crescendo into the air, the keen punctuated by quickened, spent grunts Richard expels into the air with each deep, thick, purposeful thrust into you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a more assured cock.

You don’t think you can, until-

When you gush over him a second time you are more prepared for it. Prepared enough to watch as you spill over him. Prepared enough to catch the positively awed, sunken expression which spreads over Richard’s face. To appreciate the sound of your release squirting over him and sloshing, wet in-between your bodies, liquid slapping against the roundness of his soft stomach as he thrusts into you faster; more urgently. This time -how can he help it- Richard comes undone with you; and, suddenly it seems everything is liquid, like a flood.

You can feel him fill you up, can feel his hot seed pulsing all the way from the base of him and coating your walls with thick ropes of cum as his hips stutter, burying his length into your heat as deep as he can go. He goes practically limp on top of you, hips collapsing into yours, and you feel him filling you -once again- to your limit, as the motion drives him just a little deeper, just a little closer. Meanwhile, you twitch and shudder and writhe and clench through your aftershocks with Richard still balls deep inside of you, barely able to comprehend the new heights of pleasure you have reached together. Awed, by the way your bodies are speaking like they’ve known each other for years too - despite that this is their first encounter.

There’s this wetness. This wetness everywhere; inside you, on you, under you, and for several moments you feel you too could be liquid, melting and pooling and coursing from the bed. Becoming vapour and evaporating from his hot, sweat-slickened skin. You might, if it wasn’t for Richard - his weight settled on top of you in a pleasing crush. His head settling in the crook of your neck, his length still inside you, his tongue laving to bury itself in your mouth too in a desperate, haphazard motion. He means to bury himself in all ways he can, you think, and you let him. You let him become your stone heart, as you are nothing but boneless, bodiless flesh; an oiled thing beneath him like pulverised, spent fruit - all your juices squeezed out.

You coil your limbs fluidly around him, and you engulf his sturdy form with your softness, holding him at the centre of you. Still buried -softening too- in your centre. Held in this intimate circle of your arms. Becoming the centre of your universe.

You bind yourself to him. You become his. His fruit.

Still panting, spent, hot, Richard rolls off you then, his stiffness gone and his body boneless now too, his stomach and his thighs sheening with a concoction of wetness. His smooth, hairless chest slick with sweat. He collapses beside you, but he immediately reaches for your hand and presses his body to your side. Immediately checks that you’re alright, as you truly become corporeal again, flitting down from heaven and into his arms; a conduit of heaven too, you think.

Now, what the… hold up a damn second. What did this sweet man just-

You gush. You gush for him in words now that the old relic of language and (almost) coherent thought has returned to you, your voice still breathy and discombobulated. “Richard. Richard? Richard! Fuck me. That was... I need you to know that was... Fuck. Phenomenal. I’ve never. In my life. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never... Oh my God. I can’t feel my face. Was that... good for you? Was it...? Fuck. Sweet man.”

Richard chuckles fondly at your near-incoherent babble of words, drawing you into his chest and cradling you like you are a precious thing – the most precious thing.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, satin soft, through a disbelieving breath, and his words make your heart flutter and your stomach tumble pleasantly. Richard’s soft sounds continue, as he whispers sweet names and gentle praises into your hair, kissing everywhere he can reach to punctuate his words, and smoothing his fingers in nonsense shapes over your skin. Hermosa. Bonita. Preciosa. “Everything was perfect. You’re so perfect. I’ve never... I’ve never had someone take care of me so well, princesa. Thank you.”

You can hear it - the flood of emotion in his voice, and, at his admission, his praises, the rush, tears pool in your eyes. It seems he has yet more water to drain from you as a patter of tears course over the bridge of your nose and settle in the hollow of his chest. However, it is not sadness, but joy, you realise. You are thoroughly overwhelmed by how held you feel. By how happy you feel. However, when your eyes brim over and you sniffle, Richard cranes his head down towards you, pulling you up from him so your eyes can meet his.

He looks momentarily devastated. “What’s wrong? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, sweet man. Not at all. It was perfect for me too,” you are quick to reassure, and, as you shuffle on to your stomach, propping yourself up to gaze into his eyes, Richard runs a solitary thumb across your cheek. You ache with the tenderness of his touch. “Just... I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that either,” you admit, and his eyes shine gently at you, misting over with pure, unadulterated adoration. “I’ve never felt so-”

Loved.

Loved, you realise you want to say, but that would be ridiculous, right? This is your first date.

Who said anything about love?

Still, you realise that is the truth of things. That is exactly how he made you feel. Richard was so tender with you, so present, so sensual, so connected. So… right. Had you made him feel this way too? Will he let you take care of him again?

You want to. You so desperately want to. Want to protect him, care for him, laugh with him. Rest your head on the soft pillow of his stomach as he holds you close to him.

He has taken care of you so well, and you don’t want him to stop.

Please. Don’t stop.

Still, as you silently contemplate all of this, Richard simply bundles you firmly into his chest. if you are unable to find the right words, at least he is able to find the gesture. And so, the need to clean up forgotten, the cloying wetness of your skin and the sheets seemingly not bothering him, you languish against him, safe and warm and held.

“Did it feel good?” he asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence. “When you… um…?”

“Squirted all over your cock? Hell yes.” You interject, able to find the words for that at least, filling in the blank for him and laughing gently against his skin. You weren’t able to turn the act into poetry, not yet, your words clumsy and crude, but you didn’t exactly need to. The whole act felt like poetry already. Poetry written on your bones. Etched into your heart.

When he flooded you.

“Maybe you can write about it,” he suggests, and you can hear the cheeky, playful smile dancing on his lips.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz,” you scold, teasingly, your fingers dancing equally playfully over his smooth chest. “Is that what you want me for? You want to be immortalised in poetry? I don’t think you’re as innocent as you let on, are you?”

“I’m not?” he chuckles warmly.

“You read erotic poetry and trashy romance novels… and you fuck like that.”

Make love, like that.

You still cannot move beyond crude words, but in your heart, he makes the words come easily.

“Truthfully, it’s... not always like that,” Richard admits. “It’s… only like that with you.”

Once again, his sincerity has you speechless, and it is all you can do to hold him close to you, as tightly as you can, your eyes squeezing closed and a soft smile tipping your lips. He holds you in return. Holds you in this perfect moment.

“It really did feel good though. It was… I can’t even describe it. My body feels likes a… fucking… limp, wet noodle.”

The laugh he emits at your words is music. “Wet noodle? Aren’t you supposed to be a poet, darling?” Oh, he’s teasing you now? This sweet man is teasing you?

You gasp, mock affronted, and jab him playfully in the stomach with your finger, in the spots you remember he is ticklish. “Rude!” you exclaim, and he jiggles joyously against you. When the laugh dissipates, leaving only smiling, appled cheeks, silence once again enfolds you like a warm, comfortable blanket.

“I was thinking,” he begins softly, after a few moments of laying together. “We could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. The one with the cider donuts. We could take Lady.”

You can’t answer right away, can’t find the words, and it is all you can do to tug in a slow breath. Your hesitation evidently has Richard worrying again, and he rushes to fill in the blank space with his own insecurities. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice brittle. “I assumed... because I want to, but... but maybe you’re not thinking that you want to see me again...”

You pull back. Urgently moving so that you are face-to-face with him on the pillow, his body following yours on to his side too, like a magnet. You cup his face again, with your tender, open hand. You look him in the eyes. Those sweet, expressive, cola-coloured eyes. Your heart is shining for him, and it feels rubbed until it gleams.

You examine his tentatively hopeful expression. You get the sense that this man falls hard. Falls quickly. He’s in love with love, after all. You, on the other hand, love slow. And so, even as it breaks your heart that you can’t yet say the words aloud, you deflect. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Richard?” He nods. “I’m still thinking about how you turned me into a wet noodle. You should be the smuggest Adonis this side of Midtown - how on earth are you playing that one so cool?”

Richard’s face pinches a little, his gaze dropping from yours, lashes fluttering.

“It was perfect,” he agrees, in a small voice. “But, I guess, I’m not as… surprised as you are.” You shake your head slightly, in mild confusion. Wanting him to elaborate. “I always imagined you would be perfect.” He blinks shyly, and attempts a masking smile. “I don’t know if you thought the same way about me.”

A terrible lump swells in your throat. Your chest tightens.

It’s time to speak. To make your words a little more like poetry.

But it’s scary. It’s hard. You know that now.

“That’s not quite it, sweet man,” you begin. Realisation sinking heavily through you, drawing your brow down with it. Richard searches your face, encouraging you to go on, expression open; pretty eyes big. And, although the words are hard to say, they are easier. The words are easier around him. “Honestly, Richard? I think, you’ve always been perfect. I just didn’t want to realise it. I didn’t want to notice you,” you confess, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Why?” Richard encourages, a knot in his brow now too as he smooths his thumb earnestly over your cheek, breath bated. His touch is like the path of a match against its counterpart box; it is a little thing, which threatens to ignite something far larger.

“I…” you sigh out some of your tension and nerves with a billowing exhale. “I suppose… because I knew. That as soon as I saw you, there would be no going back. I must have known deep-down, that if I saw you, that I… I could love you so quickly.”

Richard swallows. “Is that… not something you want? Love?”

“It didn’t used to be. I… didn’t used to believe I deserved it,” you reveal, tears balling in your eyes as all of your deepest fears and secrets loosen and rattle inside your chest, gradually being shed and needing to find their exit.

“And now, preciosa?” Richard asks, gingerly smoothing a hand over the crown of your head, dipping a moustached kiss to the centre of your forehead. “What do you believe?”

Now? Now, it is different, and a cautious smile slowly claims your lips - even as your cheeks are wet by tears.

“I’m thinking, Richard Alonso Muñoz, that… That nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you to the farmer’s market.”

Your words sound flippant, perhaps insignificant, but you can tell, from the way Richard’s eyes pool with a subtle, brewing joy, that your true meaning is abundantly clear to him. So, in mutual celebration your lips press together in a crush, smile lines radiating across his face. When he pulls back though, a gentle, playful heat seemingly overtakes him. “Are you sure about that, bonita?” he asks in a fond, teasing tone. As his chest shakes in a rich, gleeful chuckle, you perfectly catch his meaning too.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, with a giggle, as he slants his hips forward, pressing his already hardening length against your thigh. “Maybe there is one thing that could give me more pleasure.” You tick-up a suggestive eyebrow. “Want to remind me?”

“Please,” he purrs, just as broken with need as before. “My beautiful, wet little noodle.”

At his ridiculous new pet name -which you only have yourself to blame for, honestly- you squeal brightly, expelling musical peals of laughter into his open-mouth as he surges to kiss you, the act imbued with deep affection. He kisses you until the laughter pleasantly dissipates, your bodies suffusing with a resurgent heat, as you tangle together all over again.

As Richard holds you, every so tenderly, you are overcome. Your loneliness? It has never felt so far away. You hadn’t realised how much you needed somebody to love. You hadn’t realised that someone was him. You hadn’t wanted to admit it. But, oh, you are realising it now. And, you are never going to forget it.

“Kiss me again,” you plead into the air.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Everywhere.

Everywhere.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, affirmatively, and with relish, you feel his moustache graze the column of your neck. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of that feeling.

As his lips crush to your again, you note how he tastes. A combination of your sweet, nectar-like juices, and the subtle tang of sweat he has kissed from your sex-flushed skin. He tastes like a salted peach. He is pure poetry, you think. You’ve never tasted anything quite as sweet, and you’ve never experienced such a flood. And, now that your deluge of joy is through -your happiness instead streaming steadily- it no longer feels heavy. It no longer weighs you down.

You want to love him, and be loved; and, you will.

What’s more. You deserve every bit of it.

It’s the little things. One by one. And then, suddenly, there it is. There’s everything; in your arms.

[smediumsmeatbae]

Just a Little Taste

PAIRING: Landlord!Robert Pronge x Reader 

SUMMARY: You just wanted a little ice cream

WORDS: 1005

WARNINGS: mentions of death, murder, confinement, swearing, general creepiness. This would probably get a TV-14, like a Law and Order episode rating so nothing is too bad, I just want everyone warned. 

A/N: Whew! This was my first time writing Robert Pronge and I have to say, I really enjoyed writing this creepy little fic. The last half really wrote itself. I’d love to get him out to play a little more if you guys like this fic. 

I also took a few liberties with the story. I know that the killings mostly took place in New Jersey, but I couldn't really give Reader a good enough reason to move there, so we went a little more north to New York City for the setting. I did, however, make the reader from Dumont, NJ, which is where Richard Kuklinski, from the iceman murders, was based in the movie. And obviously, Robert was never a landlord (that we know of) but he would be the perfect creepy one. 

This is also another entry for the #shamelesshoesforchris challenge by @navybrat817 and @stargazingfangirl18. I used the prompts: creepy landlord and “shhh, be good for me.” 

Please do not post my work elsewhere without my permission

Likes are amazing. Comments and reblogs are better. 

Tags will be in the reblog because tumblr suuuuucks. 🤣

--------****--------

It wasn’t that long ago that you moved into the Gallant Apartments in New York City, but you could tell that something was… off. It wasn’t that the building was old. Buildings aged and you liked the 1960′s characteristics that the complex held; it had a retro appeal. It may have been the surrounding block that the building was on. It seemed that every time you left the area, everything seemed… lighter. It sounded delusional but you swore there was a dark cloud that hung over the place. Then, there was the landlord, Robert Pronge. He seemed like one of those guys who tried to seem nice on the surface, but he was shifty. He insisted that everyone call him Mr Freezy on account of the ice cream truck he drove part time. He had stringy dirty brown hair, glasses that practically covered his own face, and a goatee. Every time you passed him in the hallway, you got this feeling from him, like he was watching you.  

Still, you had just uprooted your entire life from a small town in Dumont, New Jersey. You had said goodbye to everyone and came to New York City on the promise of a new writing career. You weren't about to let a creepy landlord with too much time on his hands get in the way of you living your dream. He could be creepy and sell his creepy little popsicles by himself. You were going to keep to yourself, mind your manners, and pay rent on time. 

A few months went by without you all talking that much except for the occasional maintenance issues. You seemed to get on his nerves just talking to him, like every question or concern you had for him ripped an invisible hole in his body. It truly baffled you why he was even in tenant leasing if it was going to be so annoying to him. 

