#very loose draw-over while I’m between pieces :)

[ex-mortis22]

See you later space cowboy…

Cowboy bebop but it’s Boothill

Every time I see people call Boothill space cowboy, my brain goes “…huh.”

[moonstruckme]

im literally in lovee with your writing of sirius black id love love love more of him x reader pleasee [my favourite is friends to lovers or just being super domestic but tbh I'd read anything u write with him in lmaoo]

Thank you for requesting lovely! It worked out that I'd just written this when I got your ask, so I hope it fits what you're wanting!

cw: reader has hair long enough to tie back

Sirius Black x whimsical!reader ♡ 833 words

Sirius finds you out behind Remus’ house, sitting in the grass and, by all appearances, playing with mud. 

“Hey there,” he says, “did you manage to find the bathroom?” 

You have a tendency to wander off. Sometimes it’s intentional, sometimes you get lost, and Sirius can never tell which is happening at any given time. As much as he’d like to tie a string between you so you’re never very far, he’s learned to let you go where you will; you always end up where you want to be anyways. 

“You were talking about football,” you say by way of answer, the slightest hint of sheepishness in your sweet voice. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if I went off for a bit.” 

Sirius hums and lowers himself onto the grass beside you, stretching his legs out. The sun is warm and welcome on his face, just enough breeze to keep it from getting too hot. 

It’s a beautiful day, you’d noted upon waking up this morning, already opening the windows in his bedroom. 

Looks like it, Sirius said from bed. He smiled wryly. It’ll probably be the last decent one we have all year.

You’d frowned. That’s not a very nice way to manifest the weather. 

While Sirius is upturned, you’re bent over, messing with something in your hands and dipping your fingers occasionally into a pail of water. 

“What’ve you got there, pretty girl?” 

“A mug,” you say simply. You thumb concentratedly at the slimy thing in your hands, lips pursing. “Or, a soon-to-be-mug.” 

“And you’re making it out of…mud?” 

“No,” you laugh, looking up at your boyfriend in that fond, indulgent way you have. Like he can be so silly sometimes. “Remember how Remus said there was clay by the stream back that way? I’m using some of that.” 

“Ah.” Sirius tilts his head, studying the misshapen lump in your hands. “I see. And this is going to be a drinking mug?” 

You hum in affirmation, and he leaves it at that. He’s not terribly sure whatever you end up with will be able to hold water, but he knows better than to try and dissuade you once you’ve set your mind to something. Maybe he can sign the both of you up for a pottery class sometime. 

A piece of hair falls from behind your ear, and you blow at it, trying to keep it out of your face with your hands occupied.

“Here,” Sirius offers. He takes an elastic off his wrist, gathering the hair away from your face and tying it back loosely the way you like it. 

You gift him a sideways smile in return. A bit of dried clay on your cheek cracks with the movement. Evidently, this isn’t the first time you’ve had to push your hair back. “Thank you.” 

“Baby,” he says, voice laden with fondness. He steadies your face with one hand, swiping at the clay with the other. “You’ve got it all over you.” 

It’s true. It covers your hands up past your wrists, and several places on your legs have pale gray tracks where you’ve wiped your fingers off on them. 

“It’s a messy business,” you say matter-of-factly, “but it dries sort of pretty, I think. Do you want some?” 

He cocks an eyebrow. “How do you mean?” 

You set your soon-to-be-mug down gingerly, extending a hand to him. “Give me your arm.” 

Sirius suppresses a sigh. He didn’t really plan on getting dirty today, but he’s hardly in the habit of denying you anything you ask for. He sets his forearm in your hand. 

You dip a finger into the wettest part of your clay, setting it to the skin above his wrist. Your touch is cool and slick on his sun-warmed skin. You draw a little star like you’re fingerpainting, the clay a funny contrast to the dark tattoos surrounding it. 

You look so pleased with your work that Sirius can’t help himself. He leans forward, giving you a drawn-out, amorous kiss. 

“Thank you,” he says in his most saccharine voice. 

Your lashes flutter prettily as you blink, a rare shy smile taking you. “You’re welcome.” 

Sirius dips two fingers into your pail of water, using them to wipe the remaining clay off your cheek more thoroughly. When he’s done, he spots another smudge on your shoulder, inexplicable. He tsks. “When you’re done with your mug, we might have to ask Remus if you can use his shower, lovely girl. You really do have it all over you.” 

“Oh, there’s no need to trouble him,” you say airily. “The stream’s not very far, and it’s flowing rather quickly with all the rain we’ve been having.” 

He blinks. “Did you bring your swimsuit?”

You look at him bemusedly. “No. Why?” 

Sirius bends his head, letting his hair fall like a curtain to conceal his smile as he kisses the clean part of your shoulder. “I think it’d be better if you used Remus’ shower, sweetheart. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

[lilac-5ky]

Father's Day (Toji xFem!Reader)

Summary: It's father's day and you forgot to get Toji his gift.

Tags: dilf Toji, babysitter reader, secret relationship, age gap (reader early 20s, Toji early 30s), daddy kink, breeding kink, lactation kink, spanking, mating press, mention of doggy style, cumplay, blowjob, gagging, deep throating, creampie, heavy usage of pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel, slut, etc), soft!dom Toji being a condescending piece of shit, Megumi being an absolute angel, hope i'm not forgetting anything, pls don't murder me.

Word Count: 4.3k divided between fluff and smut.

“That’s it, Megs! You did so well today!” You smiled, giving the boy’s spikes a little affectionate ruffle. “I’m sure your dad will be so happy to see how hard you worked on his gift.”

“Liar.” Megumi put the glue stick face-down against the table. “It’s not as good as the ones you make, Y/N.”

“That’s because I’ve put years into it, you know? When you get older, I’m sure you’ll be the one teaching me.” You promised, holding his drawing toward the light.

The pasta on the paper depicted the face of a silly-looking man; chopped lasagna for his dark hair, spinach-flavored shells for his green eyes, penne for the jagged scar on his fusilli lips, and broken spaghetti to help frame the sharp edges of his chiseled jaw. The inscription “World’s Best Dad” was written at the bottom corner by yours truly, Megumi being too young to know the proper spelling.

Admittedly, it looked nothing like Toji, but even if you got the man himself to pose for your DIY project, you doubted you’d get any closer to capturing his charms. At least it resembled a human being, and that was the core difference between based on and loosely inspired by.

Megumi jumped from his stool and waved his hands before you, his fingers stuck together as if he were a duckling. You chuckled, meaning to settle the drawing on the table so you could escort him to the bathroom when you heard keys twisting in the door lock.

“Quick, go wash your hands and I’ll take care of your daddy, okay?”

Megumi nodded, dashing upstairs in seconds while you browsed the kitchen for a hiding spot, panicking as a couple of macaroni were chipped off. You grabbed the glue and hastily pieced them back in place, but it was too late. A pair of strong arms snaked around your waist, pressing you flush against an unmovable wall of muscle.

“T-Toji!”

Your yelp was silenced by his lips, hungry from having to spend an entire day filling forms and sorting mail at a work he despised with every inch of his being— some of those very inches poking against your ass as his hips bucked into yours almost possessively. Coming home to the cute little babysitter he’d made his girlfriend was everything he needed to recharge his batteries.

“Meg-gu…mi will see us,” you panted in between heated kisses, trying and mostly failing to defend your body from his greedy palms diving into your shorts.

He felt your skin flare up, so sensitive for him even after countless days of the same ritual. His index pried beneath your panties —the lacy ones he’d gotten you for your birthday— to meet with your pussy’s puffy lips, gliding across the gathering slick as if he meant to say “Hello”. His thumb rubbed a rough circle over your clit, giving the nub a few teasing flicks that were enough for you to arch your back against his chest, a hushed moan bitten into his neck. He chuckled to himself as he retracted his fingers and gingerly licked them one by one.

“Missed ya so much, angel,” Toji coed in a low voice. “Y’always taste sweeter when I’m not around, know that?”

You giggled against his mouth, his tongue eager to share your essence. “How would you know that if you’re away?”

“I just do,” he smiled, putting an end to the unforeseen display of affection with a gentle kiss on your cheek. “Where’s Megumi?” he searched through the space.

You moved in accordance with his eyes, swaying left and right to cover as much of the table as possible. “He’s in the bathroom. Washing his hands for dinner.”

Toji hummed, thumbing his tie loose around his neck. He could hate his job all he wanted, but nothing compared to the sight of seeing Fushiguro Toji in office attire. His sleeves were rolled around his elbows, toned biceps popping under the tight fabric of his white button-up. He paired straight black pants with a plain black belt— nothing impressive on its own until he bent over the lower cabinets to grab himself a glass, and you stole a quick peek at his rare and the impossible way the fabric hugged his—

In any case, you were convinced Toji had somehow missed Megumi’s drawing, his primary interest to fill and then refill his glass with fresh tap water. You seized the chance to transfer his gift to a safer location, though before you could take another step, he grabbed your wrist and forced your hand into play.

He studied his own face harder than your art professors evaluated your semester’s projects, his nose scrunching up at the finer details of his farfalle ears. “That why I pay your tuition for?” He snorted at you snatching the art piece from his hands.

“Better act excited when Megs comes here,” you straightened the creased edges and stored it in an empty drawer. “He’s already doubting his talent.”

“His what?”

He assured you he was just joking when you shot him a mean glare, your voice strict as you ushered him to follow his son’s example while you hurriedly collected the art supplies and replaced them with cutlery.

In no time, the three of you were seated around the table— Megumi on your lap while you cut his pork into bite-sized pieces, and Toji on the other side, wishing that their positions would switch. You swore this man got ten times handsier after you got together, seeking excuses to touch you even in front of his own kid. Megumi had just turned four but at this rate, it wouldn’t take long for such a bright kid to put two and two together.

The decision to keep it a secret was mutual (read: one vote for, and another against). There was no reason to disturb Megumi’s routine or throw him off balance. You’d grown fond of the little guy, and with his dad being away 2/3 of the day, you were each other’s only company. No matter how well things with Toji were going, if you suddenly fell apart, the one to hurt the most would be Megumi and you didn’t want that weight on your conscience. Being his number 1 nanny was good enough.

A certain type of silence familiar to the Fushiguro household shrouded dinnertime, with Toji trying to engage Megumi in small talk, and Megumi constantly glancing over his shoulder at you as if you were his designated spokesperson. “Yes, Megumi had a lot of fun today.” “Yes, Megumi ate all of his veggies at lunch, even the icky red peppers.” “No, Megumi knows nothing about the neighbor’s broken window.” The boy was relieved with every blatant lie you told his father, his knees gleefully flapping against your own.

By the time their plates were emptied, your food had gone completely cold, the oil in the curry sauce encasing the cutlet in a greasy coat. You gobbled it up as it was and stacked the plates into a pile that you placed in the sink, signaling for Megumi to come over. You handed him his drawing, encouraged him with two thumbs up, and sent him off to his “unsuspecting” father.

Your lips stretched into a smile as Megumi presented his drawing, mumbling a strained “Happy Father’s Day” under his breath as if he had a gun pointed at his head. So stubborn, though you could definitely see where he took it from, Toji’s reply being an equally stern “Thanks, kiddo”. You rolled your eyes and rushed to the scene, praising a blushing Megumi over his artwork and exaggerating his achievements to Toji who just wouldn’t take a hint. How these two managed to survive by themselves, was a wonder on its own.

Eventually, Toji gave his son a more fatherly rub on the back and hoisted the boy over his shoulders to lead him to his bedroom. Megumi squeaked, planting his tiny fingers into Toji’s hair, and clasped his legs tight around his neck. You remembered a meek confession from a few nights ago, muffled out by the covers and the plush toy over his mouth, as he let you in on how fun mounting his father was, feeling like a real mecha pilot atop his broad shoulders. He could be such a sweet kid when he wanted to. If only he was more vocal with Toji, too.

You watched the two disappear up the stairs and picked the drawing from the table, pinning it in the middle of the fridge for the world to see. You rinsed the pots with hot water and shoved them into the dishwater rack, figuring it’d be best to get as much work done as you could in Toji’s absence.

“This is the last one,” you said once the sound of feet thudding against the stairs became apparent.

You made quick work of the glass, rotating the sponge inside out, while the man leaned against the door frame without saying a thing, content with being a bystander to your impromptu clean-up session. Many a woman passed Toji’s threshold, some older, others younger, and yet you were the first to worry about the state of his bundle-bought glasses. He couldn’t pinpoint what made such a mundane sight endearing to behold, but maybe it was because of the very commonness and familiarity behind it that he hesitated to interrupt.

“Meg’s asleep?” You caught his reflection nodding through the glass, your following questions answered the same way.

“You got him in his pj’s? The blue, not the green ones, right? Got him to brush his teeth? Turned on the night light for him? Gave him his—”

A sigh echoed as he stepped into the space with his hands lost in his pockets. “How d’ya do that?”

“Do what?”

“The kid, the house,” he paused to measure his words, “me. How do you handle all that?”

Your lips pursed into an affectionate simper as you wiped your hands against the towel, looping it around the cabinet’s handle. You turned to face him and lifted your forefinger playfully. “One, the kid happens to have a very attractive father. Two, the house owner himself is sexy as hell, and you? I guess you are pretty easy on the eye.”

“Am I now?” His raspy tone was set on confirming every last impression you had of him, his tongue licking his slanted scar into a smile that was all but coy. “Which one you prefer then? The father, the house owner, or me?”

“Hmm, if I had to pick just one then,” your cheeks burned prior to your admission. “The version of you I get to call daddy.”

Satisfied with your answer, Toji pinched your chin between two fingers, admiring how eagerly your mouth popped open as the pad of his thumb swiped against your bottom lip, pushing slightly in. “Smart girl,” he cooed, feeling out the flat surface of your tongue, hot, warm, and oh-so-perfect when pressed against his cock.

“So what did you get me?” he smeared saliva over your lips, making them all nice and glossy. You stood still, faded eyes caught in the motion of his other palm shamelessly cupping your ass, his question barely registering.

“W-what?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” His fingers dug into the fat of your cheek, a warning in his voice. “Where’s my gift?”

“S-sorry, Toji. Didn’t think I had to—” A light smack cut your sentence in half, the recoil forcing you to drop onto his chest.

“Mm? What is it that y’are sorry for, princess?” He mocked, squeezing your bum against the growing bulge in his pants. Your cunt fluttered in response, clit whining at the little friction he provided. You wanted more. Wanted to feel all of him. The weight of his cock dragging between your folds and soaking in your juices before being plunged inside, every ridge and every line you’d memorized finding their rightful place in a hole that was meant for him.

You bit your lip in brewing anticipation, mustering the courage to look into his hooded green eyes that shared the same lust yours did. “Sorry I didn’t get you a gift, Toji. Should’ve known better.”

His smile softened, head cocking to the side. “Don’t sweat it. My pretty baby knows how to make it up to me, doesn’t she?”

You nodded, standing on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “How about I gave you a second reason to celebrate today?”

As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you were being lifted into the air, both of Toji’s hands finding purchase in your plushy thighs, while his lips begged to hush whatever mention of Megumi before it was even conceived. He kicked his bedroom door open and shut it with his heel, tossing you against the covers of his made-up bed. (“Why bother if they gonna crinkle anyway?”)

He lost his shirt almost as quickly as he lost his tie, flinging both fabrics over his shoulder. No matter how many times you got to lay eyes on his naked body, you always managed to spot a new scar on his chest from his former lifestyle, the danger it packed serving as an additive to the wanton fantasy of having your guts rearranged by your boss.

Your legs spread quite the sight for him as he tugged off your shorts, your panties sporting a sizable wet spot right at the center. He forced the drenched fabric into your slit, drawing it taut around your hip bone. You moaned softly, mindful of the kid across the hall, while your hips rocked forward, chasing after the finger he pulled away.

“Taking care of my kid ain’t enough for you? Wanna be a real mommy now?” Toji sneered, yanking the belt off his pants.

“I want us to be a real family,” you confessed, bowing to help him with the rest of his clothes. You slid his pants down his briefs and let them drop to his knees, your cheek nuzzling to his clothed cock. You licked a strip over the fabric, thrilled to hear a breath hitch in Toji’s throat. “Let’s give Megs a sibling. One that is half me, and” you paused, wrapping your lips around the imprint of his balls, “half you.”

His cock sprung free the moment you lowered his underwear, the way his fat tip glistened with precum enough to make your mouth water. You wrapped a fist around his length, fingers barely closing around his hefty base, and gave him a languid, thorough pump. He watched intently, keeping all sounds to himself until your lips parted to fit his cock head, stretching around his thick girth.

“Fuck, baby—” Toji hissed, helping your hair out of the way while your throat molded back into his shape. You were taught how to take as much of him in as possible, yet no matter how diligent you were in your practice, you could never fit him whole. You bobbed your head up and down, hand stroking the parts you couldn’t swallow and tongue pitching in the action with sparse kitten licks along his shaft.

His fingers firmly gripped onto your hair, forcing your head to pick up speed as they traveled from your scalp to the back of your head. Your gag reflex protested with each thrust, hot tears gradually pooling in your eyes while you struggled to keep them open.

“Look so fucking good chocking on my dick.” His voice oozed sweetness that matched his stare, a look of utter adoration fluttering behind his pretty eyelashes.

If he thought you were the one to look good, then he should’ve seen himself; messy obsidian strands casting shadows over his darkened eyes, his pink lips agape more often than closed with all the unregulated profanities and praise that spilled out of them, turning up in volume the closer he got to his climax.

You felt him twitch in your mouth, the salty tang drooling down your jaw along with your saliva, though just when you thought he was about to cum, he pulled out, the string of fluids following after him. “Don’t want any of that going to waste, do we?” Toji smirked, pumping his length once or twice before letting go altogether.

He hunched over your body, his knees making the bed dip lower as his lips sought yours, jaw too slack to properly reciprocate. Rough palms slid below your top and ran over your sides, his fingers unhooking your bra with unmatched expertise. He broke the kiss to let you remove your shirt, his hands quick to wrap around your tits and fondle their way toward your nipples. He pinched at them, rolling the peaks between his thumbs until they stiffened.

“Can’t wait for them to get all round and full,” Toji mumbled as he lowered his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, suckling so hard that he just might draw milk. He wet it with his tongue, and then turned to the other, repeating the same motion. “Gonna get me addicted if the taste’s half as sweet as your pussy.”

Your fingers clenched into fists around the sheets, the sheer imagery of Toji feasting on your breasts enough to make your legs go weak. He was keen on sharing his fantasies with you, down to every last insignificant detail, but not as keen as he was on fulfilling every single one of them, and this one, was just a matter of time.

“T-Toji,” you said in a breathy voice.

A sexy smirk plastered on his scarred lips as he detached from your nipple with a soft pop. He left your call unanswered, instead spreading your legs further apart and settling in between. You saw him stroke his cock, and soon you felt the leaking head tap on your clothed clit. Only then did he bother to look up, taking stock of the little whines and pretty moans you selfishly withheld.

He couldn’t wait for his next leave to take you someplace nice and quiet, where the sounds of you crying his name at full volume would come in abundance.

“P-please,” you begged, fidgeting a lot more than before.

“Please what?” he played dumb, rubbing his hard cock along your entrance. “Use your words, sweetheart.

“Please f-fuck,” your voice cracked, too frail to handle his games. “Please, fuck me.”

“Aren’t ya forgetting something?” his thin eyebrow questioned.

“Please fuck me, daddy.”

Toji smiled slyly to himself, obliging enough to peel the panties away from your twitching cunt. “Don’t want a warm-up first? My girl big enough to take me without any prep?” he asked in a condescending tone, matching every beat of his voice with another slap against your clit. “Or is she that eager to be a mommy? That’s it, right?” he chuckled, your moan not going unregistered.

“You’ve gotten so greedy, Y/N,” he said after a series of little tsks. “Bet you also gonna ask to be my wife soon, huh?”

The air was knocked out of your lungs for a brief, albeit painful second as Toji aligned with your entrance and rammed his cock halfway in, his overwhelming size felt first as a sting in your walls and later as a tremor across your entire body. Even with how wet you were, it still hurt a lot more than your horny self thought it would— though it wouldn’t take long for the pain to melt into pleasure.

You didn’t realize you’d screamed until he hushed you, bending forward to press a sweet peck against your lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he gave your thigh a reassuring squeeze and gathered your wobbly knees onto his brawny shoulders, refraining to move until you stopped wincing and contorting. “Stay relaxed for me, okay?”

You shook your head and pulled him into a tight embrace, loving the contrast of his hard pecs against your squishy breasts. “Want you close, Toji. Please.”

And how could he possibly refuse when his baby begged him so well?

Your nails began raking at his back as he sunk himself deeper and deeper, the position he’d bent you into making it seem as if there were no limits to how deep his cock could reach before it was buried to the hilt. He stretched you so good, stuffing your pussy full of ecstasy and your mind full of dick as he started to thrust at a steady pace, never deviating from sealing the whimpers in your mouth with sloppy kisses.

“Doing such a good job, angel. Must really want that baby, hah— can feel ya really open up for me.” A calloused hand slid between your bodies and pressed against the tiny bulge in your stomach, appearing and disappearing with each slam of his hips. “Feel that? That’s how deep you’ve taken daddy.”

He dragged his cock out and pounded it back in, his heavy balls slapping hard against your jiggly ass. His hand lowered over your clit, flicking the nub in sync with his frantic thrusts until the coiling tension in your guts snapped, a shuddering orgasm washing over him as much as it washed over you.

“Love you s-so much, Toji,” your fingers slipped onto his neck, gradually hiking up to cup his cheek.

Specks of light glimmered in his eyes as they held your loving stare, the scarred corner of his lip curling into a cocky smirk as if to defy him. “Yeah? Is it me that you love or my cock? Came into my house so I can fuck you g-good, ah?” he stuttered along with his hips. “All that money I gave ya to watch my kid goin’ to that tight-ass pussy?”

“Answer my question, slut,” he insisted.

Your brain was going blank on answers, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as his cock found all the right places, hitting every single spot that led into your fertile womb until you were back to writhing below him. “B-both, Toji, fuck love your cock so much ‘s fucking me so well.”

A hand moved over your dampened forehead, swiping your disheveled hair so he could plant a kiss. “Love you too, sweets.”

You felt yourself drowning in love as the squelching grew louder, the four-bedroom walls too thin to contain the sounds of hips snapping against hips and of his husky groans as he closed in on his high a second time. “Gonna fill ya up real good. Gonna—fuck, give my pretty baby all my babies,” Toji grunted, and you repeatedly nodded, cute little sobs severing the chants of his name.

Sharp teeth dug into your neck as Toji buried himself in the crook of your shoulder, his sultry moans reverberating against your skin until they hit their crescendo when his cock began to throb, painting your walls with thick ropes of his creamy load. He slowed down, luscious thrusts shoving his cum further in while you held him close, snaring your legs around his torso.

When he finally lifted his head, you’d both regained a sliver of composure, your pants falling back into rhythm.

“You’ll be such a good mama,” he murmured, his voice silky smooth over the shrewd ringing in your ears.

“Think so?” Your lips stretched into a faint smile that he was quick to kiss.

“You already are the better parent. Kid likes you most. Bust my balls when you have your tests and needa study.”

You chuckled, tracing the outline of his scar with your thumb. “Why do I get the feeling it’s the other way around, hmm?”

A tsk twisted his lips into a scoff as he bit onto your finger. “Ouch! What was that f—”

Your voice faltered as he spun you around; face shoved into the pillows and back forced into an arch while Toji positioned himself behind your ass and dragged his cock between your swollen red folds.

“Don’t tell me you thought we were done here.”

The next morning found all three of you at the starting point of last night’s exploits, Toji sipping on a cup of black coffee and scrolling on his phone, while Megumi quietly sat beside him on the kitchen table, awaiting his breakfast to be served. Your body felt sore all over while you grilled his salmon, sand in the corners of your eyes. Normally, you’d be trying to keep everyone entertained with idle chit-chat, but with how often you yawned, getting a word out demanded serious effort— effort you weren’t prepared to put in.

“Say, Megumi.” Toji took the reins, setting his phone down. “How would you feel about having a new mommy?”

The spatula almost fell into the pan, your objection stifled by Megumi’s voice. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?” Toji cocked his head curiously, propping his chin onto his palm. “Then ya wouldn’t mind if it was someone you knew?”

“Mister Fushiguro, could you please help me with the fish a bit—” you pleaded through gritted teeth, only to be dismissed with a swift gesture as if you were a housefly.

“I don’t mind having a new mommy, but I don’t want to be a brother,” he declared, stomping his fork against the wood for emphasis. “Never!”

You glanced over your shoulder, first at Toji and then at Megumi, before serving the fish on a plate and kneeling in front of the child. “Why is that, Megs? Don’t you wanna be a big brother to a little sister or a little brother?”

His eyes stubbornly refused to meet with yours, all the while they shot daggers at his father. “Don’t want one if it hurts to make.”

You chuckled, tapping at his knee gently. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you cry last night,” Megumi admitted. “Dad hurt you, didn’t he?”

“That’s not what—”

Toji smirked as he spread his legs apart, preparing himself for the show. “Kinda late for that, buddy. And don’t worry about Y/N. Adults can cry from pleasure, too—”

“Toji!”

And thus, your little house of cards fell apart.

[nhlclover]

𝐒𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 | 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐂𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

word count: 1.35k

summary: on your way to the spend a weekend at the lake house with his teammates, you think about your future with rutger

warnings: british reader!, mentions of some other umich players (nick, duke brothers), brief sad thoughts

notes: based on 'so american' by olivia rodrigo. who am i if not writing fics based on songs.

The morning sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue on Rutger’s jeep that rumbled down the highway, its tires humming against the asphalt. Rutger sat in the driver's seat, his left hand holding a loose grip on the wheel, while you sat comfortably in the passenger seat, your feet were propped up on the dashboard. Rutger insisted you hit the road early to get to Jacob’s lake house around mid-morning. You felt that was a little too early, but he was excited to spend some spare time at the end of the semester with his friends and girlfriend, relaxing on the water. To make up for the early start time, Rutger bought you an iced coffee and promised that you could sleep in the car on the way over.