Then, July came. It was sweltering hot, hotter than you could remember it in a long time. Sweat would bead on your forehead just from walking outside to dump your garbage. As you walked home from work, you felt like your insides were barbecuing. The sunburn you were going to have on your pale skin was going to be brutal. You needed relief, you needed the cold. 

That’s when you spotted the truck. 

The Mr. Freezy truck, that damn white and blue beauty. It was parked there like it was waiting for you, having an angelic glow for you, asking you, pleading with you to come in and get some delicious ice cream. Robert wouldn’t mind one, you reasoned with yourself. You would tell him later and pay him back.   

You walked towards the truck, taking care to be cautious with the locks and opening of the back door. The smell was different than you'd expected. You'd thought it would smell of ice cream and coolant from the freezers but there was something else there just under the surface. Something surgical smelling. Maybe bleach? You brushed the thought aside as you stepped into the truck, in search of your delicious treat. 

You opened the first freezer on the right and saw just a few things, nothing that grabbed you right off. You did like the bomb pops but you were looking for one of those lemon ice things. You closed the freezer and went to the one on the left, casually opening it. 

You weren't sure what you were looking at when you first opened it. It took your mind a second to process that there were eyes staring back at you instead of what should have been frozen treats.  What… What the hell. What. The. HELL!?! There was a body in the freezer. A DEAD BODY WAS STARING AT YOU. You shrieked out in terror and backed away from the freezer, your body slamming with the freezer on the other side. Your heart was slamming out of your chest, you were trying to remember how to breathe. What the fuck were you going to do?

“What are you doing in here?” A low voice murmured towards you. 

Your head turned, wide eyed and terror running through you. Robert was standing there, shoulders tense. Eyes black coal and steady. You could see his eyebrows furrowed under the frames of his glasses. 

He hopped up into the back of the truck with you and shut the freezer door then looked you  up and down as if he was deciding what to do with you. All you could do was tremble, your body visibly shaking. He turned and closed the door to the truck, leaving you and Robert in there together. 

“I....” Grabbing onto the freezer door to steady yourself, you noticed how your voice seemed so meek and small. “I... Just wanted some ice cream…”

“Well, that wasn’t the right one, was it.” 

“R-robert please. I’m sor-” You choked out. 

Quickly, he took two steps forward and was right up against you, planting his hands on either side of you on the freezer, eyes blazing at you. He pressed his body on you and stuck his face close to yours. You tried to back away but you had nowhere to go. 

You couldn't scream. Your mouth felt like sandpaper scraping against itself. Your legs felt like jelly. A cruel sneer found its way onto Roberts mouth as he looked down at you like you were a new toy. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small switchblade, making it pop out with his thumb. 

“Goin’ places you don’t belong? Stickin your nose where it don’t belong, huh baby?” He whispered, using one of his hands to grab your arm. “Someone should teach you a lesson, hmm?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” You pleaded. 

“Shhh, be good for me.” He had a low growl as he gripped tighter to your arm making you whimper. “Don’t scream again and this will go much easier.”

"Oh... I'm going to have so much fun with you."

[duranduratulsa]

Up next on my Spooktober Filmfest...Day Of The Dead (1985) on glorious vintage Media Home Entertainment VHS 📼! #movie #movies #horror #nightofthelivingdead #dayofthedead #georgeromero #ripgeorgeromero #Zombies #loricardille #JosephPilato #ripjosephpilato #anthonydileojr #tomsavini #TerryAlexander #GaryHowardKlar #ripgaryhowardklar #GregNicotero #shermanhoward #richardliberty #riprichardliberty #JarlathConroy #ralphmarrero #vintage #VHS #mediahomeentertainment #80s #spooktober #halloween #october

[blackknightgargiemoviephile]

The Thief & The Cobbler

I was browsing Deviant Art one day when I came across a very familiar drawing. It is a fanart of my childhood fav animated movie "The Thief and The Cobbler" and it brought me back to the memories of really stimulating artwork and my really fav of all the characters in the movie, which is Tack, the cobbler and main character in the movie.

I really missed this movie. So as I found a download link for it and got the movie, I did a little research on the movie itself. TL:DR, y'all can look it up on this Wikipedia link here.

Yeah, in a nutshell, they were all the same story is just that it differs in some point. This is how I think about either 3 versions:

The Thief and the Cobbler

Well, technically the movie Richard William envisioned was never finished, so as mentioned above, there was a fan edit to match the story. For the story-wise, it was OK, especially it gives a hint of mystery for Tack who doesn't speak until all the way towards the end of the movie where you would be stunned with the deep, rich voice of Sean Connery saying "I love you" to Princess Yum-Yum. But as far as story flow and transition-wise, because this is a fan edit and the original movie was never complete, it was added in with storyboard sequence drawings and rough lineart animation, which kinda detached yourself a little from enjoying the story. I know they want to show it in a way that they can tell the story the way Richard Williams wanted it, but if they are willing to get down and dirty to reanimate the scenes and draw it themselves, I'm sure it would've turned out better and not too distracting

The Princess and the Cobbler

Here, this is what I remembered watching back when I was a kid. Probably this was the version I watched back then and thus made me fall in love with it. Tack talks in that young voice as I remembered, but also maintains his quiet attitude. They took the liberty to animate some areas where they added a mouth for Tack to show him talking. There is song and dance in it, which I absolute fell in love with, and this is where Majestic actually reanimated by drawing their own sequences for the singing part, which probably the fan edit version should've done, because if Majestic can reanimate it in such likeness to the original characters that you can't really tell the difference between the original footage and the reanimated footage, I'm sure the fan edit version can do the same. I don't really mind the singing sequences, really (although I found out not much people like it), as it gives a bit of entertainment in between. In fact it makes the movie a little much better than it is. Besides, the songs are very romantic and just to die for~!

Arabian Knight

I never got to watch this version, but I did go to YouTube where they had a video showing the same scene to compare between the 3 movies. And even though it's just a glimpse, I could tell and agree with everyone that it sucked big time. The thief has always been a quiet character and now he was given a talking role, which kills off the mood, really. It was more or less butchered in so many ways that it had become like an Aladdin rip-off, and many accused it to be an Aladdin rip-off when ironically, Aladdin's animation was inspired by The Thief and The Cobbler

Anywho, it's a very good animated movie which should not be missed. I'd probably like The Princess and The Cobbler version better than The Thief and The Cobbler version better in terms of entertainment, because, let's face it, I'm a sucker for song and dance, lol! And ooh, Tacks is like the coolest character of all! I'm probably adding him to my list of fantasy lovers~!

Ratings:

TTaTC - 7.5/10

TPaTC - 9/10

AK - Don't even bother

[leonascuderis-a]

❛    HAPPY    ELLE’S    DAY    !    part.    two    ♡

to my love, @morkleez​ : separei aqui alguns incorrect quotes dos nossos ships e brotps, espero que você goste! feliz aniversário!

asher: does your heart ever hurt so much you just want to rip it out and ignore it? lupita: that’s called feelings, asher.

—

saerom: truth or dare? yejun: truth saerom: how many hours have you slept this week? yejun: yejun: dare saerom: go to sleep yejun: i don’t like this game

—

lupita, seductively: tell me your wildest fantasy. asher: i’m on the wheel of fortune, and i spin it so hard it lights on fire. lupita: no, i meant like- asher: everyone claps.

—

thomas: we both look very handsome tonight. liberty: you know, if you'd just said that i looked handsome, i would have said, "so do you." thomas: i couldn't take that chance.

—

leah: oh my god, goals. minhee: ? leah: you called me babe. leah: friendship goals. minhee: ooh. minhee: i was flirting but ok.

—

lupita: how you hate to be wrong. asher: i wouldn't know, i'm not familiar with the sensation.

—

richard: *playing out of tune guitar.* milo: hey, you take requests? richard: sure. milo: please stop.

—

viktor: *kissing evie′s neck* evie: what is this ? viktor: affection? evie: disgusting evie: ...do it again.

—

liberty: thanks, cutiepie. thomas: ugh. liberty: sorry, i’ll think of a better one than cutiepie. you're my angel.... dust. sorry, that’s a drug.

[papermoonloveslucy]

CRITIC’S CHOICE

April 13, 1963

Directed by Don Weis 

Produced by Frank P. Rosenberg for Warner Brothers

Written by Jack Sher, based on the play by Ira Levin

Synopsis ~��Parker Ballantine is a New York theater critic and his wife writes a play that may or may not be very good. Now Parker must either get out of reviewing the play or cause the breakup of his marriage.

PRINCIPAL CAST

Lucille Ball (Angela Ballantine) marks her 80th feature film since coming to Hollywood in 1933. This is her fourth and final film with Bob Hope. 

Bob Hope (Parker Ballantine) was born Lesley Townes Hope in England in 1903. During his extensive career (in virtually all forms of media) he received five honorary Academy Awards. He died at the age of 100. In 1945 Desi Arnaz was the orchestra leader on Bob Hope’s NBC radio show. Lucille Ball and Hope made four films together: Sorrowful Jones (1949), Fancy Pants (1950), The Facts of Life (1960), and Critic’s Choice (1963). In between the first two and the second two, he appeared on “I Love Lucy” in “Lucy and Bob Hope” (ILL S6;E10) in1956. Hope made a cameo appearance in a 1962 episode of "The Lucy Show” that starred Jack Benny. Lucy and Hope appeared together in dozens of television programs, including Ball’s final appearance at the 1989 Oscars. 

Marilyn Maxwell (Ivy London) appeared with Bob Hope in “The Colgate Comedy Hour” (1950, 1951, 1953, 1953), The Lemon Drop Kid (1951), Off Limits (1952), “The Bob Hope Show” (1954) and with Lucille Ball in DuBarry Was A Lady (1943), Thousands Cheer (1943), Forever Darling (1956), as well as “Here’s Lucy: Lucy The Co-Ed” (1970). 

Rip Torn (Dion Kapakos) was nominated for an Oscar in 1983. This was his only film with Lucille Ball. 

Jesse Royce Landis (Charlotte Orr) makes her only appearance with Lucille Ball. 

John Dehner (S.P. Champlain) also appeared with Hope and Ball in the television special “Mr. and Mrs.” in 1964. 

Jim Backus (Dr. von Hagedom) is most famous for playing millionaire Thurston Howell III on “Gilligan’s Island.”  He appeared in Easy Living (1949) with Lucille Ball and was heard on her radio show “My Favorite Husband.” 

Ricky Kelman (John Ballantine) was a child actor who later appeared as a teenager on “Here’s Lucy” in “Lucy and Andy Griffith” (HL S6;E8) in 1973. 

Dorothy Green (Mrs. Champlain) makes her only appearances with Lucille Ball. 

Marie Windsor (Sally Orr) also appeared with Lucille Ball in The Big Street (1942).

Evan McCord aka Joe Gallison (Phil Yardley) makes his only appearance with Lucille Ball. 

Richard Deacon (Harvey Rittenhouse) is probably best remembered as Mel Cooley on “The Dick Van Dyke Show” (1961-66). He appeared as Tallulah Bankhead’s butler in “The Celebrity Next Door,” a 1957 episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour.” He was employed again by Desi Sr. as a regular on “The Mothers-in-Law” (1968). He made two appearances on "Here’s Lucy.”

Joan Shawlee (Marge Orr) also appeared with Lucille Ball in Lover Come Back (1946). 

Jerome Cowan (Joe Rosenfield) appeared with Lucille Ball in The Fuller Brush Girl (1950). He was featured in such films as 1947’s Miracle on 34th Street (with William Frawley) and as Miles Archer in 1941’s The Maltese Falcon. He appeared in one episode of “The Lucy Show” in 1966 and one episode of “Here’s Lucy.”

Donald Losby (Godfrey) makes his only appearance with Lucille Ball.

Lurene Tuttle (Mother) played the president of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “The Club Election” (ILL S2;E19) on February 16, 1953.

Emestine Wade (Thelma) makes her only appearance with Lucille Ball. 

Stanley Adams (Bartender) made  three appearances on “The Lucy Show.”

UNCREDITED CAST (who shared credits with Lucille Ball)

Leon Alton (Audience Member) appeared with Lucille Ball in The Facts of Life (1960), two episodes of “The Lucy Show” and three episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”

Walter Bacon (Audience Member) was seen in “Lucy Wins a Racehorse” (LDCH 1958) and “Lucy Puts Main Street on the Map” (TLS S5;E18) in 1967.

Paul Bradley (Audience Member) made six appearances on “The Lucy Show” and two episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”

Charles Cirillo (Audience Member) was also an uncredited extra in 1968 film Yours, Mine and Ours.  He did a 1971 episode of “Here’s Lucy” and a 1968 episode of “The Lucy Show.” 

Paul Cristo (Audience Member) was seen on an episode of “I Love Lucy,” two episodes of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour,” and two of “The Lucy Show.”

George DeNormand (Party Guest) appeared in three films with Lucille Ball from 1937 to 1963.  He also appeared on “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy.”

James Flavin (Security Guard) played Sgt. Wilcox two episodes of “The Lucy Show” including “Lucy and the Safe Cracker” (TLS S2;E5). He appeared in four films with Lucille Ball, including playing a police sergeant in Without Love (1945).

Bess Flowers (Audience Member at 'Sisters Three') was hailed as Queen of the Extras in Hollywood. She appeared in more films with Lucille Ball than any other performer. She often was seen on “I Love Lucy” and “The Lucy Show.”

Sid Gould (Cab Driver) was Lucille Ball’s cousin by marriage to Gary Morton. He appeared in more than forty episodes of “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy” in small roles. 

George Holmes (Spectator) was in the studio audience in “Lucy and Art Linkletter” (TLS S6;E4).  He also did an episode of “Here’s Lucy” and two more films with Lucille Ball: The Facts of Life (1960), and Mame (1974).

Shep Houghton (Audience Member) made three films with Lucille Ball, including Too Many Girls. He did two episodes of “The Lucy Show” and one episode of “Here’s Lucy.” Houghton was one of the Winkie Guards in 1939’s The Wizard of Oz and a Southern Dandy in Gone With the Wind (1939).  

Breena Howard (Girlfriend) also played a waitress in “Lucy Goes to Vegas” (TLS S3;E17) in 1965.

Joseph La Cava (Bellhop) did an episode of “I Love Lucy” and returned to work with Lucy in an episode of “Here’s Lucy.” He was also seen as a restaurant patron in Mame (1974).

Mike Lally (Audience Member at 'Sisters Three') was seen in two episodes of “I Love Lucy,” one “The Lucy Show,” and eight films starring Lucille Ball.  

William Meader (Audience Member) appeared as an airport extra in “The Ricardos Go to Japan” in 1959. He made many appearances on “The Lucy Show,” most times as a clerk in Mr. Mooney’s bank.

Harold Miller (First Nighter in Audience) did eight films with Lucy and two episodes of “I Love Lucy”.

Monty O'Grady (Audience Member) was first seen with Lucille Ball in The Long, Long Trailer (1953) and played a passenger on the S.S. Constitution in “Second Honeymoon” (ILL S5;E14). He was a traveler at the airport when “The Ricardos Go to Japan” (1959). He made a dozen appearances on "The Lucy Show” and a half dozen more on “Here’s Lucy.”

Murray Pollack (Audience Member) was one of the party guest in “Country Club Dance” (ILL S6;E25). Like Monty O'Grady, he was at the airport when “The Ricardos Go to Japan” (1959). He made two appearances on “The Lucy Show” and returned for three episodes of “Here’s Lucy.” 

Paul Power (Audience Member) was seen in two episodes of “I Love Lucy” and two films with Lucille Ball.  

Beverly Powers (Girl with Dion) played Mimi Van Tysen in “Lucy Goes to a Hollywood Premiere” (TLS S4;E20) in 1966. In that episode, she had a gorilla on her arm, not Rip Torn! 

Alan Ray (Hotel Doorman) was seen on “I Love Lucy” as the clapstick boy at “Ricky’s Screen Test” (ILL S4;E6), a Brown Derby waiter in “Hollywood at Last” (ILL S4;E16), and a male nurse in “Nursery School” (ILL S5;E9). He made four appearance on “The Lucy Show,” including once as a hotel doorman! In 1950 Ray was also in the film A Woman of Distinction in which Lucille Ball had a cameo.

Frieda Rentie (Audience Member) made two appearances on “Here’s Lucy.” 

Victor Romito (Audience Member) was seen as the Bartender in “Lucy Meets John Wayne” (TLS S5;E10) as well as one more episode of “The Lucy Show.”  He appeared in four episodes of “Here’s Lucy.” 

Bernard Sell (Audience Member) made three appearances on "The Lucy Show”. He was also an extra with Lucille Ball and Bob Hope in their film The Facts of Life (1960). He turns up on a 1971 two-part episode of “Here’s Lucy.”

Hal Smith (Drunk) is probably best known around the Desilu lot for playing Otis the drunk on “The Andy Griffith Show”.  He made three appearance on “The Lucy Show” including the role of Mr. Weber in “Main Street U.S.A.” (S5;E17). He did one episode of “Here’s Lucy” in 1972.  

Norman Stevans (Clerk) was in the audience of “Over The Teacups” during “Ethel’s Birthday” (ILL S4;E8) and at the airport when “The Ricardo’s Go To Japan,” in 1959.  He appeared in two episodes of “Here’s Lucy” and in the 1974 Lucille Ball film Mame.

Arthur Tovey (Audience Member) did one episode of “The Lucy Show” and the TV special “Swing Out, Sweet Land” in 1970 in which Lucille Ball is the Statue of Liberty.  

Ralph Volkie (Audience Member) is best remembered for playing John Wayne’s masseuse in “Lucy and John Wayne” (ILL S5;E2) in 1955.  As Wayne’s trainer, he also appeared in sixteen films with the Duke. 

‘CRITICS’ TRIVIA

Lucille Ball’s costumes for the film were designed by Edith Head.  Irma Kusely, Lucille’s long-time hairdresser, did her hair design.

Lucille Ball and Bob Hope break the fourth wall and appear as themselves in the film’s trailer. 

Because of poor audience reaction at test screenings, this film sat unreleased for a year before being sent to theaters. The delay did not help, as it received generally unfavorable reviews.

"It is pleasing to look at in its expensive décor, color and scope, ably played by its experienced stars and ingratiating in its quieter insights into a sophisticated marital relationship. So long as it meanders modestly through some above-average repartee, it provides an agreeable way to pass an evening. Instead of leaving well enough alone, unfortunately, the director, Don Weis, has tried to upholster the shaky plot with slapstick and broad burlesque...Both stars, old hands at this sort of thing, go through their paces with benign good humor, but their subtler comic talents remain untapped. At this rate, the critics' popularity seems unlikely to improve." ~ The New York Times

Angela's play opens at the 46th Street Theatre. This is an actual Broadway theatre, though it has since been renamed the Richard Rodgers Theatre and since 2015 has been home to Hamilton. At the time of filming it was host to the Pulitzer Prize-winning musical How To Succeed in Business...Without Really Trying. Lucille Ball was on Broadway just one year earlier at the Alvin (now the Neil Simon) Theatre in Wildcat. 

The collage of stylized posters for Broadway plays (The Music Man, Life With Father, Fanny, Gypsy, Camelot) that appeared under the opening credits, were all productions that had (or in the case of Camelot, would later be) filmed by Warner Bros.

Ira Levin's original play had been produced on Broadway in 1960, when it enjoyed modest success under the direction of Otto Preminger. The play starred Henry Fonda in the Bob Hope role of Parker Ballantine, and also featured Georgann Johnson (in Lucille Ball's role). 

Angela and Dion fly from New York to Boston in an American Airlines Lockheed Electra, registration number N6102A. By the time the movie was released in 1963, the plane no longer existed - on August 6, 1962 (Lucille Ball's 51st birthday) it was wrecked in a landing accident during a thunderstorm at the Knoxville, Tennessee airport. Fortunately, all aboard the plane survived.

The casting of Marilyn Maxwell as Hope's first wife was a kind of ironic joke, as their long-time affair was well enough known in the industry for her to be often referred to as "the second Mrs. Hope."

The Ballantines were based on renowned theatre critic Walter Kerr and his playwright wife Jean Kerr. As an inside joke, Hope mentions one of her plays, "Mary, Mary."

The film’s music orchestrations are credited to Arthur Morton (inset photo). Not only is Morton Ball’s married name, Arthur Morton was the name of the character played by Richard Crenna who had a crush on Lucy Ricardo in “The Young Fans” (ILL S1;E20)!

The film is mentioned on “What's My Line?” featuring Bob Hope and Lucille Ball on May 5, 1963. Lucy and Bob are on a promotional tour, New York being the eleventh of their 19 cities. They had just come from being on “The Ed Sullivan Show” earlier that evening, also to promote Critic’s Choice.

Lucille Ball mentions the film on “Dinah!” featuring Bob Hope on April 15, 1977. About Critic’s Choice (1963), it is clear that this was a film Lucy didn’t want to do. Lucy and Hope were obliged to do a 11-theatre promo tour to “sell” the film. Hope calls it their only flop.  

[ladyshivs]

Plan C

Fandom: Fallen Hero: Rebirth (all disclaimers to @fallenhero-rebirth)

WC~3000

pairings: slight flystep (Daniel/Richard)

tags: spoilers. headcanon heavy, inaccurate portrayal of brain damage, liberties taken with how psychic damage might work, farm headcanons, minor OCs, discussions of political corruption

Ain’t it the worst when a plan comes together?

--

The back half of what seemed to be a plea, followed by profanity. Followed by gibberish. Regina’s eyes stayed pinned to the ceiling, unblinking, as though they were the only things keeping it from falling in on her.

“—other one, but no. Not lucky enough. Lucky enough. Got lucky enough. Body was still there,” a high-pitched hysterical laugh ripped itself out of her lungs, tearing as it went, making her cough hard and ragged in between giggled shrieks. “There but not there. Not there where. No one came to get you,” a coin flipped and now she was sing song, broken nose playing shrill counter point. “No one but me. No one but me. Me, not you. You. Because I knew. I knew, wasn’t just you. Me. And it and you and we all wanted it. Not just you. The other one. God fucking damn it. So much time. It. But not you. Should have been. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Four, Oh, Three, Nine, Nineteen. H,” another half laugh. “Fucking G. G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P, still could use you. Should have done better. Should have. Have,” Regina struggled briefly against the restraints on her wrists. “Have they arrived yet?”

Her head nodded down, face scrunching up tight. But her eyes remained unfocused, darting and spiraling. “My face hurts,” her voice pitched itself over a low jump, heading downwards to quiet and trembling. “Why does my face hurt so much?” a single sob. And then, back to her earlier ranting. The pain in her face only enough to keep her lucid for moments at a time—something shiny that lost its appeal as soon as it was recognized.

“Couldn’t let. A mistake. Can’t make more mistakes. Assumed dead. Wished you were dead, didn’t you? Wish you were dead, don’t you? Aha. Not this time, not. Needed those. Needed to see. Needs not wants. Wants are what you don’t know you need. Which parts of you are you are me are it? Is there a you? Are you there?” the sudden shift back to clarity gripped around his throat. “Are you here? I can hear you, just like I always could. Screaming in the night. Impressive lungs. Impressive resilience. We didn’t give that to you, Four Zero Three Nine Nine Nine,”

Richard felt his stomach punch up against his lungs just as something began roaring between his temples. Wordless and deafening and venomously urging him to.

To.

There was no way out of this. No way to make it end well. But there was no way to go back now. They were all going to die, and it was all going to be his fault and it was all going to be for absolutely nothing. Icicles pierced out from his veins and froze his limbs solid. Pressure. Pressure on his—oh, Daniel was squeezing his hand. Just enough to get his attention back.

“She keeps doing that,” Daniel said with a quick glance upwards at Richard’s face. Fear, but not directed at him. It was a balm he couldn’t have deserved less. Not true. There were things he could have done. “Goes from rambling to coherent,” Richard felt a thumb begin stroking lightly over the back of his hand and tried to desperately to sink into it. Focus on the warmth and blinding light. Daniel’s thoughts zipped around him in familiar chaos, rising and sinking on their own warm updrafts. Everything was going to be okay. For a measure of everything. For a measure of okay.

He just didn’t want Richard to have to suffer anymore.

The thought made him snort. Good luck with that Lover Boy. But the poison wasn’t quite in it; his heart wasn’t quite in it. Richard blamed the exhaustion settling into his joints. Everything ached. He wasn’t looking forward to the nightmares he would have as soon as he did try to rest.

“You said Ricardo punched her?” groping out for anything that might help block out her words. Still just the semi-sane ramblings of an injured woman to Daniel. There was a bit too much that Richard could recognize if he took the time to sift through the muck. Chen was picking up on just a little bit more.

He hadn’t moved from his place by the door, watching the three of them from as far away as he could manage while still being in the room. Or. No. Guarding the door? And he nodded.

“She had started talking to him,” a slight shift in his weight, “Or about him, is more accurate,”

“About him?” Richard parroted, blinking the surprise back. It shouldn’t have surprised him, he knew. Regina’s fingers were in more pies than just his own.

Chen crossed his arms over his chest, chin dropping a bit, eyes firm on the ground. Narrowing to glare at the concrete. “Taunting him,” he finally corrected. “About how he failed to save you during Heartbreak,” and. Oh. Ah, beans. Richard didn’t want anything to do with the small coating of guilt on those words. Guilt, because if he hadn’t given in, then Ricardo wouldn’t have had to stop to save him.

“She also…she also said some of things I guess she told you about him. When you were in there,” Daniel continued for him. “That he had never really been your friend and had only ever been using you. That he was moving on, happy that you were…” he trailed into silence, unwilling to recount everything she’d said about Ricardo. Richard knew what she would have said anyway. “So, he punched her in the face,”

He felt something slipping over his skin. Faint. Body heat warm. Concern, radiating out like bomb had been dropped in Daniel’s chair.

“She talked about me for a little bit too,” A solid puncture of his heart, leaving him bleeding terror into his abdomen. “She--,”

“I don’t want to know what she said,” the words practically punched his teeth out in their speed out of his throat. Half aware that he was squeezing Daniel’s hand too hard and unable to stop himself. To his unending credit, Daniel didn’t so much as flinch with it.

“Alright,” but his thoughts were too loud to shut out. The edges of the wingtips were sharper than usual. She accused him of manipulating Daniel into loving him. That it wasn’t simply all of his lies that had been enough. That he’d gone in and twisted Daniel’s thoughts. Into believing that there was something about him worth comparing to human. Into believing that even though he had already broken him, that he should be forgiven. Because Daniel was too soft hearted and stupid and too willing to keep the faith that things would end well. That they could have a happily ever after if he just kept pushing for it.

There really was no way to end this the way he wanted. So much of his plans had revolved around him not surviving them. About forcing Ricardo and Daniel to mourn and move on. Lick their wounds and let time heal and fade the scars he’d leave behind on them. Letting them have ashes and meaningless incarcerations of millionaires for what? A few months at most. Maybe a year. It was hard to convince people to arrest the people who made sure you got your paychecks. Where would the next one come from after all? They were cruel plans. Plans designed to hurt them for ever caring about him. And then they’d had to be scrapped because he was too self-sabotaging to keep them secret.

And what he’d come up to replace them had never involved seeing her again. Never involved so much as an acknowledgment of her name. Her face. Only the things she and her people had done to him. Were doing to others. Hopefully convincing enough people that those things were wrong. Hard to be convincing when one was a murderer. When one was a torturer himself.

But that fruit had been too ripe to resist plucking it. She deserved whatever was going on in her mind right now. Deserved it for no other reason than because it made him. Made him feel.

Warm inside wasn’t quite right, because the surging tide of bitter, freezing nausea was still strong and ever present.  

Made him feel, finally, like he deserved the way he felt about himself.

Hopefully what Miss Ochoa would find on that computer—what she could write with that information—would be enough to convince some people. People who weren’t already involved and people willing to switch sides to save face. If she was brave enough. He couldn’t offer her protection any more than he could actually protect himself. Protect the people he cared about. All he could do was throw her into the line of fire and hope that they kept shooting at him instead.

Regina, apparently aware that she was being ignored, screamed.

Or tried to, at least. Halfway through, her voice caught in the back of her throat, sending her coughing and sputtering, fresh blood from her nose trickling down her face.

“Where am I?” she managed, in between broken sounds from her chest. Followed by a strangled and pitiful, “It’s so dark. I hate. Hate the. The layout, all wrong. It’s all wrong. It’s all going going gone wrong, going wrong, how did he even? Two lefts make a right make a wrong. Why are they all coming out left-handed?” and a knocking at the door. “The light is on,” Regina’s thoughts were coming unstuck again and set out to drift. “Need versus wanting to need,”

Chen turned to look through the small window and unlocked the door, letting Ricardo back in. His eyes settled on Richard, making him want to both squirm and heave out a tired sigh. There wasn’t judgment in the look. Mild worry tempered by the anger still bubbling away just beneath his surface.