However, you couldn’t find yourself able to fall back asleep, instead taking over aux, the early morning air that flowed through the cracked windows helping to rejuvenate you. You tapped your fingers against the door handle, matching the beat of the song you’d selected. Dirt On My Boots by Jon Pardi filled the space, a contented smile gracing your lips.

“You’ve turned so American.” Rutger says, pulling your brain out of its brief daze.

“What?” You ask, your brows furrowing.

“I mean… look at you,” Rutger says with a chuckle. “You’re sitting there with your feet on the dash, you’re listening to country music, and you’re repping USA merch.”

Rutger motions to one of his hoodies that you’d thrown on as you were leaving. It was one given to him by the world juniors team he’d just played on, the letters U-S-A largely displayed on the chest.

You turned to him, adjusting your position in the seat. "Oh, please, don't say that. I'm still very much British, thank you very much." You retort, rejecting the idea that you’d become American in any way.

When you applied for an exchange to the University of Michigan, nothing could’ve prepared you for what would’ve come. On your first day of classes in the new country, you met Rutger. When a pretty girl sat next to him in one of his classes, he knew he had to talk to her. It didn’t take long for the two of you to develop feelings, Rutger soon being the ‘dreamy American’ that your friends had jokingly told you you’d fall for. And fall for him you did.

It was unfair of Rutger to make you feel this much when you both knew your future was uncertain.

“Hey, there is nothing wrong with being American.” Rutger points out.

“Yeah says the American.” You tease, rolling your eyes. “Thank god I’m going home soon. I need to reconnect with my roots if you think I’ve become American.”

Despite that being a joke, you couldn't shake the underlying sadness that gnawed at you. In just one week, you were leaving Michigan and returning to the UK. The thought of leaving Rutger and the life you’d established in Michigan weighed heavily on your heart. You knew that the bond you’d established with Rutger would withstand the miles and borders, however the prospect of being separated from him felt like tearing away a piece of you.

Rutger, sensing the shift in your demeanour as well as knowing that the inevitable move was weighing on you, reached over, taking your hand in his. His cold fingers lacing between yours quickly drew you back to reality.

“Hey,” He said softly. “Try not to think about it for now. Enjoy this weekend. We’ve got ages to figure it all out.”

You squeezed Rutger’s hand drawing comfort from his touch. With a gentle smile, you met his gaze, gratitude shining in your eyes. “Thank you, Rut.” You said softly.

Rutger returned your smile, turning his attention back to the road while keeping your hand in his. You continued the drive, doing your best to expel the thoughts of leaving from your mind.

Three hours later, Rutger pulled down a laneway that ultimately led to a large house on the water. Rutger’s teammates were already outside, eagerly awaiting your arrival.

“Hey guys!” Rutger called out as they stepped out of the car. Rutger’s teammates come over, greeting the two of them.

“This place is beautiful.” You comment, admiring the glimpse of the water you could see past the house.

“God, I will never get over the accent.” Nick said. Rutger shoved his shoulder while you playfully rolled your eyes.

You considered yourself lucky that you’d become friends with Rutger’s teammates. From the moment Rutger introduced you to them, they’d welcomed you with open arms. And as you spent more time with them, they weren’t just Rutger’s teammates, they were your friends as well.

“Alright, now go get changed, we’re hitting the water.” Luca said, ushering the two of you inside.

You headed up to your room, changed into the swimsuits you’d brought, and then headed downstairs to meet the rest of the group. The rest of the afternoon, you guys remained on the water. You all took turns on the tube, as well as some of the boys deciding to test their water skiing skills. When the sun began to descend towards the horizon, a golden hue being cast on the water, you headed back to the house to start dinner, which was a full team activity in which everyone was put to work doing something. You and Rutger were put in charge of the barbecue on the back patio, teaming up with Dylan and Tyler to grill the burgers and corn.

After dinner was demolished, you headed down to the fire pit, relaxing in the Adirondack chairs, talking about whatever came to mind. The flames cast flickering glows on everyone's faces as you discussed sports, your exams, and random childhood anecdotes whether relevant or not. After a while of drinking and chatting, both you and Rutger hit your limits and decide to call it a night.

The second that Rutger’s head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light, the day’s activities catching up with him. After a full day of tubing and waterskiing, combined with the drinks they’d consumed throughout the day, everyone was wiped. You, however, lay awake, the moonlight reflecting off the water and into the open window.

You traced your fingers through Rutger's hair, watching his bare chest rise and fall with steady breaths. With the tranquillity of the room enveloping you, you find yourself lost in a maze of thoughts, your mind swirling with visions of Rutger and the future they could share.

England was home. England was where you grew up, where your family and friends still resided. The thought of leaving them to be in North America made your heart tense. However, lying in the sheets and staring up at the ceiling, you couldn’t help but imagine moving to North America to be with Rutger. As you look over at him, still peacefully asleep, you imagine the prospect of uprooting your life for the American boy you fell in love with, of bridging the distance to be with Rutger.

Your thoughts continue to wander, picturing what could come of life in America with Rutger. Your mind entertains the notion of marriage, a distant yet possible milestone. That might be a little presumptuous of you, with your relationship still being in its infancy, but you practically couldn’t help it. The way he’d made you feel in the past 8 months was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Every moment with him felt like a moment torn from a romance book. Every moment with him was filled with laughter and stolen glances, creating an undeniable intimacy and connection.

You had to eventually force those thoughts out of your mind or else they would’ve kept you up all night. You rolled over, curling into Rutger’s side, and placing a delicate hand on his abs. Rutger stirred momentarily, instinctively wrapping his arm around you, drawing you closer. For now, you were content to simply be in this moment with him, cherishing the time you had left before you had to return home.

[houserautha]

Only Pleasure Remains

Summary: Feyd-Rautha has other uses for the mouth of the Fremen prisoner refusing to talk.

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x GNFremen!Reader

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: he fucks your face, it’s nonconsensual, you kind of like it anyway, smut without plot, you get a facial, WITH his black cum because that’s too iconic of a HC not to include, he gets his happy ending but you don’t get yours. Literally.

A/N: I don’t think a Fremen would ever allow this to actually happen but I’m a whore and a slave to my simpler urges. Not gonna lie I wanted this to happen in the movie. Does this even make sense? I don’t know but it’s hot

The inner walls of the ruined sietch is a brief relief from the oppressive heat beating down on the desert planet. Feyd-Rautha discovers a group of his men restraining a prisoner, sunlight pouring in from the hole over their heads. As they notice him they break apart, revealing you to him for the first time since he received news of a survivor.

You’re covered in sandy grime and blood, the nose piece of your stillsuit dangling free, hair dirtied and loose from its previous style.

And you look fucking beautiful on your knees, even with your face wrenched in disgust and utter defiance. Feyd-Rautha didn’t expect to feel such an intense attraction to a Fremen. In fact, he reserves a moment to study you, to confront his desire like an untamed beast — pry open its mouth and examine its teeth.

“They refuse to talk,” one of the Harkonnen soldiers says. He nudges you with the nose of the lasgun and you snarl — you actually snarl — upper lip pulled back, blue-on-blue eyes glinting with hatred.

A trapped animal, desperate for freedom. Feyd-Rautha feels his cock stir.

“For now,” he says. He raises a hand. “Leave us.”

The soldiers exchange indecipherable glances before leaving, ducking back out into the blazing sun. Feyd-Rautha steps as close to you as he dares. Even with your limbs bound, he’s certain that you would do anything in your power to maim him.

“Your silence rings empty among the cries of those you loved,” he tells you. He towers over you, a sentinel of dangerous, crackling energy, wreathed in black armor. “The others are gone. Dead. What service is your silence to them?”

You stare up at him with your seething gaze.

Feyd-Rautha crouches beside you. Your hostility is nearly enough to bowl him over, a tangible, living creature between you.

“If you deny me this now, I will have no choice but to make you.”

He lifts a gloved hand to your cheek, lovingly whispering his fingers over the curve of your face before grabbing your chin. His grasp is enough to spring tears to your eyes, causing you to bite your tongue and draw blood, its coppery taste filling your mouth.

You should hate him. He stands for everything you’ve rallied against. Hell, he had just ordered his men to obliterate your home, your people. Yet you find yourself incomprehensibly drawn to this man who exudes power as effortlessly as others can breathe. It infuriates you. Revolts you.

Your aching, traitorous body pools with heat as Feyd-Rautha parts your lips and forces his thumb into your mouth. Sand grits over your teeth. His gloves taste of dry leather. Of blood; though it could very well just be your own. He presses his thumb down with enough force to shatter your jaw.

Feyd-Rautha rasps, “Then, since you refuse to speak, I will give your mouth a different purpose.”

He wrests his hand from your chin and pain explodes through your skull.

Feyd-Rautha rises once more to his formidable height and works to liberate his cock from his armor. You watch, horrified, transfixed, as he pulls his pants down just enough to show his powerful thighs and reveal a stomach taunt with muscles. His cock springs free and he wastes no time wrapping his hand at the base and stroking it fervently, all the while gazing down at you with naked, unfettered devotion.

And for some reason the sight of him like that transcends you, strips you completely bare. Your entire body trembles.

The na-Baron fists the hair at the back of your head and, without preamble, guides you to his cock, groaning as the warmth and wetness of your mouth envelops him. Anger flaring, you bite down as hard as you’re able — but instead of revoking himself, Feyd-Rautha snaps his hips, driving him deeper into your mouth instead.

He pants his appreciation, clearly undeterred by your teeth.

You gag on his size. He refuses to ease up, however, pushing his cock deeper into the back of your throat. With each thrust, saliva builds, leaking from the sides of your mouth and wetting his shaft. You have no way to retaliate, to pull away, forced to endure him.

He withdraws long enough to show you the glint of pre-cum on his cock, how he spreads it across the head before burrowing it inside you again. The taste of his pre-cum is salty, mixing with your blood, and you can no longer deny your own arousal — you clamp your lips on his cock and suck, using your tongue to circle the salty mixture over it.

Feyd-Rautha releases a rumbling, guttural moan, hips bucking violently. “That’s right,” he rasps. “Take it.” He ignores your strangled pleas as he pushes himself deeper and deeper within you, tears now streaming down your face and cutting tracks through the sandy grime. He pulls out only to insert himself again, in and out, fucking your throat.

You’re unable to touch yourself, or him, and it makes the entire act that much more torturous. You apply this frustration with your mouth, sucking his considerable length every time he jams it past your lips, your mouth and jaw aching with the furious nature of the fucking.

Feyd-Rautha closes his eyes and loses himself in your slick mouth. He has just laid waste to your people and now you were taking him like the good little rat you were, a renegade whore, letting him force his cock down your throat and you were actually enjoying it.

Without warning, Feyd-Rautha withdraws from you, stroking his shaft and positioning himself before you. “Open,” he demands.

You obey and as soon as you do, warm sprays of his ink-colored cum soak your face. He jerks himself through his orgasm, breathy and primal, smooth brows furrowed in concentration. You breathe heavily, shoulders heaving, greedily drawing the air back into your lungs. It’s then that Feyd-Rautha drags his gloved fingers across your face, smearing his cum then pushing his fingers back into your mouth. You lick and slurp down his seed, languishing in the taste of him, unlike anything you’ve had before.

To offer your expense to a Fremen is to offer your life’s water. You don’t know if he realizes this, or even cares, he just watches you as you suck his gloved fingers clean.

Feyd-Rautha does know this sacrifice, this offering, and thinks it a just trade for what he’s prepared to do. He rights himself, fixing his armor. “Strange, what you wish to comply with,” he says. He leaves you like that — bound and covered with his cum, vulnerable — and as he vanishes around the corner you hear him call out, “Dispose of the rat.”

Tags:

@moonsoulk

@heartarianagran

@torchbearerkyle

@unicoreads

@taleah

@mamawiggers1980

@jovialeggsbailiffsoul

@harkonnin

@avidreader73

[maximilliansblog]

How to build your first fursuit head for ~$100 USD (2023)

What’s good furries? I’m sure a lot of you have a fursona and want to make your first fursuit. I recommend starting with a partial just in case you mess up or fall out of the hobby. It’s also less expensive!

This tutorial will only cover the head. I haven’t made any of the other stuff and I’m probably going to buy it online premade because I’m lazy.

1.) Have a reference sheet for your fursona.

If you are an artist, draw (the best you can) a reference sheet of your fursona from the front, side, and back. I made a little turnaround animation for mine, but this is not necessary.

Not an artist? Don’t want to draw? Commission someone to do it for you. I recommend Etsy, but you can find furry artists with open commissions all over the internet.

No money for commissions? You might be out of luck. Ask a friend or draw it the best you can. Alternatively, you can edit someone else’s fursona reference sheet to make it look like your fursona. Yeah, it’s stealing. Just don’t post it and act like it’s yours 👍

You can also go into the Roblox game, Catalogue Avatar Creator, and assemble something that looks kind of like your fursona. Take a screenshot of it from the front, side, and back, then go into a photo editor (I recommend IbisPaint or MediBang Paint, they are both free) and add in your special details.

I recommend not making your first fursuit super complicated or some kind of rare species. But you do you. It will just be really hard.

Also determine what style of fursuit you want. Toony? Kemono? Realistic? (I don’t recommend realistic for your first fursuit but you do you). This will be important later.