“Hey,” was all he offered before looking back at the body in the bed with open revulsion. “So. What now?” words tight and sticking between his ribs.

Regina made a cooing sound. “No, not yet. The system will,”

And wasn’t that the question of the fucking century? Richard bit the bullet and felt it crack his teeth. The hand not being held by Daniel clenched hard enough to send his fingernails slicing into his palm. The slight pain helped anchor him down.

“I don’t know. Lady Argent was on her way back with the regene, I think. She was certainly winning when I left the scene. But soon either the Special Directive is going to show up and kill everyone in here. And I don’t know how to deal with siege warfare. Especially if,”

“If?” Ricardo paced over, glaring sharpened daggers at Regina, who was still muttering her part of a one-sided conversation. His shoulders were up to his ears, tense and tight. His face was grim. It didn’t take a psychic to see the pent-up aggression barely contained in the way he grabbed the other chair and flung himself down into it. It almost hid the way he winced at his cracking knees.

“If this place will get an order to go on lockdown, while they try to sweep it from the inside out,” Chen interrupted and explained, and Richard felt a sick twist at his fears being confirmed. He barely managed to look up and hold Chen’s gaze; it was equally unsettled. “I thought Carmichael’s name sounded familiar. She’s a strong advocate for the Rangers. Always argues in favor of us when it comes to funding and supplies from the government,”

“And I bet her husband makes sizeable donations?” Ricardo spat out. Every muscle was tensed, as though he was ready for the walls to fall in at any second. Richard couldn’t blame him.

“Anonymously, but,” and Chen nodded grimly. “It doesn’t take a genius to track the money. Or the supplies,” ah yes, because didn’t they just have the funnest toys nowadays here at Rangers’ HQ? And that wasn’t even counting the vault. That could come in handy if it was the SD that arrived first. Could spell disaster if it was HQ that attacked.

“We do need them,” Regina interrupted loudly. “Needs versus wants. Want it. No, not unless. Not until it needs it. Really needs it to stop. Can’t damage it too much. Car with no wheels. Have to. We’ve been waiting, long enough. How long was too long to wait until we put you to sleep?” and Richard swallowed down a bulb of vomit. She’d asked that question, or a version of it, too many times of him. Exit interviews after his torture sessions. How long do you think you can hold out next time before we have to sedate you?

“Wait. What? Why from inside?” Daniel blinked his attention away from Regina and gave Richard’s hand another soft rub with his thumb, using it to pull himself up and begin floating a few inches off the chair. A nervous habit, that. Cutting the tethers and letting gravity fall off of him. The question was not fully out of confusion. Daniel was already putting the ample amount of evidence together; he just hated the picture it was painting. That the Rangers were just as deep in the pocket of corrupt, war mongering Senators as the Farm was made his skin crawl and something surprisingly loud inside of him cry out.

They were the good guys after all. They were heroes. There was no way they were on the same level as. As. And surely there weren’t enough people under the Senator’s thumb? The people he worked with here were his friends. At least he was friendly with them. Chatted over coffee and the weather and about their kids’ soccer games. Those people wouldn’t just turn around and try to kill him because of an order. The Special Directive didn’t have a choice—but the people here did. And they would choose right.  

“Because once Senator Carmichael gets word that we’ve taken her lead scientist and contact for the Farm, she’s going to send the order down to have us eliminated. And because it’s her husband not signing the millions of dollars’ worth of funding checks, they’re going to ask how high to jump. And how many bodies they need to make it believable. It won’t have their names on it, and when they run the story to the press, it will be me—Mad Dog—who attacked and killed you, dying in the process,” Richard couldn’t help the bored bitterness in his voice. “That will still be story they use if the Special Directive gets here first, too, except they’ll call the SD a saving grace. A terrible loss, what with Herald and Charge getting caught in the fray. But accidents do happen,”

“But people here know that you don’t--,” kill people, Daniel wanted to protest.

Richard couldn’t stop the snort. “As if that matters. A villain goes on a rampage, Mad Dog finally loses it and goes on a killing spree. It fits in perfectly fine with the narrative they need...I don’t know if they’re sure about you yet, Chen, or how you fit in, though,” Richard finished, entirely aware that Chen himself wasn’t too far down the chain of command. If they didn’t think he was involved in the whole affair, he might get the order to kill Mad Dog and then get taken out himself once the job was done.

“They may kill me for convenience sake. To keep the story straight,” showing that his train of thought was running down the same railway as Richard’s. Daniel’s thoughts spun sickly and settled uneasily, ready to take off at any second. Cynicism made for an unsteady weight on his shoulders. Still unwilling to believe that the faces he saw and smiled with every day might turn on him without a second thought. Wanting to believe in the basic decency of humanity over the hard and demonstrated seduction of human greed.

“But that only happens once the Senator knows we have Regina here,” Ricardo said, biting down on his lower lip. He enjoyed being trapped even less than Richard did. Waiting for an attack he couldn’t see coming from enemies he couldn’t safely identify. And with no where to run to off of the sinking ship except out into the ocean. “It will probably be the directive,” cracking his neck and sending a back of the throat whine of electricity peal through the air. Just enough to be felt by the hairs on the back of Richard’s neck.  

“Probably,” Richard agreed. “The regene Argent was fighting knew when you flew off with her. I think she had some sort of tracker in her clothes,” a pause “or it’s implanted in her,” glancing down at Regina, who was now discussing something to do with RNA sequencing, mixed with what sounded like a pizza order.

“Then.” Chen took a heavy step forward, face twisted inward in thought. Mouth paused halfway parted. “Is there any way we can jam the signal to keep any orders from arriving here? If we can keep the orders from getting through, I can have our people--,”

“No.” Richard felt heat rush up to his head. Hadn’t anyone been listening to him? “When I said the SD will kill everyone, I don’t just mean the four of us. I mean every single person they come across in the building. It will be indiscriminate. I remember hearing about jobs where they swept through, killed everyone in sight, and then left explosives, blaming the building collapse for the deaths instead. They could very, very easily do that here,”

“Then do you have any better plans?” not quite angry, but certainly accusatory.

“I do,” Richard rubbed his fingers into the grip Daniel had on him. And winced hard, hating every syllable out of his mouth. “I don’t…I don’t think they’ll be able to undo the damage I’ve done to her. I don’t think I could, either. Which means if we let her go back to the Farm, she won’t be a threat. And if we can get a hold of the regene Lady Argent was fighting, I think I can get her to make sure the Special Directive doesn’t attack, by letting her have Regina,” which would keep the people in HQ safe. Would keep Daniel and Ricardo safe for at least a few more hours. And the next, painfully obvious, part came to him like a knife to the throat. It would be risky as hell. It would be horrible to do. “And then all I would need to ask is for you all to make sure my body doesn’t get damaged,” looking first at Chen. And then to Ricardo. And then. God. Okay. Daniel held his gaze evenly. “While I try to slip into the Farm inside Regina’s head,”

[smolbeandrabbles]

Halfway Home - Ralph Anderson x Shifter!Reader (The Outsider)

GIF CREDIT: X

Author’s Note: I think this gif set really cemented this fic as something I was gonna do.  This one is the closest thing I will write to Show!Canon, although I’ve borrowed a couple of Shifter ‘Tells’ from the book.

I thought this was going to be really short, but in the end I’m glad I wrote it like this, instead of the way I had planned And I really really hope you all enjoy it 💙💜

Also the lyrics to this song are PERFECT Halfway Home - Carly Pearce

Disclaimer: Characters & Plot are Stephen King’s (or... Richard Price’s characterization...) / Lyrics not mine (and lyrical liberties taken) / gifs not mine - credit as appropriate. / Direct quotes used from Episode 10 - so, spoilers ahead!

Premise: This was never a problem in a million years you’d expect to have to face. And in all the lifetimes you’d lived you never had faced it. But now the Frankie Peterson case is over Ralph is aware your species exists, and that discovery may well rip you both apart...

Words: 8729

Warnings: Swearing / The Outsider show spoilers ⚠ Angst/Hurt Caution Warning ⚠  

____________

Blame it on me, I'm an actor, I'm a fake Blame it on me, I broke your heart but by mistake Call it what you wanna, good intentions or denial But if I'm bein' honest, I've been lyin' for a while Halfway right doesn't make it right Halfway wrong is still wrong Half of me is with you here tonight And half of me is long gone But halfway to Heaven isn't Heaven And halfway home just ain't home

And I put it off, I was selfish, I was scared I put it off and I know it isn't fair You don’t want to stay, but you don’t want to say goodbye Let's call it what it is and we'll get out of this alive And I'm sorry If I hang onto you, I'll drown I'm so sorry If I don't let go, I'm goin' down Halfway right doesn't make it right Halfway wrong is still wrong Half of me didn't see it comin' Half of me knew it all along... ---

[Holly] “Are there more of you?”

[The Outsider] “Why? Have you seen someone like me before? Are there others? Cause there have been times when I sensed there could be more...” ***

You stood in the sliding glass doorway, looking out over the back yard, everything about your senses was heightened - it was like you could even hear the grass move. You knew there were others out there - heck, you were old enough to have walked amongst your own kind before you became an ancient relic left to history and ghost stories. A time when you were gods amongst men, until men rose up.

But here? In Cherokee City, Georgia? It didn’t make a lot of sense to you. Not for there to be another. You knew why you were here. Tired of running, tired of tracking, tired of being everything your species condemned you to be - you wished only for a quiet, peaceful existence. And you had one now; Detective Ralph Anderson saw to that in every way he could. And to him you were a normal human being, that lived their life out just as accordingly. All your weird little ticks were exactly that... because every human had exactly the same – a long list of ticks and traits that made them the person they were.  

The problem was this shapeshifter wasn’t doing what you were doing. You’d sensed it before the Frankie Peterson murder, but as soon as Ralph came home from that case you knew something was wrong. Something was different this time. And he explained in lengthy detail the crime scene, and the DNA. That alerted you. No criminal left their DNA just lying around, but you could be so careless. Because everyone would suspect the person you had shifted into, not you. You could just as quick become someone else and be well on your way... to do exactly the same somewhere else. So long as everything added up. So long as the person who you had replicated got caught and the evidence was water tight.... and they had no alibi.  

Well that was easy once, before DNA testing came into play. And then it took humans a little while to get that up to scratch, and DNA was your whole game. Witness accounts could be sketchy, but as long as your kind could produce enough, and better, witness accounts to the contrary you could get away with it. Their word against... well, something you’d fabricated.  

The problem was, the victims of this was both a child and a man, named Terry Maitland, who didn’t deserve what had happened. Of course, really no one deserved it - but a man who was a teacher and had seeming never done anything bad in his life was not a man that deserved this. And to you, the child was unforgivable, it wasn’t uncommon amongst your kind to eat people – even now – but children? That was wicked and cruel – which may have explained the malice in the air. Not just the feel of it, but the feeling it was stirring up within the town. Drunk on pain and suffering. That made you hold on to Ralph and his love a little tighter – because an emotion like that was far more sustainable. And you weren’t about to let yourself go down the same path that this one clearly had.

But you were selfish and worried, and all you wanted was for this to go away, be buried, and you could go on living your quiet little life. If Terry went to prison, and your counterpart moved on, it would just be something unforgivably terrible that happened here. Even when you knew the repercussions of that...  but you didn’t care so much about that so long as your identity was hidden.  

Ralph had every single confidence that they both had the guy, and that the evidence was so good that Terry was going away whether he denied it or not. And Ralph’s confidence bled into you, which was a bad thing, of course and you let yourself get comfortable and cocky about it. Sure, you could absolutely tell him - and that made your conscience weigh heavily on you - but he’d say you were insane... You could show him, but how would that hold up in court? And what would it do to you, and the life you had worked so hard to build here.

Then it all hit you; because Terry Maitland was at a conference in Cap City, and he was on video tape. That wasn’t something that even the best evidence could save a shapeshifter from. How did you combat that? Stupid and careless - that’s what your counterpart was. And a child, to get so confident as to display itself so openly. You did, but that had taken many years of good practice, and you didn’t go around killing and eating children.

The other problem was it didn’t go away. And as the Peterson family fell one by one, and so did Terry at his arraignment, it stuck around.  New to the game, maybe? But if it couldn’t sense you then it was young, and if it could but was looking to encroach on your territory, then it had another thing coming. The crude monster drawings you’d seen of your race weren’t far off an accurate depiction of your true form. You hadn’t had use for claws and needle like teeth in a long time - but you would surely use them if you had to. And to protect everything you knew, and everyone you loved here? Without question.

 ***

 But just as suddenly it was gone. The tension that loomed over you dissipated. The case however, did not. And before you knew it Private Investigator Holly Gibney was in town. You had an uneasy feeling about this, and when Ralph asked if you were going to accompany him to the meeting you flat out refused. You didn’t know what she knew, what if she took one look at you and shattered your world into pieces? You couldn’t risk it. And perhaps it was better you didn’t go, because when he got home, Holly in tow, Ralph was beside himself.

When you’d gotten him to quiet down about what a waste of time it was - and stop being so rude, with her in the house - you asked him what was up. When Ralph rolled his eyes and refused to do anything but mute it, you gently coaxed it out of Holly yourself. And although a lot of her ideas were misconceptions, she had it right. “El Cuco”: a mishmash manifestation of stories and rumours carried on for centuries about your species. Not all shapeshifters were the same, and this new one was not the same strain as you. But close enough. You didn’t think telling Holly that you believed her held too much consequence aside from trying to get Ralph on side and to believe something. Even when he still scoffed and called you crazy too. You had some effect though, because lying together that night, with the quiet of the darkness that surrounded you – Ralph asked if you really did believe her – you could only answer that you really did, and it took him a little longer to dismiss it with a soft hmph!  

But then they all went out to Tennessee and you were left behind. And you didn’t see what Ralph saw, or hear what he heard... or say what he said. And he came back to you with far more in his head than he’d ever wanted. And whenever you asked him about it he simply told you you wouldn’t believe him, and Holly gave you a similar story. Even when you tried the prompt of so it’s all true-!? Ralph clearly wanted to forget something he probably never could, and certainly didn’t want to talk about it. Holly left soon afterwards – with Ralph’s gentle smile and wish to work together again, sometime. Though of course he hoped on something less Supernatural. That evening you sat together on the couch in silence – your head resting on his chest. Maybe it was all over now? Terry Maitland would get completely pardoned in Hayes’ press conference, and you very much doubted that the other shifter got out of the situation alive. Though you were also aware there were many others that didn’t make it out of there also. Ralph had told you that much, but didn’t elaborate on anything else. And you’d just as soon help him forget, it to blow over, and you and he to go back to your quiet small city life. *** It didn’t. Because Ralph couldn’t get it off his mind. Sure he didn’t want to talk about it actively. He could barely wrap his head around it – around what he’d witnessed, around the idea that there were things out there beyond the explanation of science.  Of everything he’d ever known. He might have asked Holly out of curiosity what else was out there, and watched her shrug with a smile… but did he want to find out? Did he even want to entertain the idea that this was anything other than a nightmare? Of course he didn’t. But part of him realised he had to. Having been cleared to go back to work Ralph was at least glad of something to put his mind to. But he was also worried – and dare he say it even scared? What if the things out there were perpetually WORSE than what he’d been through. He could handle himself, always had. But what if those things came for you? Ralph couldn’t handle the notion of that, but what if it happened? He’d never forgive himself if something happened to you – whether you be the one that was transformed into or… no, he couldn’t bare to even think of you as the body. He was glad you didn’t have children, together or your own – dare he even say relieved that you couldn’t have them. Because that was just another thing to worry about – and those were mounting on Ralph pretty quickly. And now he watched you so closely; he knew it might end eventually but how couldn’t he get paranoid? Scratches always came with questions, and you always gave him that little look of annoyance - Ralph, I just scratched myself. If someone did it to me after what Holly said, I’d come to you – you KNOW that! - and he also just as closely monitored the back of your neck. But you knew exactly why – and you let him do what he needed to do to get over this, because you knew you couldn’t become a victim of your own species. Not in the ways he was thinking anyway. The problem was everything coincided at just the wrong time. The shifter that Ralph had dealt with was clearly a great deal younger than you. A strain that shifted by shedding skin like a reptile, should have been easy and over in a few minutes for one as old as you. Like taking off a jacket and leaving it on the bleachers on a Friday night. But it took this one a month or so to change from one person to another, during which the composition of one victim broke down as he prepared to shed. Something very similar happened to you. A human form was not your true form – however the human form you chose was not someone whose DNA you had acquired. Each one of you could present human as necessary to blend in – but you weren’t meant to sustain it for more than a few months at a time. And, like he had, you would break down. It’d last for nearly 3 days total, but you would feel extremely uncomfortable in your own skin until your body was ready to regenerate itself. Technically you could shift at any point, but it wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do under the watchful eyes – and even more so now – of a Cherokee City detective who was suddenly aware of the existence of your kind. It'd take an hour of quietly sitting alone in the midst of the woods with no one around, and then you could go back to being you again, but it was a long hour. And you made the mistake of choosing the park where the Peterson murder had happened. But it was oddly cathartic to sit in the middle of all that and contemplate. To cry, and feel that sorrow like a strange shot of adrenaline; to beg for the forgiveness of your kind for doing something so goddamn awful. And one lunchbreak later you’d step out of the trees and brush yourself down, shiny and new, and no one would know any different. It took about a day to really set back again, but even the most observant of humans wouldn’t be observant enough to know that your face probably looked a little off – it would be something so insignificant they couldn’t place.

You’d probably never been more wrong about anything in your life. You’d been with the same man for four years; and he was a detective. He’d never noticed anything before, but he’d never seen one of you before Tennessee. And the one he had seen, had made many mistakes. *** For four days Ralph Anderson had witnessed things in you he wanted to believe might have been figments of his imagination. Like his paranoia was making him see these things and they were tricks of the light. He thought he might be able to deal with it once or twice and write it off, but when the fourth day came and it was still happening, his suspicions had never been more heightened. Your eyes were the one thing you couldn’t control. You didn’t leave that odd gooey residue because you didn’t shift the same way he had – yours was more of a ‘shimmer’ from one person to the next and that meant you didn’t really leave much trace. Your skin might have felt odd, but that was only to you – and you could shake off feeling uncomfortable as anything: that time of the month… or just an uneasiness about the world right now (and he’d understand that with the Terry Maitland case still fresh!). But your eyes in light – that was a hard one; they flickered usually when you got emotional but you could control that. An odd silver sheen that would come and go and could be down to any number of tricks, including ones people’s brains played on themselves, but that wasn’t what this was. Ralph had seen that shine before. And it was too much of a strange coincidence for it to mean anything else. That shine wasn’t a reflection in your eyes, but something that seemed to come from within them. And he’d seen that in ‘Claudes’ eyes in the cave. And now in you for four consecutive days. Straws for eyes. Too many people had given that description, every nightmare Maitland’s daughter had had mentioned that. And it was odd to see in that cave – but it was horrific to see in you. It came and went but it was there. And every fibre in Ralph’s being tried to deny that. Surely you weren’t one of those things? How could that be – he had to be seeing things, he just had to be. He couldn’t accept anything else but that – not you, anything or anyone but you. He’d been with you for four years, he KNEW you. And he loved you. And Ralph didn’t know which was worse. He couldn’t even believe that lying in bed with you now, watching the way you breathed, he could even contemplate that thought. You’d looked like this since he met you – the other shifter didn’t last more than a few weeks, and then took nearly a month to become something else, but you were here. Like this. But was this you-!? Was this a victim of yours? Why the hell was Ralph talking so crazy to himself!? He had to be seeing things; but no matter how many times he told himself that, Ralph Anderson also couldn’t bring himself to believe it to be true. It was like the evidence was staring him in the face and he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. He didn’t want to believe it with Terry either – and that was just as concrete. And he’d been wrong there, he could be wrong here. But that was almost worse. Ralph bit his lip, and was even more horrified to find that the usual gap he maintained with you – of about two inches, close enough to reach out and hold you, to be protective – had now subconsciously widened; he couldn’t have been further across the bed from you if he’d tried. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to fall asleep next to you – but hell he had done for nearly your whole relationship. He would have to get to the bottom of this and soon… at least he knew that much. And racing around his head were the same questions; What the hell are you? Is that even what you really look like? Is that even your real name? Who ARE you? You had already left for work before he awoke, and you left a sweet little note wishing him a nice day. But it just left him empty. Ralph placed it back on the counter and made himself a coffee. He had to know – but he couldn’t just go rushing into a confrontation with you without being sure. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. And he didn’t know exactly what you were yet, his experience consisted of one shapeshifting entity; you might have been one but you weren’t necessarily the same kind. But he’d killed one of you before – would he hesitate to do the same again? Ralph cursed himself for even thinking that. He could be so wrong about this – but had the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t. *** This continued back and forth for a few days; Ralph Anderson was in denial. And although you could sense something was wrong, he’d been acting odd since he got back from Tennessee and you didn’t blame him for it. You were more inclined to think that was just going to continue. And you would allow him to adjust back to normal at his own pace. If he ever really got back to that – if normal was something Ralph could rebuild for himself after the Frankie Peterson case. You knew life wasn’t yet as it had been before, but you were confident it was going that way. And your gentle sunny disposition wasn’t one you were about to let get dampened. In fact, you were sure Ralph needed it right now. You hummed along to your music as you made yourself breakfast, took a shower and got ready for work, and were still doing so as you reached the front door. Your partner was standing in the kitchen, staring out across the front lawn as you passed him, you paused and turned back. Something was troubling him; “Ralph?” He continued to stare forward. “Ralph? Babe? Ralph!? Sweetheart-!” It took you a little while to rouse him from his thoughts. “Huh-? Oh! I’m sorry.” You titled your head; “You okay, babe?” “…Yeah…” His eyes seemed to look everywhere but your face, “I’m fine, why.” “…You just… seem a little distant lately…” You took a few slow strides towards him, “Are you sure?” “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” “Okay…” You smiled gently, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” He tried not to obviously wince at the irony, “Of course I do.” “Alright, well, I’m off-! And… I’ll see you later.” “Sure. Have a good day.” You waited, thinking perhaps he would offer you a goodbye kiss, but he didn’t. Something was up. “…And you.” You tried not to sound dejected, and knew you’d clearly failed. “Y/N!” He caught your arm, pulling you back towards him – eyes looking straight into yours and hoping against hope that the next three words out of his mouth sounded genuine right now; “I love you.” Though he’d never lied more. You didn’t see through him, not even slightly. In fact your only thought was that you knew he did. “I love you too.” He let you go, smile still on your face and then watched you turn with a renewed spring in your step and exit the house. As soon as he heard the door slam closed Ralph lifted his hands to his face. He’d used exactly the same trick on you that the other shifter had used to collect everyone else’s DNA – with that yank back on your arm as an excuse. It was just a scratch sure, but it was so much more significant than that. Underneath his thumbnail was just a trace of blood. But it wasn’t red, like his was. It looked a lot more like he’d contemplated a sentence too long and pen ink had leaked, stubbornly burying itself under his nails. Blue-black. He’d seen quite enough of that coming out of the hand he’d stabbed to pin ‘Claude’ down. “Oh. Fuck!” *** Ralph had a hard time of it at work – and even more so when those too inquisitive wondered why he was bringing up the files for Frankie Peterson. He would simply answer that he just wanted to check on a few things, only to have them say ‘Why!? It’s closed!’ Because she’s a monster – was his only thought, and yet he couldn’t vocalise it - I fell in love with a monster.  And he stared hard at those images until his vision blurred, not from tiredness – not because his brain had enough and needed to zone, but hot, angry tears. All this time he’d been with something capable of this – how the hell did he even know that you hadn’t done this? He didn’t know what you were doing when you weren’t together – and now Ralph was beginning to think that he didn’t know you at all. Why was this happening to him? Why again? Why in such a short space of time? Because he’d made a mistake with Terry? Now the Universe was just hell bent on destroying everything… You by comparison had a good day at work with your friends and barely noticed anything, not even Ralph’s little nick of your wrist. Although, when a colleague pointed it out you simply laughed – you had a bad habit of being clumsy sometimes and scratches appeared out of nowhere, even when you were careful. And of course, you had to be careful, the only time you bled the same colour as a human was when you shifted into one – and it was probably your one tell. Scratches happened, anything deeper than that and you’d be in trouble. Up until now you’d managed to avoid anything so serious ever happening. When you returned home Ralph was still pondering over notes, not so obvious as to be Frankie’s, and was so out of his head that it was difficult to get a read on him. Your kiss on his cheek did cause him to flinch; “OH! God-!” He placed his hand over his heart, adrenaline immediately spiking “Shit – I’m sorry, I’m just…” “It’s okay-!” Although your heart was racing equally fast, “You’re working, I’m sorry…” “No it’s…” He couldn’t even bring himself to say it, and his smile was restrained, but to you, at least he was smiling. You backed off; “I’ll make dinner-! Alright?” “Sure…” You beamed, and his eyes followed your walk away before he returned to his notes. Did he fear for his own safety? Truly he wasn’t sure – but how many times had you linked your hands behind his neck, or rubbed his shoulders after a hard day or even just placed a gentle kiss there. He shuddered slightly as he thought about Jack Hoskins; could you do that to him? Right now, Ralph hated that he had to assume the worst. Right now, you were none the wiser. *** It was approaching midnight and Ralph had made sure you were once again safely in bed. If there was something else he’d payed great attention to with Holly Gibney, it was how to check for traces of that ‘El Cuco’ entity. Ralph’s best guess was that if you truly were one of those things, you would leave that same trace everywhere that he had. Leave your fingerprints the same... He stood alone with his flashlight in the middle of the living room – fingertips hovering over the light switch. Could he bear to know the answer? Didn’t he already know. Ralph took a deep breath, and bit his lip – closing his eyes, he flicked the switch. It took him far too long to reopen them – and when he did, he ran cold from head to feet. It was everywhere. He was barely exaggerating to say there was more white than blue. He suddenly felt weak, stumbling backwards Ralph had a hard time trying to catch himself against the wall. His breathing was hard and ragged and he felt sick. He knew he probably would be sick. The house was dark so now the only light being thrown up was this, from you. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry – sweeping the light to the stairwell, he followed it. Trying to calm himself down – but how could he? Everywhere he turned his beam that you had touched, or brushed against, was this substance. It caught brightest in the bathroom and he had to stop. In some places the white was faded - even if it completely covered a surface it was faint - But not here. Ralph approached cautiously. Aside from your bedroom he supposed this would be the place you’d spend the most time without clothes – only here water ran down your body in droplets and cascaded to the ground. The shower looked like someone had thrown a pot of white paint over it and the floor wasn’t much better – and even though it was white, it reminded Ralph too much of blood spatter. He was afraid, and repulsed, and hurt, and heartbroken. He gagged, and then realised that it wasn’t going to stop there. Not even at his worst crime scenes, or as a rookie seeing shit for the very first time, had Ralph Anderson ever thrown up at the sight of something – he was too calm and steady for that. But this was beyond words, this was you, this was the woman he loved, the person he wanted to spend forever with. And all of a sudden everything he’d been trying to hold in didn’t want to stay in his head, or his heart. And Ralph was crying again – but these were real body shaking sobs.  He had to do something about this, but he was just as afraid of what he would do to you.