2.) Find Shit to Build It With

Once again, I recommend Etsy. You’ll need:

+ all the fur colors you need (try 2-3)

+ eye mesh

+ 3D printed mask

+ hot glue gun and hot glue sticks (dollar store)

+ needle and thread (dollar store or Walmart)

+ balaclava

+ styrofoam head

+ fabric scissors

+ extra foam pieces for ears or horns

Assemble all of that. It should be around $80-120 USD.

Your 3D printed mask is the most important thing. Another reason to get a relatively common species. Mine was a dragon. Remember the fursuit style you picked earlier? Search on etsy “3d printed [style] [species] furry mask” and you should be able to find one. You can also get pre-made foam heads. I don’t recommend trying to make your own head base, because A) it’s hard and B) those materials cost more money.

This shit will take a while to come in so don’t get too excited about it. My mask took like a month because it came from Germany.

3.) Mark the Color Spots on your Head Base

Basically just take a sharpie and outline the different color regions on your headbase. You can also use a pencil if you’re a pussy /j

4.) Uhhhh Eyeball That Fabric Pattern and Hot Glue the Pieces to Your Headbase

Some people use duct tape to make a pattern. That did not work for me! So I eyeballed it. Made some mistakes. That’s okay.

5.) Trim Down the Fur Length

Most people use clippers for this but I didn’t want to buy any and I didn’t know how to use them so I did it VERY CAREFULLY with scissors.

6.) Fill in the Cracks Between Your Hot Glue Seams With Loose Fur

Look at all this damn fur on the floor! If only there was something to do with it!

Put hot glue between the super visible seams where you hotglued different pieces of fabric next to each other, then pack in some of that loose fur. Cut it down if it’s too long. The seams will be less visible.

7.) Hot Glue the Eye Mesh Behind the Eye Holes

VERY CAREFULLY hot glue this so your character isn’t cross-eyed. You can try follow-me eyes but I didn’t do that with mine.

8.) Add Your Extra Details

You know like whiskers or plastic teeth or a tongue or anything else you want to put on there.

Now you’re done with the mask part.

9.) CAREFULLY Hot Glue Your Balaclava to the Inside of the Mask

The eye hole should be where your eye mesh is so that you can see out. Also make sure some of the balaclava is glued to the top of the mask.

10.) Weigh Down Your Styrofoam Head With a Heavy Rock

Or put it on a stand. Or hot glue it to the table. Whatever works.

11.) Put the Balaclava that you Glued to the Mask on the Styrofoam Head

Pretty simple. The reason we weighed down the styrofoam head is because the front of your mask will be heavy and make it fall over while you’re trying to work.

12.) ????? Put Fur On the Balaclava

You’ll also need to like add some fur connecting the sides of the mask to the balaclava. Hard to explain. You’ll probably figure it out?

13.) Trim that Fur and Put the Trimmings in the Seams Like Before

14.) Take it off of the Styrofoam Head

You may need to cut a slit in the back of the neck of your fursuit head. Not only will it help get the styrofoam head out, now your head can get in and out too!

15.) Put it on

Edit it if something is wrong. It might feel crooked but it’s probably not.

16.) Enjoy!

Hopefully this was helpful! This is how made mine.

[clarepreed]

Neighborly

Story Content and Summary - 8,171 words. Larissa and Mitchell try to save a choking neighbor. Choking, on-site resuscitation, explicit sex.

Previous installment: Micro-Story: Larissa's Decision

--

Mitchell

Mitchell ruffled his hands through his hair and dropped them to his sides, his eyes on the boardwalk path ahead. They’d been home a few days, and the sunny weather tempted them out for a walk.

Larissa reached for his hand and he let her take it, curling his fingers around hers. The gesture felt right, despite everything that had gone on between them lately. Larissa, he thought, looked lovely dressed in blue, with her hair loose and her face freshly washed and free of makeup.

“I’m glad we’re home,” she murmured. “It was nice to see Momma and Daddy and Poppy, but I enjoy being home with you. Especially here.”

“I feel the same way, baby.”

They walked for a while until they approached the gate that closed off their boardwalk trail from the gated community behind their property.

“Keep walking?” he asked, smiling over at her. “I’d like to continue if you’re up for it.”

Larissa nodded, unlocking the gate and holding it open for them both. She had to release his hand for them to walk through, but she recaptured it once the gate closed behind them. “How’s your head?” she asked, referring to his recent accident at her grandfather’s home.

“My headache from this morning is gone,” he told her. He reached up and brushed the sore scar near the top of his head. “And it feels like there’s hair growing back.”

“It’s white,” she said matter-of-factly. “The new hair is silver. I peeked.”

“Oh.”

Larissa squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean it in a negative way, honey. Just an observation.”

“I’m lucky it didn’t kill the hair follicles.”

“They make very fancy hairpieces now.” Larissa grinned and squeezed his hand again. “Which would be entirely about your vanity, as I would not be put off by a measly bald spot.”

“You have enough hair to spare some for a custom piece, I’m sure,” Mitchell said, rolling his eyes.

“I have enough hair in the shower in a single week to make you a hairpiece.”

Mitchell laughed. “Really?”

“I do clean up after myself, Mitchell.” She leaned toward him and kissed his shoulder, softening her retort.

They fell into companionable silence. The air was just north of cool, bathing his skin and keeping the humidity at bay. Mitchell reached out and let his fingers graze a leafy plant growing against the boardwalk handrail.

“We need hobbies.” Larissa spoke without preamble, her bluntness born from what sounded like nervous energy. He heard it in the slight pitchiness when she spoke. “Or part-time jobs.”

“Oh?” Mitchell bent his arm, pulling her hand up with his. He studied their interlocked fingers, then used his other hand to trace the hills and valleys of her knuckles.

“Don’t you miss having a task you can get lost in? Really set your mind to?” 

She sounded so tentative that he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “What do you want, Larissa? Is there something you’d like to do?”

“Drawing classes,” she blurted. Mitchell watched as the cheek closest to him flushed pink.

“I’m certain we can find art classes for you on the island, baby. Or a private tutor. Whatever you’d like.” His brows dipped. “Surely you know that you are free to do whatever you’d want, Larissa.”

“So are you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell slowed to a stop and reached for her other hand. He pulled them both up and kissed the back of each hand, his brow furrowing as Larissa’s expression mirrored the tentative tone of her voice. “Of course, I would prefer if you sometimes showed me your drawings, if you wanted. And whatever we do, I’m always going to be happy to be with you at the end of the day.”

Her eyes took on a glassy appearance, as though she might cry. Instead, Larissa leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. When she rocked back on her heals, she asked him: “And what would you like to do, honey?”

Mitchell raised his eyebrows. He had an answer to her question, and the answer was that he did not know. Oh, he’d thought about it, surely, but—

“HELP!” 

Mitchell whipped his head around. The shout was unmistakable, and not too far off.

“What is it?” Larissa asked. “Mitchell?”

“OH MY GOD! HELP!”

“Someone is shouting for help…” Mitchell released one of her hands and took a step toward the sound. He stopped, looking indecisively at Larissa.

“We should try to find them, then.” She tugged on his hand. “Mitchell?”

“We don’t know why they are calling out. If it’s safe.” His mind served up an image of Larissa sprawled by a fountain, dying from blood loss.

“PLEASE! STELLA! HELLLLP!”

Mitchell gritted his teeth. Larissa tugged on his hand. “Are they still yelling? We’re at home. Someone might be hurt! It’s safe enough, Mitchell.” When she tugged his hand again, he joined her, and they jogged down the boardwalk.

It didn’t take them long to find the source of the voice. A man half dragging, half-carrying a semi-conscious woman. He heard Mitchell and Larissa’s footsteps on the boards and turned, struggling to hold up the woman as her knees went out. Mitchell took in her half-open eyes and her darkened face.

“Oh, God! Stella, don’t—” The man caught the woman around the chest with one arm, her head sagging forward as he pounded her between the shoulder blades.

“Is she choking?!” Larissa exclaimed, her voice rising as Mitchell released her hand and they both ran to the couple.

“May I help?” Mitchell asked in a rush, a cold sensation dousing him from head to toe as he reached for the man’s weakly struggling burden. 

The unnamed man all but shoved her at Mitchell, who caught her sideways and spun her in his arms. Larissa came around the front, her hands gripping the woman’s arms and helping to hold her upright. “My husband is going to help you! You’ll be all right!”

Mitchell drew his arms around the woman’s waist and searched out her navel with his right hand. He curled the left into a fist and pressed his knuckle just above his right hand, then moved that hand up to cover his left. He jerked in and up. 

“Again, Mitchell!” Larissa almost shouted. “What’s her name?”

“Stella—”

Mitchell thrust his hands into the stranger’s abdomen again, grunting as he nearly lifted her off the boardwalk. Stella didn’t make any noises; he heard Larissa encouraging him to continue, and the male stranger babbling away in a panic. But he didn’t hear any air moving. No gasping or coughing. Not even gagging or choking. Another abdominal thrust, and the weak scratching at his arms stopped. 

“Have you called 9-1-1?” Larissa asked, her fear evident in her rasping speech. He met her eyes inadvertently, saw his own remembered trauma reflected at him. He heaved hard up toward Stella’s diaphragm, his stomach hollowing out as he felt her knees give. Larissa reached out and grasped the woman’s face. “Stay with us, Stella. Keep your eyes open!”

Larissa

“Have you called 9-1-1?” Larissa managed, her eyes darting to the distraught man standing next to her. She looked back at the woman as Mitchell tried again to dislodge whatever was killing her. Stella’s face turned a dark reddish purple as she watched, her eyes and nose streaming and saliva dripping from her open mouth. As Larissa watched, the woman’s eyes rolled, and she saw Mitchell trying to keep her on her feet. Her heart pounding and her own eyes watering, Larissa reached out and cupped Stella’s face in her hands. Dark curls draped over the woman’s face, incongruously soft considering the circumstances. “Stay with us, Stella. Keep your eyes open!”

As she brought her face close to Stella’s, a hot and sweet scent tickled her nostrils and hit her with a wave of nausea that nearly made her lurch away from the other woman. Cinnamon candy.

“No, I… I’ll do it now! I’ll do it now. Stella, you have to cough it up!” To his credit, the trembling, panicked man immediately dragged a cell phone out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

Larissa shook her head and swallowed hard.

Mitchell performed a fifth abdominal thrust, the woman’s head pulling free of Larissa’s gentle grasp and tipping back against his chest. He shifted her, his leg slipping between Stella’s as he cradled her in one arm and pounded her between the shoulder blades with the other. Her arms swung limp and her head lolled, mouth gaping. Larissa caught her head in her hands again, gasping: “Mitchell, she’s losing consciousness!” 

The man, standing on her deaf side, was barely audible as he spoke to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Mitchell wrapped his arms around the woman again, his eyes huge as he desperately jerked his fist into her abdomen. Her lightweight sweater rode up, bunching beneath her breasts and leaving her abdomen exposed. Larissa looked down, watching as he pulled his fist hard into the reddened skin of her stomach.

Suddenly, the woman went completely limp, her head falling toward Larissa as Mitchell yelped and held her unconscious form against his chest. “Help me lay her down!” Together, they eased her flaccid body to the boardwalk, Larissa guiding the woman’s head as Mitchell laid her flat on her back. She was vaguely aware of the man kneeling beside her as she used a hand on the woman’s forehead and another at her chin to tip Stella’s head back.

“STELLA!” Larissa shouted at the woman before thumbing open her mouth. She used her finger to sweep between her teeth, hoping the position change had dislodged the unknown item. Stella’s brown eyes were half open, bloodshot, and staring up at the tree canopy. Larissa felt nothing but the woman’s tongue and teeth. Removing her finger, she leaned her good ear by Stella’s mouth. Mitchell reached out and pressed his fingers to the pulse point in the woman’s neck.

Rather than announcing that the woman wasn’t breathing, Larissa hastily swiped her hand over the woman’s wet mouth and then pinched her nose. She covered Stella’s bluing lips with her own and attempted to give her a breath. Stella’s cheeks rounded, followed by Larissa’s own. Then the seal broke, making her lips tingle as they buzzed against the other woman’s skin. She adjusted the tilt of Stella’s head and tried again, blowing harder. The air escaped between them and out of her own nose with a Pthhhbbt! sound. The other woman’s mouth was sticky from the candy that choked her.

Mitchell bent over the woman as Larissa leaned back, his hands tracing the woman’s ribcage and then stacking over the bottom of her sternum. He rolled his shoulders forward and then forced her sternum downward. The woman’s head wobbled in Larissa’s hands, and she saw her abdomen distend as Mitchell thrust his hands into her chest. “One, two, three, four, five…”

“Oh GOD! YES… yes, they are d-doing CPR. Oh, Stella…” Larissa looked at the man out of the corner of her eye. He had the phone in one hand, and a death grip on Stella’s hand with the other. She spotted a wedding ring on his finger.

“…fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…”

Larissa reached up and scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. Her face and hands felt tacky. A combination of panic, disgust, and shame rolled through her as she returned her hand to the woman’s chin. Leaning closer, she used her thumb to open the woman’s mouth further. The woman’s tongue was in her line of sight, keeping her from seeing into the back of her throat despite the bright sunlight. 

“… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…”

Before she could talk herself out of it, she used her thumb to pin the woman’s tongue against the floor of her mouth. The moist muscles tried to slide free as she peered down toward her uvula. 

“… twenty-six, twenty-seven…”

As Mitchell hit thirty compressions, Larissa slipped her thumb out of the woman’s mouth and took a deep breath. Closing her nostrils, she tried to give her two breaths. Neither were successful.

“One…” Mitchell thrust the heel of his bottom hand hard into the woman’s chest, repeatedly, at nearly two times per second. The woman’s neck looked tense, the vessels and tendons standing out. Her shoulders moved with each compression, lifting slightly from the boardwalk. Further down, her sweater still exposing her stomach, Larissa saw the force of the compressions seesawing the woman’s abdomen. “… nine, ten, eleven…”

“Oh my God! Stella?! Graham, what happened?!” A woman’s voice, loud enough for Larissa to hear, made her lift her head and look up the boardwalk. A pair of women a little younger than Larissa and dressed for running came to a stop at Stella’s swaying feet.

“She choked!” The man, evidently named Graham sobbed “She’s… oh, God!”

“… twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…”

“How can we help?” The second woman asked.

Larissa was already peering into the woman’s mouth again, ready to give her another two attempts at breath. As she bent to do so, she heard Mitchell respond. “Is there an AED in the clubhouse here? We may need it.”

“Yes!” the second woman exclaimed. “Amy, you’re faster—”

“Come with me. You can wait at the trailhead and direct EMS!” her partner exclaimed, taking her arm.

Mitchell resumed chest compressions as the two women quickly turned and sprinted down the boardwalk.

Graham

“W-We have someone going for an… an AED.” His voice was hoarse, barely making it past the clenched muscles in his throat. “And someone else who will wait at the end of the path.”

The dispatcher said something that sounded like a confirmation of that being the right course of action, though it was hard to concentrate as he watched a couple of strangers try to save his wife’s life. The man, maybe a decade older than himself, with silver-blonde hair and a determined expression, pounded his wife’s chest with a speed and depth that looked like he knew what he was doing. The procedure was ugly, harsh enough that he heard what sounded like cartilage or ribs popping in Stella’s chest. With each compression, her sternum sank and her stomach popped. Her green flats, her favorite shoes, swayed side to side almost comically as she lay there dead or dying.

Everything had happened so fast.

Moments before, they walked hand in hand, Graham yammering away as Stella unwrapped a hard candy and slipped it between her lips. She’d been about to respond to him when her inhalation stopped with a gurgle, an abortive cough, and then nothing.

She’d jerked her hand from his and come to a stop, fanning the air with one hand as she hit her fist against her chest. He’d figured out what was wrong but didn’t know how to help her, reaching around hesitantly to pound her on the back. At first, he expected her to spit out the candy and start coughing, but she didn’t. He pounded harder, and then she turned away from him and threw herself against the boardwalk handrail, slamming her abdomen against it and nearly tipping herself over the side. He’d come up behind her and helped her apply force, thrusting his body against hers, panicked enough now that he pushed past his fear of hurting her. But the candy hadn’t come up. 

As the seconds flew by, Graham screamed for help. He pulled her into his arms and tried the Heimlich maneuver, though he couldn’t recall exactly where to place his hands or how hard to pull. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed sharply three, four times.

Then, against her silent, struggling protests, Graham lifted his wife and laid her down on the wooden boards, quickly throwing his leg over her body. Her wide, panicked eyes stared up at him as she clawed at her throat. Straddling her, Graham pushed his hands into her abdomen, right above her belly button, and shoved hard. Stella’s body bowed and jerked, but still she didn’t breathe. Her heels drummed on the wood and one hand darted out to grab his forearm. The other scrabbled uselessly at the planks of the walkway.

Graham continued his improvised abdominal thrusts, pumping her stomach hard and shouting at her to throw it up. Stella’s face went splotchy, then red. Her lips began to turn purple.

That’s when he truly panicked, heaving her upright again and dragging her back toward the trailhead, hoping someone who knew what they were doing would come along.

Now someone had, but he was afraid they were too late. The couple worked as a team, more competent than Graham himself had proven to be, though he could see from their strained eyes and frantic movements that even this couple felt scared. The minutes ticked by, coloring Stella’s face with frightening shades of blue and purple.

Graham watched as the strange woman pushed her long hair over her shoulder and pressed a life-saving kiss to his wife’s mouth, both women’s cheeks bulging with the effort. She performed the kiss again, and then exclaimed: “I still can’t get any air in her!”

“One, two, three…” The other man resumed chest compressions, sinking his hands deep into Stella’s chest. Stella, for her part, did nothing, her open eyes staring as the color faded from her cheeks.

“We will have an ambulance on-location in fifteen minutes,” the dispatcher said.

Mitchell

“Fifteen minutes!” the man, Graham, gasped. “Is there no one closer?! It’s already been…”

Mitchell closed his eyes briefly, though he didn’t stop the chest compressions. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Larissa staring back at him, stricken. Mitchell kept pushing into the woman’s chest, trying not to think of the fact that they weren’t getting any air into her. In another twenty or more minutes, the woman would be long dead, assuming she wasn’t already.

“… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…”

“Please, Stella… God, please…”

“… twenty-four, twenty-five…”

“Mitchell! I see it! Don’t stop!” Larissa jammed her fingers into the woman’s mouth again, two of them sweeping deep. She grunted and changed position, her body leaning far over the woman’s face as she twisted her wrist. “Don’t stop!”

“One, two, three…” Mitchell kept up his rhythm, forcing his hands deep into Stella’s chest and making sure he released the pressure completely each time. Graham suddenly dropped her hand and reached out to steady her head as Larissa tried to grasp the obstruction. The woman’s body jerked under his hands, though Graham’s grip on her chin kept the force from moving her head around. To Mitchell’s surprise and dismay, her legs drew up slightly, then stretched out again. The action repeated a few times before her arms joined in, her hands curling under. “… sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…”

“She’s moving!” Graham exclaimed. “Stella?”

“…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

“Roll her on her side, Mitchell!” Larissa cried out. “I’ve almost got it!”

Mitchell stopped compressions and seized Stella by her arm and her hip, rolling her onto her side, facing away from him. Larissa swept her fingers between Stella’s teeth again and dragged out a red, sugary disc. His heart lurched as she flung it to the side, but there wasn’t time, so he rolled the unconscious woman onto her back again. Her face was unchanged; pale in spots, lavender in others. Saliva glistening on her bottom lip. Dark eyes stared at Mitchell’s knees until Larissa righted her head.

He watched his wife quickly open Stella’s airway, pinch her nose, and seal her mouth with her own. This time, the dying woman’s chest rose. Her breasts fell when Larissa let the air escape, then rose again when she gave her another deep breath.

“Stella? Stella!” Graham cried out, as Mitchell pressed his fingertips hard into her neck, sliding them over until he found the spot where her pulse should beat. He waited. Counted out the seconds. 

Shaking his head, Mitchell quickly restarted chest compressions, pumping Stella’s chest hard and fast. Now, he heard air huffing rhythmically from the woman’s mouth, held open by Larissa as she bent in wait for the next opportunity to give her needed oxygen. “…ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

His own breath came fast as he worked on her, his attention zeroing back in on the way her chest gave underneath his hands. Periodically, the woman moved, limbs spasming or her face grimacing. She let out a long snore.

“Stella?!” her husband gasped, subsiding each time when he realized Mitchell and Larissa weren’t stopping their efforts. 

Mitchell hit thirty again, and he watched Larissa perform mouth-to-mouth. A soft sound escaped the women each time that her lips parted from Stella’s. Then came the soft puffing of air as he mercilessly beat her heart by pinning the organ between her spine and her sternum. The woman’s eyes rolled back, the discolored whites showing. “Huh… huh… hungh… hrrggggh…”

“…ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…” Mitchell wondered how far away the clubhouse was from the trail. Granted, he didn’t even know if an AED would do any good. He just knew they needed to try. This stranger spasming beneath his hands deserved no less. “… eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”

“Mitchell, I’ll switch with you after the breaths,” Larissa broke into his thoughts. She was correct; he needed to switch out with her. But he eyed her weak left arm, knowing she still struggled with pain and numbness.

“I’ll do it,” the woman’s husband blurted, setting his phone down on the boardwalk. “I put the phone on speaker and I will do it! I don’t know how, though.”

“Thirty! Come around beside me!” Mitchell barked, as Larissa gave the unconscious woman a full breath. She kept the woman’s nostrils pinched as she let her exhale through her mouth, then gave her another respiration. Mitchell resumed chest compressions as the woman’s pale, teary husband laid her hand down on the boardwalk and scuttled around to come in beside him. “…five, six… Hold your hands like this. Yes. Bring them right beside me. You’re pushing down at least two inches, twice a second. You have to come all the way up each time. This is what circulates her blood. Do you understand?” Mitchell’s voice shook from adrenaline and his exhaustive efforts. He paused again so Larissa could breathe for the woman, watching as Stella’s breasts rose. He lifted his hands and scooted to the side. “Get in place now!”

Graham slid in, his eyes wide as he pressed the heel of his clasped hands into the spot Mitchell had just abandoned. Mitchell guided his shoulders over his hands as Stella’s chest fell a second time.

“Go! Count out loud!”

“One, t-two…” 

Mitchell watched carefully, nodding as the man pushed deep enough. “A little faster. Like this.” He clapped his hands to the disco song playing in the back of his mind.

“Come on, hon. Please… please!”

“You have to count, Graham. Just count and think about everything you need to do. What you’re doing is helping her.” Mitchell leaned back on his heels and tried to recover his breath, though the terrible excitement of it all kept his heart racing.

“… t-twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

Footsteps pounded down the boardwalk, the steps growing louder as the seconds passed. Then Mitchell heard a woman breathing hard and fast. The runner from before, Amy, came into view, arms and legs pumping furiously as she sprinted. 

As Larissa curled over Stella and blew into her open mouth, Amy slipped the AED bag off her shoulder, dropped it onto the boards next to Mitchell, and then staggered past. Her momentum carried her into the handrail, where she caught herself. 

Mitchell snatched up the case. “Keep going!” he barked sharply at Graham, jolting the man back into action. His hands made a dull thumping sound as he resumed pumping her chest. Unzipping the AED, Mitchell laid the device on the wood and turned it on.

“… seven, eight, nine, ten…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!” the device barked. 

“… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

Mitchell tore open a packet of adult pads and dumped them out into his hand. He shook out the leads and connector, then laid them beside Stella.

“… twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!”

“… twenty-nine, thirty!”

He found the trauma shears and cut through the bottom hem of Stella’s lightweight sweater. Amy dropped beside him and held the fabric taught as he cut up the center of the garment. The woman’s chest rose and fell with Larissa’s breaths as he clipped the center of Stella’s purple, lacy bra. Mitchell dropped the shears to the side and quickly parted the fabric of her sweater, moving the cups of her bra out of the way and fully exposing her chest. A bruise was forming over her sternum, with reddened spots spreading down beneath her left breast. More splotches marred her abdomen.

Graham resumed chest compressions without having to be asked. “One, two, three…”

“Apply the pads and plug in the connector!”

As the woman’s pink-tipped breasts wobbled violently and her soft stomach oscillated, Mitchell and Amy stripped the backing off the AED pads. Mitchell applied one pad beneath and slightly to the side of the woman’s left breast, while Amy applied one above the right. Mitchell rubbed them both several times for good measure as Amy found the connector and plugged it in.

“Analyzing rhythm!” the device interrupted. “Do not touch the patient!”

“Everyone, back off of her!” Mitchell called out, scooting back and raising his hands. “Don’t touch her!”

Graham lurched back and Larissa released Stella’s head.

“Shock advised.” Mitchell’s eyes closed briefly as the tiniest bit of relief washed over him. “Charging. Do not touch the patient. Charging. Do not touch the patient. Device charged. Do not touch the patient. Press the shock button.”

Mitchell’s hand hovered over the flashing orange button. “Don’t touch her!” He depressed the button with his index finger and heard a quiet whine. Stella’s torso tensed and released within the span of a split second, and her head tipped to the side. Larissa quickly righted it and reopened her airway.

“Shock delivered. Perform two minutes of CPR.”

Graham hesitated. “Did it not wo—”

“Chest compressions!” Mitchell urged, cutting the man off.

Graham made a sobbing noise, but he complied, his hands finding the bruise and his shoulders rolling forward. As he thrust his hands into the bottom third of Stella’s sternum, he resumed counting. “One, two, three, four…” Despite his upset, Graham performed compressions properly, shoving her sternum deep. Stella’s breasts jerked toward his hands with each compression, jiggling and wobbling with the force. Her abdomen, too, moved with the deep thrusts, bulging and then deflating, popping and heaving at a rapid rate. Her shoulders jerked and shrugged, pulling up toward her neck. Larissa kept the motion from moving her head, gripping the woman’s jaw firmly and keeping her mouth open with a thumb on her chin. Stella’s face was no longer a dark reddish purple, but he was concerned by her white cheeks and blue lips. 

The motion of the chest compressions made her legs rock, feet swaying side to side. He could even see her thighs shaking through her leggings. 