 *** Ralph didn’t even wait past waking up the following morning. Dressing, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, or how he was going to do it – but he walked down those stairs with a fully loaded pistol in his left hand. You could have kicked yourself a million times – maybe you just wanted to pretend everything was alright, that his tone wasn’t off, that his vibe wasn’t off. That it was everything that Ralph had been through over the past month and not you. But as soon as you heard the hammer click back and felt not just the malice, but the intent, you knew it was all but over. You didn’t even look at him, staring straight at your coffee cup – there was no point hiding this now. “You better be careful with shooting that.” He should have been fazed by your sentence; he almost was. Instead what came out of his mouth was defensive and venomous; “I already know you can die.” You breathed out, is that how he was going to play it? “Not easily...” You turned to him, stare measured “I’m not some child who has barely grasped the concept of shifting and makes careless mistakes Ralph. I’m much older than he was.” His eyes flicked away from yours and his brows furrowed – it made him look angrier, rather than his usual concerned; “Who ARE you-!?” Your voice raised to match his, but you were determined not to shout; “You know who I am!” “How can I-!? You’ve lied to me from day one-!” You took a step back: no matter how right he was, what did he want you to say? “And if Frankie Peterson hadn’t turned out the way it did, you would be none the wiser-!” “So if another you had gotten away with what he did, that would have been okay-!?” “Ralph. Terry Maitland, Frankie Peterson… no one who lost their lives over this deserved it. Except the son of a bitch that did this in the first place-!” Your heart hurt, “What do you want me to say Ralph?! If I’d have told you what I was, then what?” “Four fucking years we’ve been together – and you didn’t even - Who are you, right now!?” “Me.” “Bullshit!” “I have a human face, as much as I have a form that’s a lot more like what you would traditionally call a monster-!” You winced, thinking you’d probably said all the words he didn’t want to hear; “Ralph, will you please put the gun down.” A bullet through your head might only slow you down. To be honest you’d never had much contact with human weaponry, but you didn’t fancy testing it out when the man you loved was the one pulling the trigger. “…I can’t sustain a human form for four years. Not even this one… But I promise you this face is my own.” “How many have you killed?” You noticed his gun hand didn’t waver “What?” “Children. People – I don’t care, how many, killed and eaten-!? FUCK! What the hell-! Do you know how crazy this sounds out of my mouth-!?” You furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head; “I don’t know.” Not very “Considering you’re pointing a gun at me for being a shifter.” “Answer my question.” “Ral-” “ANSWER the question.” You sighed, “I don’t eat children that’s insane – that’s cruel, and heartless, and downright repulsive.” But people? Yeah – once, but how far back in your history did he want to go? Human sacrifices to Gods were once a thing. But ever since you’d walked predominantly on two legs with the face you’d chosen for yourself, you decided looking human meant acting like one too. Ralph’s laugh was cold, like he couldn’t believe he was trapped in this; “But what anything else is game – what do you get off on, is it the killing, or the suffering!?” “Suffering is like Heroin, but that’s unsustainable. If I wanted to feed on emotions those aren’t the ones I’d chose.” You followed the barrel of his gun as he shifted his weight; “I don’t kill people, that’s murder and there are laws against that. I am dating a fucking detective; how dumb do you think I am-!? And eating people?!” You scoffed, “If that’s what you think of me then we are done here.” That smile was just as cruel; “Yeah. We are fucking done. Hold your hands out.” You stared at him in disbelief, “Are you kidding me-!?” “I figure I can’t fucking shoot you in my own house. HANDS.” Though right now as he looked at you that wasn’t mercy, that was I’d rather not have to move out because they’re busy turning this into a crime scene! “You’re going to arrest me-!? On what charges-!?” “Whatever I have to. You’re dangerous.”  You figured with a gun still pointed at your face you’d rather do what Ralph said, and placed your wrists out; he would have nothing on you if you did what he asked. There was just one problem, your thought to instinctively try to take his own arm – to pull him closer to you and say something, or kiss him or anything. You were still you. Why did things have to change because of what you were? Ralph could be angry and upset but he was reacting to what he knew, why did that mean something had to happen? Of course as soon as your skin touched his he withdrew; “DON’T. Touch. Me.” Then he took a deep breath, rethinking his idea, “Turn around.” “What, so you don’t have to look at me when you shoot me?” “TURN. AROUND.” You narrowed your eyes, voice displaying your astonishment, “You really think I’m gonna turn you into Jack Hoskins, don’t you? You are un-fucking-belivable Ralph Anderson.” But you did turn away for him, and his yank on your arms was not gentle, “…If it makes any difference, I can’t do that. Whether it be a trait of his kind or just because he was so sick and twisted and evil…” Ralph pulled you back, cuffs tight against your skin. He hoped you wouldn’t strain and bleed blue again. “If it makes any difference…” He breathed, your back up against his chest (You didn’t dare tremble at that because it would be for all the wrong reasons), and you heard the faint click of his safety going back on, “I don’t care.”

 *** Ralph pushed you into the back of the car, and whilst he had you cuffed the questioning continued. But you felt his revulsion, and he didn’t look at you. “Was it ever really real? Any of it!!?” For a moment you pitied him, that he would be forced to say any of this; “Ralph. I love you.” “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it-!” “How can it not be real-!?” There was silence and then he sighed “You told me you couldn’t have kids... because you’re this?” You blinked hard, staring at the back of his head. Why would he chose to fixate on that specifically? You knew he’d been disappointed about it when you’d told him, but it was Ralph’s decision to stay anyway. Besides, any time he was on a case that involved children – particularly this one – he was always glad you didn’t have any.

You cast your eyes to the floor and then the window, but you didn’t want to be anything other than honest with him; “I can’t have children with you. Because you’re human. If my mating season coincided with his presence in Cherokee City then... I could have kids, yes.” You rested your head on the window, wondering why you were continuing but suddenly couldn’t stop yourself from giving him something like a Discovery Channel documentary on your species “…Females are bigger and it gets pretty nasty. Like you shoulda seen the other guy nasty – with teeth and claws like that… And he was pretty young, so even worse. That’s if he survived; females used to kill and eat males after mating. I believe there’s spiders that do similar. Though it’s always the female that chases… Shame that stopped to preserve our race; would have saved you a job…” Ralph found himself almost retching again and wished he’d never asked. The car ride fell silent.

Eventually he pulled out his mobile and tapped away an urgent text - despite trying to lean over to see what he was doing, he’d done it at such an angle that you simply couldn’t. You thought about telling him that texting and driving wasn’t safe, but preferred to keep quiet – less you get him yelling at you again. It wasn’t something you liked very much. Perhaps you deserved it, but you had to admit to yourself any time you’d thought about telling him, it never ended like this – perhaps he’d need some time alone to come to terms with such things and you’d help him through it as best you could, but it was never in the back of his car snapped in handcuffs. Besides, he was sitting texting so you didn’t know who he was talking to. Ralph Anderson was defiantly an “I’ll call you!” man.

 When he pulled into the precinct you knew exactly who he had messaged, as standing on the front steps looking equally confused and worried, we’re both Hayes and Sablo. You were outraged; “You’re kidding-!? You’re getting our friends involved-!??!” He turned to you with a look that said both shut up and how dare you call them friends, before exiting the vehicle and coming around to your side.

Yune was the first to move “Shit! Ralph! What the hell are you doing-!?” You supposed the question was warranted; Ralph was pulling his girlfriend out of the car in handcuffs. Hayes was staring, mouth open like this could only have been a dream. Try living it from this angle, mate. “What I must.” Was Ralph’s bitter reply “Y/N! What happened-!? Are you okay-!?” Though Ralph was putting his body firmly between Sablo and yourself. Possibly to protect him, but you’d roll your eyes at that – did he really expect you to go around attacking everyone now he knew? You gave him a weak smile; “Best to stay away from me Yune...” Ralph yanked you away from him and, holding you firmly, marched you into the building. Hayes was shoulder to shoulder with him; “What are you doing!?” “She’s going in a cell!” “Why-!? I hope you know what you’re doing calling me into this after Frankie Peterson!! What are the charges-!?” His shout-whispering definitely verged on the former, and you almost wanted to tell him to shut up also. “Whatever the hell you can possibly put on her.” “You haven’t CHARGED her-?!” Hayes stopped dead causing Yune to almost crash into him, “Ralph are you fucking insane?!?! Let her out of those cuffs right now, I’m not being a party to this!” “Well guess what - you are! And you have been for longer than you realise.” Yune placed his hands on his hips still watching you, and you were staring at the wall because right now your emotions were peaking all over the place, and if your eyes were going to burn silver it was now. “Will you at least tell us what this is about?” Ralph presses the button for the elevator; “Yeah. I’ll meet you in my office.”

As the elevator door pinged he walked you in, and pressed the button for the holding cells. You remained silent, finding your shoes more interesting. But what would you give to have those hands on you lovingly right now. Ralph’s grip was strong and you thought he was currently using more pressure than necessary, but supposed you understood. Yune and Hayes turned to each other in the lobby in utter disbelief - and Hayes sighed to break the silence, hardly daring to think he could possibly have been thrown into this situation again; “This is a lawsuit waiting to happen.” *** No-one asked him any questions. Probably because Ralph didn’t look like a man who wanted to be asked any questions right now – and you looked just as unlikely to say anything. In fact as he marched you down the corridor people actively stepped out of his way; man on a mission. He stopped to breathe only when he had you in front of the cell – and for once you could read your detective like an open book. He had no reason to hide emotion from you when he didn’t know you could read his aura, or get a vibe from him – but now they were loud and clear. Ralph pushed the cell door open and brought your wrists closer to his, paying close attention to your fingernails in the process. He unlocked the handcuffs, luckily they’d only made faint marks on your wrists because you didn’t struggle – he’d have a hard time explaining otherwise – and he almost sighed in relief, before giving you a hard shove in. You stumbled, caught off guard by the movement and he slammed the door shut behind you.  You turned around – damn near glaring at him as he locked it up, but he still wasn’t looking at your face. Ralph couldn’t, yet. Couldn’t bring himself to look at a person he thought he knew, and was now a damn near stranger. “You’re staying there until I figure out what to do with you-!” “Why don’t you just take me out to a cave and put a bullet through my head Ralph, that’s what you want-!! I can read you!” You almost spat it at him – because the nerve of him not to look at you was nearly insulting. Like he could throw away four years of good memories just like that. And then he all but did; “Because I LOVED YOU.” His voice raised and so did his eyes, that gorgeous blue now so in pain, and you couldn’t take it away this time – he was hurt and betrayed, but there was nothing in that sentence that held untrue and you could feel that. Loved. Past tense. Just like that. “Ralph…” Your eyes flickered silver and stayed that way, your shoulders and your features slumping in defeat, “Ralph, please…” “Oh no, you’re staying here. Now I gotta sort this fucking mess…” He stepped away from you, unnerved even more by that unnatural eye colour, “RALPH!” You couldn’t take that. How could he say that to you? How could he just walk away after saying loved!? But Ralph Anderson didn’t stop, he kept going, and you heard his quiet murmur that no one was to touch you, to see you or speak to you before he came back. There was agreement, and then your partners footsteps faded. You slumped down on the bench, unsure of what you were feeling for the first time in your entire life. You’d been through the rise and fall of empires. Been treated like a God, feared like a monster and hunted like an animal. Hidden in many different countries under many different identities in cities that didn’t even exist anymore. But in all those lifetimes – you hadn’t ever felt something quite like this.

***

Yune Sablo was eerily quiet, he couldn’t even find the words. That was okay though, because DA Kenneth Hayes was livid - and couldn’t get them all out quick enough.

“You WHAT-!?! This WHOLE time!? All that shit you told me on the phone about Jack Hoskins and-!?” He paused only to collect his thought, hand to his temple momentarily, “And some other police guy - that was all crap!? Do you two HEAR yourselves!? Shapeshifters - tell me this is all a big fucking set up, please! God, let this be a joke!!” Ralph shook his head; “Every word is true. And I can prove it, if you wanna walk with me to the holding cell. I mean it won’t be hard - she bleeds blue.” Hayes made a face; “I don’t want to go anywhere near that. What I wanna know is why everyone was in on this but me. Did I not matter? Was it something I said-!?” “You’re smart Hayes, but you’re logical. I would never have believed it until I had to, you would have laughed us out of your office. Easier to let you do what you had to on terms that make sense, and don’t sound insane.”

“Like you do!” Hayes then did laugh, but not in humour, “Ralph-! You’re saying she is the same kinda thing that killed and mutilated Frankie Peterson - and that’s not the only murder, you’ve given me two more that are known about and an attempted kidnapping - stole identities of countless people, made mind slaves of others and almost killed all of you in Tennessee-!? And she’s just locked up in a holding cell-!?” “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Ralph folded his arms, “she denies that she does any of that, but who is to say... and I couldn’t exactly shoot her in my own house could I-!?” Would have been a hell of a clean-up operation, and it’d taken more than a bullet to stop the last one. If he could withstand that, and you were older, then what could Ralph put you through before you died. He shook that thought quickly away when it started to remind him too much of torture. “And you believe her-!!?” Ralph was silent, and looked across to Yune for support. The Lieutenant clearly didn’t want to interject however, causing Hayes to put his head in his hands; “She’s met my KIDS Ralph-! She’s been to my house—! We’ve all been around her and to plenty of events -! And all she needs is a drop of blood to become us-!?” “I. Know.” Ralph sounded exasperated, “How do you think I feel-?!”

***

It was a lot later in the day when he returned. You’d been left alone with nothing much more than your thoughts, and had watched shadows pass along the floor. You were glad for the silence and you slept in short bursts – but all of it was broken. And when you awoke you wanted to reach for a person who was no longer there. Because you weren’t in bed back home like you usually were. It was almost strange that you’d ended up being the one with the nightmares now – having soothed Ralph out of more than his fair share since the beginning of all this.

 He walked in, duffel slung over his shoulder. He’d changed his shirt from this morning, so he’d clearly been home. You didn’t even have a clock to tell you the time. You’d mutter something about human rights – but knew you’d give Ralph the perfect opportunity to remind you that you weren’t human, and you refused to do that. He dropped the bag by the door – still giving you that same stare – like you were dead to him; the worst of the worst. And given the kinds of things Ralph had seen during his tenure, even you thought his look was a little unfair. But justified; why would you look at someone who had just broken your heart as anything less than a monster. And you really were one, at least in his eyes.

 He opened the door just a crack, satisfied that you would stay still - try and show that you were no harm to anyone - and kicked the bag over to you. You looked pretty subdued, just sitting there on the bench – Ralph hoped you’d had some time to think it all over and stew, like a real perp. He wanted you to make some kind of mistake. But he’d been through it with Yune and Hayes, you could be held here for 48 hours, despite cries of insanity and protest. Neither of them was about to let a shapeshifter run loose in Cherokee City (again), and Ralph just didn’t know what to do with you otherwise. Or if he could be trusted.  For a moment sympathy seemed to cross his face, and you weren’t sure if you should believe it or not; “I brought you some things. Clothes and pieces. I figured you might want them. It’s the decent thing…” Unlike you he seemed to say, but not out loud. Your eyes fell to the bag, and you reached for it slowly. Indeed, when you upzipped it, he’d given you fresh changes of clothes and a few things to make you more comfortable. You didn’t know why; he had no reason. Unless Ralph felt even just a little guilty about the situation. You supposed that was what he wanted you to feel most of all.

 You should have been thankful, but you weren’t. “Oh you’re bringing me things now!?” Your smile was thin, “I assume that means I’m staying? The full 48 hours is it, Ralph?” You raised an eyebrow, standing; “…Why? Why the hell even pretend you still care about me!?” His face fell immediately, the sadness in his eyes that pulled across his face replaced by steel blue anger. You weren’t about to beg his forgiveness and Ralph knew that. But you standing up in the way you just had, that determined stance, hard eyes – he barely took a breath. All his feelings about everything, from pulling up at the Frankie Peterson murder to right now came out at once. He was venomous and cruel, and he didn’t care, he’d had enough; Ralph slammed his hand up against the bars; “There’s nothing stopping me from walking out of here right now, coming back with a bus load of tourists, and just watch ‘em fucking push each other out of the way, desperate, trying to get the best angle of your fucking face. Just look at your eyes… The colour of your blood? How much do you think could be charged for that?” It was a disturbing thing to see. Suddenly the man in front of you was a complete stranger, there wasn’t a person in the world that you thought would recognise the smile on Ralph Anderson’s face now; “And then comes the ever curious scientific community. They’re gonna be real interested in you. Poking, probing, injecting, extracting…” He gave a slow shake of his head, lowering his voice to no more than a whisper, delivery as casual as if he were simply passing the time of day; “They’ll cut little pieces of you off, take you back to the lab.” You took a step back, lips parting, what was wrong with him? There was no way in hell he’d get to speak to a human being like this; but you guessed it was okay. Because as Ralph was reminding you, you weren’t one. He raised his voice again, that hatred wasn’t just for you, it was as much for the dead body in a cave in Tennessee, but it cut deep – deeper than you were prepared to admit whilst he was standing in front of you; “-Just keep fucking carving you, and carving you, and carving you until...” He paused, because your eyes flickered back to that silver, and Ralph figured he might have gone a step too far. Maybe but what the hell, he’d said it now – and didn’t your kind deserve it, for all you’d put this City, and all your victims through? “…yeah. You wouldn’t want that, would ya? And it would serve our purposes much better if no one ever knew that you even existed.” He took a step back, shaking his head, “So you gotta go.”  Then Ralph turned, without another word, and walked away.

The silence was suddenly eerie, and you wanted him back yelling at you again.  You were aware that your eyes were still shining and worse, they smarted. You heard lights flickering on and off throughout the station, and Ralph’s equally angry footsteps fading away. And all you could think of was him returning to that house all alone. You just hoped that his friends would support him… because you knew that he might be saying love in the past tense, but the pain in your chest told you you weren’t about to let him go. Not easily.

Your head lowered, resting against the metal, and when you knew he was gone, and you couldn’t feel his aura anymore you let out a breath; shaky. Just the one, before you started sobbing. ‘So you gotta go.’ That echoed far louder in your head than anything else. What had they decided in that room? That it was okay for them to kill you? Because surely no one else in the world would miss you. A lawyer and two detectives could cover it all up easily, it’d be seamless. He’d loved you for four years – and suddenly he could contemplate putting a bullet through your head. And with that line, would probably go through with it.

You placed your hands over your face, trying to quiet them. But realised just exactly what you had to cry about, aside from sitting in a jail cell, and losing a man you didn’t think you could live without; you had lost your city… and quite perhaps your life. In every sense of the word.

It’s all over. It’s all fucking over.

---

@menndelsohn​ @3134045126​​ @happyskywhale​ @wltz-bby​ #MendoTagSquad

Well this is it! The last fic of 24 - roll on all the ones I will write at 25!

[fearsmagazine]

PAINFUL TRANSFORMATIONS – Thoughts on a needed change in the Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards® Final Ballot for Screenplay.

I remember attending the very first Bram Stoker Awards Ceremony. The annual conference was held at the Warwick Hotel in New York City. The Horror Writers Association (HWA), like any organization, took several years to find its center and start to emerge as a respected voice in the publishing industry that present an industry recognized award like their cousins The Edgar Award, The Nebular Award, and the World Fantasy Awards.

The HWA votes on categories in Novel, First Novel, Graphic Novel, Young Adult Novel, Long Fiction, Short Fiction, Fiction Collection, Poetry Collection, Anthology, Non-Fiction, and Short Non-Fiction. It is a well thought out and impressive array of awards that recognizes the diversity of the work being generate in the genre. They also give an award for Screenplay.

I received the preliminary ballot and then the final ballot. Looking at the two I begin to perceive an issue. While the organization acknowledges the different formats within the publishing world, they’ve lumped into the screenplay category teleplays. I’ve toiled within the medium and I can tell you that those formats are as different from each other as Novel, Young Adult Novel, & Graphic Novel. The formats differ and the process differs. To lump them together does a disservice to the craft, the award, and the writers. In addition it excludes other emerging scripted formats, such as podcasts dramas (the great grandchild of radio dramas), web series, and video game scripts.

Podcasts like “Welcome to Night Vale,” “Nightlight,” “Blackwood,” and “No Sleep” are excellent examples that vary in format. There are podcast that are an ongoing drama series and ones that are an anthology series. There are some that embrace the format to creatively spin dark tales to terrorize the imagination. All these require scripts in a variety of formats. Some are unique scripted stories, others are adaptations, but they require a script.

In the world of computer video games, the game play has evolved far beyond simple puzzles and first person shooters to immersive experiences that feature plot and character development. Also, due to develops in technology there are AI logarithms that have created a new type of game that allows the player to make choices when interacting with other characters that influences the narrative.  For me, the most impressive entry is “The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man of Medan.” Other games, such as “The Last of Us,” “Vampyr,” “Resident Evil: Biohazard” and the upcoming “Resident Evil: The Village,” or “Death Stranding” are hybrids of role playing, shooter, problem solving games. The overall emphasis is the story arch that requires scripting. As part of their production team there are script writers who are crafting the plot, characters, etc., that require just as much, if not more work, then a novel or screenplay. I’ve had the pleasure to read some a couple of them.

There are many fiction writers who would agree that it is harder to write a short story as opposed to a novel. It is harder to distill the emotional intensity and complex elements of a story into fewer pages, fewer words, than what the luxury of a novel provides. The same came be said when considering episodic, feature, and short films. As a critic and festival judge for over thirty years, I’ve viewed some short films that transcend what so many feature films attempt to deliver in the same year. Many of those films have gone on to launch the careers of some amazing filmmakers. An excellent case in point is the 2008 short film “Mama,” by Andrés Muschietti and Barbara Muschietti. The film came to the attention of Guillermo del Toro who helped them turn their short into a feature at Universal, and they went on to be the creative force behind the cinematic adaptation of Stephen King’s “It.”

The other thing I feel needs to be called into question is how the membership is voting on these entries for screenplay. Without a doubt, every other entry in the other categories has to be read.  In terms of the screenplay entries, are those voting basing their decisions on the written work or the finished product. As a writer and someone who has interviewed screenwriters, the filmmaking process is a collaborative process. The story is written three times: Once in the screenplay; Second in the direction; Third in the editing. I’ve read numerous screenplays where what ended up on the screen was far from what was on the written page, and often times inferior. An excellent example is “Exorcist: The Beginning.” It is of course based on William Peter Blatty’s “The Exorcist.” The producers brought on writer Caleb Carr, the author of the critically acclaimed novel “The Alienist,” to write the first draft. I read his original screenplay. It was brilliant story and he managed to instill the dark tone found in his novels, as well as some essence of Blatty’s novel. The film, however, was a train wreck. The producers brought in screenwriter William Wisher to rewrite the script, and both Carr and Wisher received screenplay credit. Paul Schrader was the director and retitled “Dominion: Prequel to the Exorcist.” The film was already completed when the studio brought in action director Renny Harlin to retool the film. So there are two different screenplays and two very different versions of the film. Theoretically, if this ended up on the final ballot what would the membership actually be voting for?

Something else to consider is the whole issues of a screenplay that is an adaptation and the thought of when a novelist has the opportunity to adapt their own work.

Ultimately, is what is being voted a validation of the written work, a popularity contest, and an attempt to be socially relevant at all cost, or simply an thinly veiled attempt to garner the attention of the studio driven film industry? I couldn’t say.

I’ve taken the liberty of posting the preliminary and final ballot below. In contrasting the two here are some of my thoughts:

-          Not sure why Underwater made the first cut. I read the screenplay and it is even more evident that it is a “Alien” meets “Cloverfield” underwater rip-off.

-          I love Richard Stanley, especially his debut film “Hardware.” He’s had a bumpy ride back into the film business and “Color Out of Space” is a good step back in, but nowhere near his films “Hardware” or “Dust Devil.” What sets this film apart is Nicolas Cage’s yet another over the top performance.

-          I saw both “The Platform” and “His House.” I read and saw both “Vivarium” and “Relic.” These are superior genre films that I wrote and discussed on the radio show as my picks for the best of 2020.

-          I really have to question “The Invisible Man.” I thought it was a good film, but it did not stand out as, given the other films to be release in 2020, as one of the best films of that year. Especially when held up against the four films mentioned above. It also screams of nepotism as the HWA is in bed with Blumhouse Books, the company that published “Final Cuts: New Tales of Hollywood Horror and Other Spectacles,” and HWA anthology.

A few final thoughts - If you are going to give an award for screenplay, then it should simply be an award for a produced screenplay for a film that has gotten distribution, based on the current criteria that the Academy of Motion Pictures uses. They should also ensure that those voting have read the screenplay and that they are not voting for the film.

Author: Joseph Mauceri

[wernerherzogs]

there it is, finally! the list of my favourite hl fics of All Time.

disclaimer: some of these i have read only once and forever ago, but i’ve got them saved in a folder, and i vaguely remember them Meaning something to me when i read them, but basically -- if you read something from this list and end up not enjoying it, sorry not sorry! i operate on nostalgia sometimes, it’s possible i wouldn’t be that into some of them now, too, but whatevs!

i made myself stick to one work per author, otherwise this would be endless, but if an author’s nickname is bolded, it means i’ve had the time to read all of their works, and recommend them all.

i’m fairly certain i’m forgetting stuff (especially those stories that i’ve never saved/bookmarked), so i’ll try to keep this updated fairly regularly -- whenever i remember an old fave, or fall in love with something new. i’ll make sure to reblog this post then.

the order is completely random. this is a list where every work carries equal significance, even if not always for the same reasons. it was supposed to be alphabetical, but turns out i’m far too lazy for that. (shocker.) i took the liberty of shortening some of the original summaries, because this post is going to be Too Long anyway. rip.

enjoy! hopefully.

***

blackjacks running down my back | sequel by dangerbears (+ lj) (~10,000) 

AU. university stuff. best friend stuff. music stuff. sappy stuff.

try to not remember (rather than forget) by hereforlou (59,602)

He hadn’t left, but that’s what it had felt like most of the time. Just as if one day Harry had up and left him.

(Or, the one where Harry wakes up.)

Like Real People Do by moodlighting (58,469)

Harry is Louis' soulmate but Louis isn't Harry's - it takes Harry a while to figure it all out.

a prayer for which no words exist by Eliane (34,313)

Louis is a few seconds away from blowing up a rather important section of the New York subway when he sees Harry for the first time.

Who Painted the Moon Black by throughthedark (requires an ao3 account) (95,697)

“People died,” Harry whispers so quietly Louis strains to hear. “People died, and I killed some of them. How does life just go on after something like that?”

Louis shakes his head. “I don't know. It just does.”

hold on to your stars before they fade by adelagia (31,740)

The first time they meet, it is sunrise, and Harry is naked.

(Or, the one where Harry is a lost fairy, and Louis takes him in.)

Lambing Season by HelloAmHere (24,544)

“Shut up,” Louis says, an involuntary grin tugging at his mouth. It’s not every boy who will stand in the middle of a cold barn in a suit and play musician trivia. “I’m Louis.”

//lambing season brings sleep deprivation, noisy alarms, cold barns, demanding animals, and warm strangers.

Wild And Unruly by 100percentsassy, gloria_andrews (123,655)

Harry is a cowboy sitting on the biggest oil reservoir in Wyoming, and Louis is the paralegal assigned to pressure him into selling his land.

Walk That Mile by purpledaisy (149,570)

A Route 66 AU where falling in love was never part of the plan.

the dead things we carry by MediaWhore (25,316)

“Oh,” Mrs. Padley says, clearly taken aback. “You two know each other?”

There are some things people never fully come home from. Until, one day, if they’re lucky, home comes to them.

i believe him when he tells of loving me by bitterlee (28,894)

louis doesn't remember harry. harry takes him home.

Come Along With Me by darkofthenights (28,032) (requires an ao3 account)

An AU where Harry is a magician and Louis doesn't believe in such a thing.

Dust Off My Wings by eravain (19,882) (+ download)

AU where the boys are cottage neighbours, Louis develops an obsession with the mysterious boy next door, and the end of summer is really just the start of everything else.

Boys of Summer by sharktoothedfawnskinned (49,545)

What he wants is for this to be a forever thing, not someplace Harry spent the summer once.  What he wants is for this to be more than a memory.

(New Jersey beach town AU.)

ever ever after by hattalove (22,645)

“Happily ever after, huh?” he can’t help asking, in a voice that’s softer than he’d like. Harry seems to sense the fragility of the moment. He settles down, containing the excited flailing of his hands, and mirrors Louis’s position. “Of course,” he says. “Don’t you have those here?” Louis bites his lip. “M’ afraid not. It doesn’t really work out that way for most people.”

or, an enchanted AU. sort of.

heroes of the orange skies by queenmcgonagall (30,656)

Louis likes bathroom walls and Sharpies, Harry likes metal, Zayn likes Liam and Liam likes Zayn, Niall is wise, and they all go to the zoo.

Empty Skies by green_feelings (134,048)

For three years, Harry has been running from his past. Now, he is moving to London and pledges to fulfil his only dream -- making it big in the music industry. Not everyone has a place, though, and the competition is tough. As is his past catching up on him.