Gurgling, growling, and huffing noises occasionally escaped the woman’s open mouth. When Larissa gave Stella breaths, Mitchell heard Larissa’s exhalation, followed by the slight smacking sound of their lips parting. Then chest compressions resumed, Graham’s shaky counting accompanied by quiet thumps, huffs of air, and the occasional pop or crackle. “... f-four, five, s-six…”

Stella’s legs drew up further, splaying her thighs wide and making her hips jerk. Mitchell, uncertain what exactly to do, leaned over and held her legs down, trying to keep her left knee from bumping into Graham. He felt her muscles spasms beneath his hands. The pressure he applied kept her upper legs in place, though her lower legs shifted and her hips continued to jerk grotesquely. 

“… twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

He watched his wife bend over the spasming body, left hand sealing the woman’s nose and her own mouth opening wide before she covered the other woman’s lips. Her exhale made the woman’s chest heave. Larissa drew back slightly, and he saw a string of glistening saliva stretch between them. Another breath, and this time, when Larissa broke the seal, she swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she quickly resumed holding Stella’s head in place as Graham pumped his wife’s lifeless chest. 

Stella’s arms drew up toward her armpits, hands curling at the wrists and her fingers twisting. When he looked at her face, her eyes were closed.

“… twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

“They are?” Mitchell heard Amy ask. “Okay. Um… The ambulance is in the neighborhood. They should be at the trailhead soon.”

“… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Graham’s voice cracked. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty! Will they be able to help her?”

“The ambulance crew can do a lot of things we can’t,” Mitchell said, meeting the man’s tortured gaze. “And they can take her to the hospital, where even more can be done.”

“But…” Graham’s voice trailed off as the sound of Larissa’s second breath tapered off. He squared his shoulders and resumed his work over his wife’s body. “One, two, three…”

Mitchell looked at Larissa and found her staring at him. Her eyes were wet.

Larissa

Stella gurgled and growled and huffed as her husband forced blood to move through her heart. Larissa held her mouth and airway open, crouched low so she could quickly provide breaths after each set of thirty compressions. Her neck ached from the position, but it wasn’t the pain that made her look at Mitchell with tears in her eyes. As they gazed at each other, his lips thinned and he swallowed hard.

“…nine, ten, eleven, twelve…”

Larissa looked away first. Her eyes dropped to the woman’s gray face. Occasionally, her facial muscles spasmed, threatening to pull her chin from her grasp. She also felt the force of Graham’s chest compressions rocking up through her neck. His hands collapsed her chest harshly, his breath ragged. The other woman’s breasts swayed, her nipples erect. Below his hands, her belly popped up and down, bulging as his thrusts displaced organs and air. Further down, Mitchell gripped the woman’s legs in a gesture that was probably more about how upsetting it was to watch her gently seize than it was for any medical purpose.

“I can take over after the next shock,” Amy the runner said. “And then soon after that, the paramedics will be here.”

“I did not realize it would take EMS this amount of time to come out here,” Mitchell said, his voice so flat she wondered if he knew he spoke aloud. As it was, his voice was quiet enough that she barely heard him, her bad ear pointed in his direction.

“… twenty-nine, thirty!”

Larissa inhaled and pressed her mouth yet again to Stella’s, exhaling to make her chest rise and then lifting her mouth to feel the air rush back up into her face. She covered the cool, slack lips again, her eyes darting to the side to watch the woman’s breasts swell.

The bruise on her sternum disappeared under Graham’s hands. “One, two…”

“Do you know how to do chest compressions?” Mitchell asked Amy. 

“I’ve taken CPR a few times,” she said, handing the phone over to Mitchell. “But you’ll have to let me know if I’m doing something wrong.”

Mitchell nodded.

“… seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—”

“Analyzing rhythm,” the AED broke in. “Do not touch the patient!”

All four of them released Stella and shifted backward. She lay mostly still, her skin ashen, though her eyelids lifted enough to show the whites of rolled-back eyes.

“No shock advised. Continue CPR for two minutes.”

Damn, she thought, her hands automatically reaching out to reopen Stella’s airway. Simultaneously, Amy got into position and started chest compressions. Graham sagged back on his heels, breathing hard. 

“One, two, three…” Amy’s compressions looked deep and fast, and Mitchell nodded in encouragement when she glanced at him. Short but powerfully built, Larissa could see the muscles cording in Amy’s forearms as she efficiently drove her hands into Stella’s sternum. “… four, five, six, seven…”

Distant sirens sounded in the distance.

“That’s more than one vehicle,” Mitchell speculated.

“… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

The group fell silent aside from Amy’s terse counting and the soft huff of air escaping Stella with each compression. 

“… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

Graham muttered something that Larissa didn’t catch. 

“You got her help,” Mitchell responded.

“… twenty-nine, thirty.”

Another breath, pressing her mouth against the cool, damp skin that still smelled like sugar and artificial cinnamon. Larissa followed up quickly with a second breath, feeling just slightly lightheaded as the scented air wafted back into her face.

“One, two, three…” Amy rocked her body hard into Stella’s chest, her fingers pressing into the unconscious woman’s left breast and inadvertently brushing her taut nipple. Larissa kept finding that her eyes were drawn to the exposed flesh in front of her. Like driving past the scene of an accident, she needed to know what was happening, what the effects looked like. Her mind, stressed from what had happened now and in the past, superimposed her own naked body over Stella’s. 

She saw her own long torso rippling as Amy pumped, her large, freckled breasts bobbing, nipples drawing circles in the air. Her chest sinking and her stomach seesawing up and down. The face below her was her face, her eyes staring and her mouth agape, a cinnamon candy lodged deep in her throat.

“… thirty!”

Larissa dragged in a deep breath, coughed as some of her own saliva went down the wrong pipe, and sucked in another. Then, cursing the seconds she lost, she forced another pair of breaths into Stella. Then compressions resumed.

“One, two, three…”

“Larissa?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m fine,” she protested, coughing again.

“… six, seven, eight…”

Mitchell shifted, obviously intending to spell her, when they both heard heavy footfalls on the boardwalk. 

“… twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”

A pair of medics came into view, wearing gloves and carrying bags, led by Amy’s partner. Shortly behind them walked another pair, wheeling a gurney laden with more equipment.

“… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

As Amy sat back on her heels, Larissa gave Stella another two breaths, trying not to inhale directly as the cinnamon-scented exhalations wafted up toward her face.

“Keep going until they tell you to stop,” she heard Mitchell say, and Amy resumed her position.

“One, two, three, four, five, six…”

The medics moved with purpose, but without running or rushing about. They did not immediately take over, instead setting down their bags as one of them stepped closer. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. 

“She choked on a piece of candy,” Mitchell responded, hanging up Graham’s phone. “We tried back blows and abdominal thrusts until she lost consciousness. Then we started CPR. We eventually got the candy out. She’s had one shock from the AED, but the last time it did not advise a shock.”

“…thirty!” Amy called out. Despite the presence of the medics, Larissa leaned over once more. Their cheeks rounded as she exhaled once, then again. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” a woman behind her said. “I can take over now.”

“Who is her next of kin?” The lead medic asked. 

Graham

Everything sped up. The medics spoke with his neighbor, who, he learned, was named Mitchell. The women were relieved by paramedics, who checked Stella’s pulse and then continued CPR. Graham was asked to move back, and he complied, feeling numb as he walked over to stand next to Mitchell and his wife, who directed him to sit on a nearby bench. 

From this angle, he couldn’t see her face, but he could still see her abdomen popping up in rhythmic waves as the gloved hands plunged into her chest over and over again. One of her shoes had fallen off. She’d neglected to wear socks, and he could see the flat brown mole in the center of her left arch.

The youngest-looking medic of the four peeled away the AED pads and turned the device off, setting it to the side. Graham opened his mouth to ask if they’d given up, when Mitchell leaned over and murmured: “They have their own pads that connect to their defibrillator.”

Sure enough, the young medic applied a set of larger pads, smoothing them quickly to her skin. The medic performing chest compressions resumed her efforts, thrusting the down into Stella’s breastbone. Shortly after, the monitor alarmed and he saw a series of lines crawl across the screen.

“Pause compressions for analysis. Asystole.” The lead intoned. He said several other things, most of which Graham couldn’t make out or interpret. He just knew they hadn’t stopped yet. They were still trying.

“They won’t be shocking her right now, so they will continue CPR and give her IV medication. They are going to suction her airway and put a tube in to make sure she’s getting plenty of oxygen.” Mitchell spoke quietly and slowly, his eyes on Stella. 

“Is she going to live?” Graham asked.

Mitchell hesitated long enough that Graham knew he had his answer. But the other man spoke anyway, his eyes on his own wife as she spoke with Amy and her partner. “I don’t know. They don’t know, either. But I’ve seen… people beat the odds before. And I hope to see that happen again.”

Graham returned his gaze to the scene surrounding Stella. A couple of firefighters had joined the four medics, creating a busy ring around his wife. Still, he could see enough of what was going on. One medic crouched by her arm, holding it in his lap as they cleaned the inside of her elbow. The medic who acted in charge lay stretched out on his stomach, with some sort of metal device opened up in Stella’s mouth. As he watched, a firefighter opened a long package and used gloved fingers to extract a tube, which he handed over to the lead. Another medic unbuttoned Stella’s jeans and slipped two fingers just inside.

“There’s a pulse there,” Mitchell told him, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows. “They check pulse points during CPR to make sure the blood is circulating.”

“You know a lot about this. Are you some kind of doctor?” His hands were shaking again, and he thought he might have to get up and pace soon. Wishing he had something to do, he instead talked with this unfamiliar but very helpful neighbor. 

“No,” Mitchell murmured. “Sometimes I wish I was.”

“Pause for analysis.” Compressions paused, and he watched as one firefighter traded places with the medic who’d been performing them. “Asystole. I want sodium bicarb now and another epi right after. Oxygen is up to ninety-three. Jim, come swap with me. I’m going to suction her.”

The firefighter started chest compressions as soon as the word “asystole” was out of the lead’s mouth. Graham realized that since they’d intubated Stella, the compressions didn’t stop at thirty. The firefighter pushed hard and fast at the same rate as before, Stella’s belly moving in sync with his hands. Instead of a mask pressed to her face, they’d attached a bag to the end of her breathing tube and squeezed it regularly, at a much slower rate than the chest compressions. 

Graham ran over the moment she choked. Was it his fault? Had he made her laugh, knowing she’d just put a piece of candy in her mouth? Was it his expectation that she keep up her end of the conversation that made her draw breath at the wrong moment? He saw her face staring up at him after he laid her on her back and started pumping her abdomen. Terrified, eyes bulging, tears and snot and saliva running down her face. Her body jerking each time he plunged his hands into her stomach, nails clawing at her throat and his arms and the boards beneath her.

She’d held on so long. Long enough for help to arrive. People who seemed to know what to do. And yet it hadn’t been enough, and Graham watched her slip away, her body slowly changing as it reacted to the lack of breath and heartbeat. He’d felt a momentary flash of relief when Mitchell’s wife swept the disc of candy from Stella’s mouth, only to have the relief die a quick and bitter death. Everything had gone downhill from there.

Graham stood abruptly and walked a few paces down the boardwalk so he could see her face. The medic named Jim had her head in one hand, holding her head back at an angle. His other hand squeezed the giant bulb attached to the end of the tube. The tube itself jutted up from between her teeth. They’d secured it in place with medical tape wrapped around the tube and stuck to her face. Stella’s eyes were closed now, her lashes resting on her discolored skin. Her dark hair fanned out beneath her head, the curls tangled. At this angle, he could see the firefighter’s gloved hands pumping hard and fast, sinking her chest in the requisite inches before allowing it to recoil. Each time he thrust downward, her stomach bulged and her feet rocked. They had a blood pressure cuff wrapped around her left arm, and defibrillator pads stuck to her chest. The leads wound over to a display that Graham couldn’t interpret. Beeps and whooshes and thumping sounds filled the air. The medics surprised him by how little they spoke to each other.

“Pause for analysis,” the lead said, eyeing the monitor. The firefighter lifted his hands from Stella’s bruised chest. “V-fib. Charging to three-sixty, continue compressions until we are ready to shock.”

The firefighter snapped out a series of deep thrusts into Stella’s chest. 

“Alright, everybody off. Disconnect oxygen.” The firefighter lifted his hands, Jim disconnected the bag, and everyone backed away. The lead made a quick check around the group. “Clear. Administering shock.”

He pressed a button, and Stella’s torso flinched. Her head lolled to the side, toward Graham’s feet. Jim quickly righted her head and reconnected the bag as the lead leaned in and started chest compressions. Graham’s eyes rested on the man’s gloved, interlocked hands. They sank down and snapped back up over and over. Pump and pump and pump and pump, with her breasts exposed for everyone to see, wobbling endlessly. He couldn’t stop staring. Her chest crushed down, re-inflating again and again. The man’s shoulders bobbing as he pushed his weight down through his arms. Her abdomen rippling down into the open waistband of her pants. 

“Marked increase in tidal volume… pausing compressions,” the lead said abruptly, his eyes on the monitor. “Pulse check! Sinus rhythm on the monitor.”

To Graham’s surprise, multiple gloved hands plunged into Stella’s neck, wrists, and the crease of her thigh. Mitchell got up and joined him, gripping him by the shoulder. “‘Sinus’ means they got her pulse back, Graham.”