Louis is part of the biggest boy band of the world, and getting there had meant a lot of hard work, as well as sacrificing parts of his heart and soul. He's still happy. Maybe not as happy as he could be, but who is he to complain?

nocturne in silver and blue by tinyweirdloves (97,594)

louis is a fallen star and harry brings him home. told over the course of fourteen years.

life does not go backward, nor does it tarry in yesterday by bottomlinsons (4568)

Louis and Harry are Knights of the Round Table and Camelot has a dragon problem. (Arthurian AU)

In This Light by exhilarated (99,234)

Harry is a wardrobe stylist who likes to live in the moment, and Louis is a popstar who looks dreamy in double breasted jackets. Harry never stood a chance.

our little corner of the world by brownheadedstranger (29,913)

AU. Louis is stuck in his mom's diner for the summer. Harry is the line cook with a pickup truck.

Every Arrow That I Aim Is True by estrella30 (24,890)

Louis doesn’t say anything again so Harry whispers, “Just stay here with me for a while, yeah? I’ll take care of you.”

Louis is quiet. He never picks his head up, but Harry can see the pillow move from where he’s nodding and his fingers tighten around Harry’s. “Yeah,” Louis says. “Yeah, all right.”

i'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me) by hazmesentir (33625) (requires an ao3 account)

Louis can't stop lying. Harry runs a farm. Somehow, he squeezes the truth out of him.

An Eternal Enigma by goldenquill (67,478) (+ download)

Louis is a reluctant king with a head full of fairy tales, and Harry is an emotionally challenged musical prodigy. Zayn is a hopelessly romantic painter, Liam is the castle’s resident ghost with sporadic amnesia, and Niall is the accidental head of the kingdom’s most prevalent spy ring. Very loosely based on the lives of Ludwig II of Bavaria and Richard Wagner.

all my love was down in a frozen ground by navigator (16,033)

Louis goes to the woods.

AU very loosely inspired by the creation of Bon Iver's first record.

walk my days on a wire by sunshiner (38,586)

“We’re here because we have inventive managers,” Louis says, giving Harry’s leg a little nudge with his knee, but all that’s going around in his head is, I think I'd be in the same spot in every possible universe.

or, when actor Louis Tomlinson used to daydream about dating Harry Styles, this is not what he had in mind.

take my hand (and my heart and soul) by bananasandboots (45,623)

"I – yeah. Hi," Louis finally answers, slowly, awkwardly. "I um. Sorry. I heard about your accident. You're alright?"

Or, the one where Harry hasn't spoken to his best friend in sixteen months and can't remember why.

These Inconvenient Fireworks by wontsitstill (190,000) (+ download)

Future AU in which nobody tries out for X Factor but the boys end up finding one another eventually anyway. Louis is a jaded bastard who owns a cat named Duchess and teaches drama to teenagers, Harry is an idealistic aspiring photographer/part-time footy coach, Zayn teaches English lit and wears leather jackets, Liam saves people from burning buildings, and Niall is Niall.

things have gotten closer to the sun by starseas (49,276)

when a solar flare is announced to end the world in twelve days, harry reunites with the people that he used to know better than the back of his own hand.

Harry Styles Cooks... by sunsetmog (ongoing)

In which Louis Tomlinson can’t cook, there’s a very special shower curtain, and Harry Styles used to be a baker.

Or: Louis owns all of Harry Styles’ cookbooks, and he never intends to cook a single thing out of any of them.

101 Uses For Dragon Eggs by colazitron (42,249)

Louis just got back from a three week assignment yesterday and today was only supposed to be paperwork he needs to do to finish that up, before he was going to leave early and enjoy the weekend. And then Zayn, the traitor, emailed him about a bloke who was rumoured to have found a dragon egg and apparently live tweeting the whole thing.

Don't Want Shelter by FullOnLarrie (ongoing)

Louis and Harry have known each other all their lives. Friends as children, they danced around each other as teenagers, and have spent the last twenty-five years either screaming at each other or not speaking at all. Except for that one time ten years ago…

When Hurricane Nicole threatens the coast, they end up stuck together in their families' old vacation home that they begrudgingly co-own.

Escapade by dolce_piccante (requires an ao3 account) (146,241) (+ download)

In the grand scheme of things, finding a date for a wedding should be no problem for Louis Tomlinson. He's rich. He's handsome. He's reasonably well behaved. But when the wedding is for his lifelong best friend (and former boyfriend), and is happening in under a month, finding a date for the ceremony and accompanying festivities becomes more of an adventure than he ever could have planned for.

Whether Clouds or Clear Skies by onewasturning (25,861)

“Harry,” Louis says, “last night I had an experience bordering on profound.”

“You’re making it sound like you did something sexual with my muffin,” Harry says.

Or, Louis gets into the habit of stealing baked goods while Harry’s busy keeping tabs on the weather.

the dead of july by whimsicule (117,446)

Being an Avenger means continuing to be Captain America and smiling and being honorable for the public and Harry does his best. But it doesn’t give him time to figure out who he is supposed to be once he takes off his uniform and puts the shield to the side. Just being Harry had always involved Louis, and Harry fears he doesn’t know how to exist without him.

or: Harry is Captain America, and Louis’ been dead for 70 years.

In the Clear by aclosetlarryshipper (80,751)

After Princess Gemma and her fiance Niall are captured by the witch from across the land, Harry and Louis are forced on a journey together to save them.

Featuring Lumberjack Liam, Magical Zayn, unsolicited tattoos, and untangling the past.

Also known as The Larrietale.

a house built out of stone by robpatFF (22,486)

Louis has a used bookshop and Harry has a habit of claiming things that don't belong to him.

out of the blue corner by fallingaway (85,422)

Louis is a boxer banned because of doping. Harry is a journalist following the story.

with your love we could breathe underwater by luminescents (28,542)

Harry’s brow furrows, a look of confusion spreading over his face. “But I am real. I exist, see,” he says, raising a hand out of the water and wiggling his fingers at Louis.

AU where Harry is a mermaid, Louis is a human, and they both discover a lot more than they anticipated.

dancing in the dark by clairdeloune (74,709)

Harry comes out and it brings more than he's expected.

Untangle Me by suicxne (103,000) (requires an ao3 account)

Or the one where Harry and Louis finally get it right.

California Sold by isthatyoularry (123,536)

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

you came into my life by disgruntledkittenface (57,180)

When the Queer Eye cast and crew sweep into Louis’ small town and fire station to make over his best friend and coworker Liam, Louis’ carefully constructed walls start to fall down and he has to face his fears – and the only guy he’s ever been able to see a future with.

like cabbages and kings by you_explode (60,875)

When Louis was a kid, he had a series of very vivid dreams about a place called Wonderland.

Loyal Knight and True by rainbowninja167 (51,569)

Oh, Harry thinks, mouth open on a silent gasp. This is how it happens.

In contemporary Oxford, Harry Styles and Niall Horan run a magical bookshop, unbowed by an entire academic establishment that insists magic doesn't even exist.

for now (and forever) by orphan_account (sadly can’t remember the actual author) (83,283)

"Listen to yourself," Harry laughs, shaking Louis' shoulders. "Don't you think it's a bit weird to con the country you're supposed to be serving?"

Louis is going into the Army, Harry is going nowhere, and there's nothing like a little identity fraud between friends.

Say You'll Remember by whisperdlullaby (93,521)

au. louis and harry are best mates that are only half aware that they're also soulmates. alternatively, louis goes to university and harry travels the world, and they always manage to find their way back to each other.

takes place over nine years, in which they love and hurt, make mistakes and learn, and above all, grow.

Faking It by TheCellarDoor (46,173)

A uni AU in which Louis has been Harry’s best friend since he offered him cubed fruit on the playground, and they spend more time cuddling in their dorm beds than they do apart, but it’s not like that. Or is it?

Battle Cry by Velvetoscar (21,377)

Harry's got a heart, a soul, and a band. And with that, obviously, comes a future paved in great success, right? So all he has to do is win the Battle of the Bands, right? Simple.

What's not so simple is the fact that Louis Tomlinson is his biggest competition. And also happens to be made of everything that Harry's ever wanted.

Take Me Where I Cannot Stand by LoadedGunn (13,988)

Harry can agree that being husbands in space presents some challenges. Sometimes they have to escape mindless cannibals, sometimes they're being held hostage, sometimes Louis doesn't want Harry to get pregnant, and sometimes someone slips on a banana peel. But that's all part of the fun, isn't it? They could have been juggling geese.

(Firefly AU where Harry and Louis are co-pilots in life.)

Just Me, You, And This Box of Matches by tomlinsunshine (87,020) (requires an ao3 account)

Louis is fairly sure that his new neighbour is going to destroy him. And also their apartment building, and the dumpsters outside, and all the forests within a thirty mile radius. But. Mostly him.

you're an egg if im an egg by giraffesaretall (1252)

au where one direction are eggs.

[revelation19]

So I don’t think I mentioned it on here, but last year I undertook the challenge to read 100 books in a year. I figured I’d drop the list of books that I read here. Almost all of them were good books that I’d encourage you to read. It’s a pretty wide range of topics. Some Sci-Fi, some Fantasy, some History, some Politics, some Economics, some Philosophy, some Theology, etc. 

-Starship Troopers — Robert Heinlein

-Foundation — Isaac Asimov

-Herman Bavinck on Preaching and Preachers— James Eglinton

-Foundation and Empire — Isaac Asimov

-Second Foundation — Isaac Asimov

-Left, Right, & the Prospects for Liberty — Murray N. Rothbard

-Democracy: The God That Failed — Hans Herman Hoppe

-The Forever War — Joe Halderman

-Forever Free — Joe Halderman

-Wolverine, Volume 3: Wolverine’s Revenge — Jason Aaron

-Slaughterhouse-Five — Kurt Vonnegut

-A Separate War — Joe Halderman

-Foundation’s Edge — Isaac Asimov

-The Prince — Niccolò Machiavelli

-Nemesis — Isaac Asimov

-Citizen of the Galaxy — Robert Heinlein

-Hatching Twitter: A True Sotry of Money, Power, Friendship, and Betrayal — Nick Bilton

-Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep — Phillip K. Dick

-The Religious Life of Theological Students — B.B. Warfield

-Out of the Silent Planet — C.S. Lewis

-The Great Divorce — C.S. Lewis

-Behold a Pale Horse — William Milton Cooper

-Confessions of an Economic Hitman — John Perkins

-The Abolition of Man — C.S. Lewis

-Geerhardus Vos: Reformed Biblical Theologian , Confessional Presbyterian — Danny Olinger

-Foundation and Earth — Isaac Asimov

-Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God — Jonathan Edwards

-A River in Darkness: One Man’s Escape from North Korea — Masaji Ishikawa

-Annihilation — Jeff Vandermeer

-Authority — Jeff Vandermeer

-Acceptance — Jeff Vandermeer

-Commentary on 1 Corinthians — John Calvin

-Education, Christianity, and the State — J. Gresham Machen

-Machinery of Freedom: Guide to Radical Capitalism — David Friedman

-The Federal Reserve Conspiracy — Anthony Sutton

-A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy — Miyamoto Musashi

-Apology — Plato

-Odd and the Frost Giants — Neil Gaiman

-The Universe in a Nutshell — Stephen Hawking

-Prelude to Foundation — Isaac Asimov

-Dear Reader: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Kim Jong Il — Michael Malice

-America before: The Key to Earth’s Lost Civilization — Graham Hancock

-The New Right: A Journey to the Fringe of American Politics — Michael Malice

-The Enchiridion — Epictetus

-The Punisher MAX, Vol 1: In the Beginning — Garth Ennis

-The Machieavellians: Defenders of Freedom — James Burnham

-End the Fed — Ron Paul

-Serenity: Those Left Behind — Joss Whedon

-Ego and Hubris: The Michael Malice Story — Harvey Pekar

-The Art of War — Sun Tzu

-A Renegade History of the United States — Thaddeus Russell

-The Prose Edda — Snorri Sturluson

-My Hero Academia, #1 — Kohei Horikoshi

-My Hero Academia, #2 — Kohei Horikoshi

-Tokyo Ghoul, Tome 1 — Sui Ishida

-Selections from the Table Talk of Martin Luther — Martin Luther

-Animal Farm — George Orwell

-Pointiac: The Life and Legacy of the Famous Native American Chief — Charles River Editors

-Operation Paperclip: The Secret Intelligence Project that Brought Nazi Scientists to America — Annie Jacobsen

-Neuromancer — William Gibson

-The Last Wish — Andrzej Sapkowski

-Sword of Destiny — Andrzej Sapkowski

-Better Days and Other Stories — Joss Whedon

-The Stranger — Albert Camus

-Christianity and Liberalism — J. Gresham Machen

-Count Zero — William Gibson

-Blood of Elves — Andrzej Sapkowski

-Tokyo Ghoul 2 — Sui Ishida

-The World That Couldn’t Be — Clifford Simak

-The Austrian Theory of the Trade Cycle and Other Essays — Richard Ebeling

-Anarchy — Errico Malatesta

-Anarchism and Other Essays — Emma Goldman

-No Treason: The Constitution of No Authority — Lysander Spooner

-Propaganda and Control of the Public Mind — Noam Chomsky

-The Time of Contempt — Andrzej Sapkowski

-The Communist Manifesto — Karl Marx

-Mona Lisa Overdrive — William Gibson

-The Metamorphosis — Franz Kafka

-The Enchiridion on Faith, Hope, and Love — Augustine

-The Structure of Scientific Revolutions — Thomas Kuhn

-The Dunwich Horror — H.P. Lovecraft

-The Machine Stops — E.M. Forster

-Rip Van Winkle — Washington Irving

-The Screwtape Letters — C.S. Lewis

-Self-Reliance — Ralph Waldo Emmerson

-Perspectives on Pentecost — Richard B. Gaffin Jr.

-Wanted: 7 Fearless Engineers! — Orlin Tremaine

-Norse Mythology — Neil Gaiman

-The Whole Armor of God: How Christ’s Victory Strengthens Us for Spiritual Warfare — Iain Duguid

-Bushcraft 101: A Field Guide to the Art of Wilderness Survival — Dave Canterbury

-God With Us: Divine Condescension and the Attributes of God — K. Scott Oliphint

-Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West — Cormac McCarthy

-Why I Believe in God — Cornelius Van Til

-Paul at Athens — Cornelius Van Til

-Astrphysics for People in a Hurry — Neil DeGrasse Tyson

-Real Dissent: A Libertarian Sets Fire to the Index Card of Allowable Opinion — Thomas E. Woods Jr.

-City of Glass — Paul Auster

-The Articles of Confederation — Continental Congress

-The Temptation of Our Lord — John Bale

-Fool’s Errand: Time to End the War in Afghanistan — Scott Horton