“Sinus confirmed,” the lead said. “Any attempts at breathing on her own?”

“She’s alive?” Graham asked, his voice gravelly. He looked from the monitor with its bouncing heart rhythm that he did actually recognize down to his wife’s face. She didn’t look any better, not yet. The only difference was that they weren’t having to beat her heart for her. 

“Get her prepped to go while I update her next-of-kin,” he heard the lead say. Graham let out a shuddering breath.

“Do you need us to drive you to the hospital?” Mitchell asked.

“Millie and I will take you, Graham.” That made sense. They were his next-door neighbors.

“I’ve given Amy my number,” he heard Mitchell’s wife say. 

Graham watched the lead medic approach. “You got her back,” he said, his face contorting with tears he was trying not to shed.

“Yes, sir.”

Graham doubled over, his hands grabbing his knees. He felt Mitchell grip his shoulder hard. His legs shook. “Hang on, Stella. I’m here…”

Mitchell

Fifteen minutes later, Mitchell and Larissa walked in silence back the way they’d come, her hand gripping his as tightly as he gripped hers. He let them in to their gated path, their steps growing faster and faster as though to carry them away from the previous scene.

When they finally spilled onto the grassy path that wove between flower beds, Larissa stopped and turned toward him, nearly crashing into his shoulder. Mitchell released her hand and wrapped his arms tight around her. He felt her chest heaving against him, her hands clutching at his shirt.

“Larissa…” he murmured, though he didn’t know what to say.

She tipped her head back, eyes wild and lips parted. Mitchell met her in a kiss that immediately deepened, her mouth opening for his tongue. Mitchell gathered the back of her dress in his hands, pulling up the skirt until he cupped her ass in his hands and pulled her tight against him. Her hands scrabbled for the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath and running up and down his back. One of her hands came around to the front to unfasten his belt and unbutton the fly. Larissa made quick work of the task, her dexterity making him grin. She ran her hands around his hips and then down the back of his pants and into his underwear, her nails digging lightly into his bare skin. 

Mitchell found the tie of her wrap dress and pulled it loose, letting the dress part in the front. He dipped his head and nibbled his way down her neck and along the tops of her breasts. Slipping his hands inside the dress, he reached around to unfasten her bra. Then he lifted her breasts free from the loosened cups and gathered the soft globes together so he could move quickly back and forth between her nipples, licking and sucking and biting. Larissa moaned and reached into his boxer briefs, pushing the fabric down and pulling his hardening cock free. She worked him with her hand, moving up and down and running her thumb over the head until he was rock hard and throbbing. 

He pushed her dress off her shoulders and let it puddle in the grass, followed quickly by her bra. She reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head. Their mouths met again in a needy kiss. Mitchell slipped his hand down into her underwear and found her wet, dragging some of that moisture up to her clit and massaging. 

“Mitchell!” she cried out, and then she pulled him down to the grass with her, her hair fanning out around her head. He stripped off her underwear, and she laid back, coaxing him to lie between her thighs. His belt jingled as he thrust against her, running the head of his cock up and down her slit. Her hips jerked up against him, seeking. Then he thrust home, sinking all the way to the hilt and groaning as she cried out. 

Mitchell began a forceful, punishing rhythm. Their bodies smacked together, Larissa’s breasts jerking and bobbing as his body met hers. She clawed at his back, letting out guttural moans and squeezing her eyes shut. He kissed her, their tongues thrusting against each other as she writhed beneath him. He grasped her hips for leverage, fingers curling into the soft flare of her body. 

Larissa gripped his shoulders, mewling, rising to meet him. Mitchell scooped one hand beneath her ass, shifting the angle and squeezing his own eyes shut when she threw back her head and cried out his name. She was close, she had to be close, she’d better be close—

He tore his eyes open, watching her as she came, her mouth falling open and a wail of pleasure tearing out of her. Larissa shook and spasmed beneath him and around him, and he followed, burying his face in her neck as he whited out with the force of his release. 

As their mutual spasms subsided, Mitchell held himself up on his elbows, surprised to feel himself trembling. Larissa, breathless from exertion, reached up and stroked her fingers through his hair. He knew he should get up, help her to her feet, and go inside. They could clean up and cuddle on their soft bed. Instead, he found himself unable to move, resting in the cradle of her pelvis. He dipped his head and kissed her beauty mark.

Larissa cupped his cheek and pressed her lips softly to his. Then she laid her head back in the grass and closed her eyes, the tension of the last forty-five minutes draining out of her. Mitchell gathered his fleeting energy and slipped his softening erection free. Then he bent and kissed the scars above her heart and down her arm.

Rolling to his side, he collapsed onto the grass. Mitchell gathered her close, slipping his arm over her stomach and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.

Larissa took a deep, slow breath and whispered: “I love you, too, Mitchell.”

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Drunk

Fandom: Castlevania

Characters: Adrian Fahrenheit Tepes/Alucard

Relationships: Adrian x reader

Note: I suck at titles

You walked through the dark hallway in hopes of finding your room. Even after months spent in Castlevania, you still couldn’t navigate through endless corridors even to your own space. You were confident you had walked through this particular hall three times now. Just when you were about to turn left, you heard a faint noise. You keened your ears to decipher the sound and concluded it must be someone's voice. There was only one person other than you who lived in the castle. You pushed the ornate doors to one of the drawing rooms ajar and found Adrian reclining in one of the lounge chairs.

He looked like he was posing for a painting, but then again, he always did. You knew Adrian was something more than a human but these small things which it showed, such as being in a state of constant elegance and poise, no matter the situation, still amazed you. He was lying on the comforter with his torso slightly turned to the back of the chair. One of his legs was stretched over the edge while the other one was bent at the knee. His right arm was hanging off the armrest while the other was holding an empty wineglass precariously perched between elegant fingers. How he didn’t splatter the red liquid on the pristine white shirt, which was unbuttoned to reveal almost the entirety of his chest, was a mystery to you. His head was buried in several pillows and golden tresses fell loosely down the chaise and around his face. He had a faraway look in his eyes and was mumbling something incoherently. When you stepped closer and had a chance to decipher his mumblings, you realized he wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. Poorly.

“…and the fish’s at the sea…they sway by me…” or whatever gibberish you were able to discern. Probably some tavern song he learned from Trevor. That moment he noticed you standing there, golden eyes squinting at you.

“Oh…hello-” A small hiccup found its way past his lips.

You were trying your best not to laugh but your mouth still twisted into a smile as you watched him cover his mouth in embarrassment.

“Pardon me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He sat up, or rather, tried to sit up as he swung his legs over the sofa. You attempted to help him, pressing your arm at his back. “Are you alright?” You tentatively asked him. You didn’t know what his life was like before you came in. He wasn’t willing to share many details about his past, but from the small pieces of information, you concluded he was living a very sad, lonely life. That sometimes resulted in evenings spent drinking away his sorrows.

He shooed your hands away. “Nothing is wrong. I’m a vampire, so I am particularly able to hic keep my countenance in place.”

At that time you were fully grinning at his efforts to remain decent in his drunken stupor. Of course. You thought to yourself while you watched him fix his collar as if to add modesty to the already gaping hole in his shirt. There, you could see the pink sliver of scar that ran across his entire torso, marring the otherwise flawless pale skin. What sort of fierce battle the powerful dhampir face to mark him in such way. Every time you caught sight of that scar, your heart clenched painfully at the thought of Adrian in pain. He snapped you out of your thoughts with his drunken ramblings.

hic “You astound me, did you know that?” He said out of the blue and you were staring at him in surprise. He continued, “You are hic …most incredible person I’ve ever met in my life.” He looked you in the face a desperate look in his eyes as if he needed you to understand his statement more than he needed his next breath. “I mean that I mean it,” he softly whispered. “You are unlike anyone that I’ve ever met in my life, he put his hand on your cheek, studying your features.

“I…expose myself… to you.” You looked at his opened shirt in panic. The last thing you need is to have the dhampir deep in his cups to start undressing in front of you.

Adrian noticed your frightened expression and realized he was misunderstood. With laughter, he added, “no, not like that. I mean emotionally,” he grabbed one of your hands and placed it on his chest, right above his heart. It seems alcohol also made him sentimental. “I bare my soul and you don’t run away. I‘m a vampire lord’s son, THE vampire lord’s son…and you’re not afraid of me…and we can go on walks…and talk…and…and…I’ve just never met anyone like you…” his words dissipated into silence.

hic

Oh, Adrian.

All this time you had no idea he harbored such thoughts in his mind. You had a feeling he was being courteous to you by letting you stay in his castle, but not overly caring for your presence. If you knew what these brief encounters you two shared meant to him…

“I’m rambling a little bit,” Adrian bowed his head in shame and dropped his hand from your cheek to cover his face with it.

“I’m ashamed that you’re seeing me…like this,” he gestured to his disheveled appearance.

You patted his arm with placating smile, “It’s alright Adrian, sometimes we all have our bad days.” Then, you draped one of his arms over your shoulders and took hold of his waist.

Some light stumbling, a few knocked candelabras, and plenty of hauling on your part later, you made it to his bed-chamber. Where was the floating when you need one? You let out a huff as you threw Adrian’s limp body on the bed and almost fell on top of him in the process. The close physical proximity the two of you shared when walking into his room was already enough to paint your cheeks a rosy hue. You threw a blanket over him and prepared to leave when you felt a hand grabbing your wrist. The dhampir was looking soberer now. Still holding your arm, he brought you closer to bed.

He propped himself on his elbows and looked into your eyes with more clarity than before, “I likely won’t remember any of this in the morning…but…,” he paused for a moment as if gathering the courage to finish the sentence.

“I…can I…kiss you? Just one time…”

You were taken aback by his words once more. He practically confessed to you earlier, and the thought of touching those soft, plush lips sounded tempting. You didn’t realize that you’d been inching closer to his face until you felt his wine-laced breath on your lips and by then, you were too lost in his eyes to pull away.

He tasted like the sweetest of vines. Soft and supple, his mouth danced hesitantly over yours. You were sure that no vinery in the world has vine more rare and luxurious than the one you’re tasting on his tongue. You pulled away and whispered to him “goodnight Adrian.”

He mumbled goodnight to you as well and fell asleep mid-sentence.

You chuckled to yourself, caressing his cheek. *Creatures of the night, what symphony they make…*you pondered as you listened to his soft snores.

[sincerely-sofie]

It took me a minute to finally get my notes straight so I could answer this— I hope it was worth the wait! I’ll give some bullet points of tips I use to help boost my production speed in addition to the strategies I use to try to keep characters consistent. Let’s get into it!

First up: How I draw faster!

Note that these mostly apply to digital art, as that’s my preferred medium.

If your art program has them, experiment with brush stabilization levels. My hands shake really bad, especially while I’m drawing, so I put a lot of effort into finding a stabilizer level that works with my need to control lines while also smoothing out the tremors in my hands. It’s made it so much easier to draw lines like I want to, and therefore lets me move on instead of redrawing the same line over and over again.

Creating templates for your art helps so much— setting up things like canvas size, color profile, DPI, background colors and images like the paper texture PNGs that I love to use ahead of time helps me get drawing faster, while I’m excited and inspired! Similarly, having a naming system for your art files is useful for speed as well as finding and organizing old pieces easier.

Having premade color palettes of local colors for characters is also super helpful for speed, as well as keeping characters on model :>

Personally, I use a single brush for lineart and rely on the selection tool and bucket fill for coloring when I actually bother to color things in. My lines are pretty loose nowadays, and the same goes for when I color things— I don't abide exactly by the lineart I draw, and get pretty messy with the selection tool and bucket fill!

I simplify character designs as much as possible— the standard design of a sigilyph, for example, is pretty complex. But I made Sen a lot simpler (and also forgot the spikes on her torso in this panel. Oops)

As for keeping characters on-model…

I’m very flattered that you feel otherwise, but I actually don't keep characters very on-model between different drawings— just look at the different ways I've drawn Ark below— however, I'm improving over time as I become more familiar with how I want to draw the characters! A big part of my process of keeping characters on model is drawing characters over and over to familiarize myself with how they should look through trial and error.

Learning common angles and poses I will draw characters in is very helpful for making sure they look consistent. As a bit of a downside, though, it makes wonkier angles stick out like a sore thumb! Drawing Ark with his head slightly angled downward was really hard, and I don't think I communicated it that well here:

I try to have the characters broken down into as many simple shapes that fit into each other as I possibly can, like Twig’s head (circle + rectangle snout + angled rectangle horn) Ark's hair (that weird bangs shape) and Dusknoir's upper body (beanbag shape / slightly elongated circle torso, arms coming out of his frill that comes in a very particular arcing line). This makes it way easier to draw characters quickly and consistently, because I can learn those lines and shapes and get the motion of drawing them into muscle memory.

Also, knowing the ways characters emote is like knowing cheat codes. Giving characters things like a signature comedic expression of shock or grin that they make when they're happy are very helpful!

The biggest tip I can give on the topic of keeping characters on-model (at least without model sheets— model sheets are THE way to go. Don’t be like Sofie and neglect those pieces of gold) is really just to practice. Build up familiarity with the shapes and proportions of characters, get a feel for how your hand and wrist moves to get the lines right.

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking about bea painting mary, again and again across the years, the change in bea's skill and in mary's demeanour easily allowing an observer to organize the pieces. bea learning blending and edge control, learning how to vary brush strokes and layer colours to add light and shadow, to give pieces dimension. mary's eyes softening, the tension ebbing from her shoulders, from her jaw, laugh lines pulling at a mouth that had been set grim for so long

she paints her in the aftermath. clumsy, at first, talking through her first few paintings while the brush is still resisting her, when the colors don’t wash together. a disharmony of hues, brushstrokes too blunt, too treacherously thin.

and, by some miracle, she’s not talking to herself. she feels ava sidle up behind her, hands slipping up under her shirt, taking a familiar path over a blunt crescent of scar tissue on her abdomen. linking her fingers loosely at bea’s midriff, up on the tips of her toes to see over her shoulder.

‘okay, talk me through it.’

this punctuated with a kiss to the nape of her neck, ava’s breath falling down past the collar of her shirt.

‘i’m’ - she loses herself a little in ava’s hands - ‘i’m trying to learn edge handling. it’s somewhat mathematical, i suppose, in that it’s about the relation between edges. you have to understand not only where you want to draw the eye, but also how. with the right technique, you can make some edges harder, sharper, or you can blur their boundaries.’

she’s working from sketches. precise, but lacking in flare. they’re spread out on the desk, drinking in the sunlight.

sketches of mary from so many angles. with her chin tilted up, eyes searching for sunset out the convent window. cleaning her shotguns or standing in a store sifting through tubes of paint.

(distracted then by a memory of ava sneaking her between rows of shelves while the owner stared grumpily at mary. whisper-hissing what are you doing?! as ava took down one of the acrylics and unscrewed the lid.

ava’s eyes dancing as she dabbed the barest drop of it onto beatrice’s nose. she could have dodged anyone else but this was ava, who is always and forever her weakness.

sighing, drifting in for an exasperated kiss. ava’s mouth tasted faintly of butter and honey, and beatrice pulled away without her breath, gasping. ‘we’re going to get into trouble.’

‘so? i like trouble.’)

beatrice takes out her canvas and she paints mary, trying to ignore the grief she keeps at the edge of her mouth - a shadow so razor-thin you can’t see it except in the washed-out light of sunset or the soft-footedness of dawn.

when beatrice sketches mary she finds herself drawing out each line in relation to something missing; an absence in the space beside mary, around which her body curves.

sometimes she’s halfway through painting a bruise onto the landscape before she stops. alway, then, the brushstrokes are certain. dynamic, drawing the eye in towards that blurry mass of half-remembered things.

ava tells her to keep going, when she finds her staring at another ruined canvas with the brush near to cracking in her fist.

stepping dainty through the apartment in her bare feet and an oversized t-shirt (lilith’s), stopping at bea’s easel. tracing her fingers over the dull purples that have blossomed as an aside from mary.

‘i don’t know bea. a bruise is just something that happens after an injury, and then it changes color. maybe you need to let it happen.’

so she does. layering dark blues under broken purples. using everything, to see what doesn’t work. oils, because she likes the thought of unearthing things layer by layer. the edges are all very sharp, only softening at the boundary line between mary and everything else.

phthalo blue and green, dioxazine purple with little hints of alizarin crimson inside. and maybe there is a second shape inside the cloud that rises up off of mary’s outline.

she’s imprecise, at first, more of an impression set against her sadness, but over weeks beatrice thins the layers and goes back again and again, adding and adding until ava drifts by one day, waits for bea to lower her brush before she takes her by the jaw.

they kiss so often but it’s always a dizzy thing, like the first daring stroke of color onto canvas.

and there she is, opened like a wound against the backdrop of her grief.

‘hi mary,’ ava says, speaking to the painting like it’s alive.

she reaches out, her hand a shape beatrice has learned to worship - that, the splay of ava’s fingers, the way her veins work over the back of her hand. the pad of her thumb and the heel of her palm. beatrice could paint her in the dark.

later she finds herself sitting at the kitchen table, staring at flecks of drying paint on her knuckles. a stripe of alizarin crimson following the soreness of overworked joints.

and there, a spot of blue that doesn’t brighten as ava comes over with a mug of cocoa and a bag of tiny marshmallows, dropping them one by one into bea’s cup. trying to coax language back out of her, and beatrice watches for one, two, three, four, five before she reaches out and finds the slender inside of ava’s wrist, thumb trailing over her scaphoid.

‘i love you.’ and from ava it’s a promise as much as a reminder.

beatrice makes a noise, manages to turn it into words.

‘love you too.’

ava gives herself a hot chocolate mustache and then, when they’ve settled into silence, when she’s watched bea tease marshmallows out of the mug with her tongue, she says, ‘i didn’t really understand what mary lost, what you lost in shannon. for a while it was just guilt. i didn’t want to understand, because then i’d have to feel bad about it.’

‘you don’t-’

‘no, i know. i’m just saying that the painting… it’s a good thing.’

mary cries when she sees it, ava phasing through the wall when the first tear falls, letting mary turn into beatrice’s arms.

she’s captured mary as she was years ago, leaning into shannon on the warm roof tiles. at peace, aglow, shielded by a dim halo of light. face upraised against a storm of bruise-blues threaded with that off-shade phthalo. silver shards and red strands and graying edges.

they miss her, together, and beatrice tells mary that the oil is only touch-dry, and it occurs to her that a painting is a bit like a wound. as with oils it’s a thing that opens and closes, building layers that have to fall away. like watercolour it feels out of control at first, but then beauty falls out of the disorder. sometimes the wayward drips only feel accidental.

sometimes the flaws are necessary.

and she does paint mary, again and again and again. consulting shannon’s old sketches, but painting always from memory. and gradually there’s the blending of colors and those soft and hard edges. that’s love, too, beatrice learns. bruising kisses and featherlight touch.

she learns, and one day there’s a painting of mary that they look at together. mugs of hot chocolate and mary joking ‘ah, she’s been training you’ when she watches bea flick a marshmallow out with the flat of her tongue.

blushing, and the painting sitting there as mary frowns and says, ‘why’d you never let me pose for you?’

beatrice, pausing with her whole body in that way that reminds mary of shannon.

‘i wanted to be good at painting from memory.’

‘why?’

and instead of answering immediately, beatrice leads mary into the spare room they’ve given over to storage. and there, lying along the far wall, are a dozen paintings of shannon.

dozing with her head in mary’s lap, or standing in the garden with dew dusting her ankles, painted mid-movement with her bō an umber blur.

'oh.' mary stands silhouetted against each scene. older now, and different, and still in love.

beatrice, aware that she's probing a wound, stepping up beside her. 'i just... i wanted to paint her.’

and memory is all that's left

mary turns, presses a kiss to bea's forehead, and they stand together surrounded by all that they've shared, and all that they've lost.

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Destiny & Deliverance: Chapter 9

Destiny & Deliverance Masterlist ||| Dieter Bravo X OFC New as of 7/28/2023

SUPPORT YOUR CREATORS. REBLOGGING & COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED.

Series Rating: Explicit (18+)

Series Summary: Natalia Cohen is experiencing major life changes, beginning with leaving an emotionally abusive husband. She is learning how to navigate life on her own while dealing with high functioning anxiety, depression, and mild PTSD. Everything is looking up for her. She is a highly respected consultant for a major LA firm, has her best friend, Lauren, by her side, and is on her path to healing. Everything changes when she meets a handsome and broken stranger on a work trip. He turns out to be a well-known actor, with a heart-breaking past. They quickly develop a connection that will forever alter their lives. 

Warnings: Themes dealing with mental health, emotional trauma, alcohol use, and discussions about suicide. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn type of story. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Quote: “He says he’s a friend from New York.”

The next day, I had to go into the office for a few meetings with staff to catch up on where they were with their accounts. I was actually happy about this because I knew it would be a good distraction. I threw my blow-dried wavy hair up into a loose updo, applied a small amount of make-up, and I got dressed in a black pencil dress and blazer. Then headed out the door for my short commute.

Around eleven fifteen, my office phone rang. I heard my assistant, Kerrie, yell that it was Lauren. I picked the phone up.

“Don’t you ever get tired of talking to me?” I said as I answered.

“Don’t be silly. Also, I love your new assistant. I think we’re going to be besties. So, I was thinking…we should go grab some lunch.”

“Well, I’m happy you feel that way and it sounds like I need to tell her to ignore your number when it pops up.”

Lauren laughed.

“As for lunch, I don’t have enough time to go out. I have a meeting at 1:00.”

“Boooo. You suck. Do you need me to bring you anything?”

Before I could answer, Kerrie walked into my office, leaving the door slightly ajar. Her eyes were wide with a shocked look on her face. She was doing a small wave with her hands to get my attention.

“Hold on Lauren, what is it, Kerrie?”

“Umm, there is a gentleman here asking if you’re free for lunch?”

“A gentleman?” I said, confused. 

“He says he’s a friend from New York.”

“A friend from New York?” I said, still confused. 

She watched the realization set in on my face. I momentarily lost my words. She leaned over toward me and whisper-yelled, “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him!” Meanwhile, I could hear Lauren on the phone asking very loudly who was here. She had clearly pieced it together from the tone of her voice. 

I sat motionless, feeling my heart rate pick up. My breathing turned shallow as I broke out into a sweat. I shook my head from side to side and took a deep breath trying to pull myself together. 

“Get rid of him. I can’t, I have a meeting.” I said sternly. 

I heard Lauren shouting from the phone, “NO! What the hell are you doing! GO WITH HIM!”

Kerrie stood stunned, surprised at my answer. “I can reschedule it for you. It’s just Steve.”

“No. I can’t go.”

Kerrie didn’t move. 

“Is there a problem? Handle it please.” I said out of frustration. 

Lauren was still yelling nonsense on the phone while Kerrie just stared at me, shaking her head.

“I can’t tell him no,” she whispered with a stubborn look on her face.  

The door started to inch open further as Dieter slowly walked in, immediately noticing the phone a few inches from my ear. My eyes met his. He paused and mouthed “sorry” once he realized he was potentially interrupting something. Kerrie’s head swiveled back and forth between us, waiting for someone to say something. I could feel my face tighten and my brows draw together. I’m pretty sure I looked pissed more than anything, but it was actually pure panic. Dieter instantly looked beyond nervous. Lauren was still yelling on the phone, asking me what was happening. I was suddenly feeling over-stimulated between the three of them and couldn’t focus. I put the phone all the way back to my ear.

“Shut up. I’ll call you back.”

I could hear her telling me I better talk to him as I moved the phone away to hang it up. 

I looked away from him, lowering my head. I noticed my hands were starting to shake. I gripped the arm rest of my chair tightly in an effort to make them stop. 

“What are you doing here?” I said in a rather assertive tone, trying to keep it together. I glanced back up at him. He looked like he was about to say something, but snapped his mouth shut. My tone had taken him off guard. He glanced over at Kerrie, looking slightly panicked himself. 

“Mr. Bravo stopped in to see if you’re available for lunch.” 

I gave her a pointed look. 

“I have a meeting, so no, I can’t. I’m sorry.” I replied as I looked back over to him.

“Steve actually requested to reschedule it earlier this morning. I just haven’t updated your calendar yet.”  

My eyes darted back toward Kerrie. She gave me a wicked smile before continuing. 

“So, you’re actually free for the next two and a half hours.”

I exhaled, then touched the fingers of my right hand to the side of my right eye that had started to twitch. 

“Ok, thank you for that update, Kerrie. I guess I’m going out to lunch then. I’ll be back shortly.” My tone was clipped. I gave her a tight smile, dismissing her. She continued to give me a wicked grin as she walked out of the office, leaving Dieter and I alone. 

We sat in silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact. I didn’t know what to say to him. This whole situation had caught me off guard and I was not handling it well at all. Yet I still managed to notice how amazing he looked in his dark fitted jeans and black t-shirt. He had sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt.  

“I’m sorry, I probably should have called instead of just showing up.”

I continued to stare at him, unblinking. 

“I mean, I did try to call several times, but I chickened out and hung up on whoever answered.” he added, sheepishly.  

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, reached down to grab my purse and phone, and walked toward the door.

“Come on. Let’s go,” was the only response I was able to give him. 

I walked down the hallway, noticing several of the ladies staring. 

“Don’t you all have work to do.” I said loudly, looking around as I walked through. They quickly pretended to busy themselves while giving sideways glances. 

Dieter was following behind me as we went toward the back exit to the staff parking area. When I pushed the door open, Aubrey stepped back from the outside of the door to let me exit. I walked out and her eyes immediately shot up to Dieter, then back to me with a questioning look. 

“I’m going out for lunch. I’ll be back at some point,” I said dismissively, walking past without really looking at her. I heard Dieter give a polite hello as he walked past, still following closely behind my brisk pace. 

I walked over to my vehicle, hitting the unlock button on the handle twice to unlock both doors, then we both got in. 

I started the car, then sat there for a moment and sighed. 

“I have a feeling I’m going to face an inquisition when I get back.”

Dieter let out a small laugh, but then stifled it, like he wasn’t sure if it was ok to laugh at it. 

“Did you have a place in mind you wanted to go to?” I asked him quietly. I stared out of the front window. Not really looking at anything. Trying hard to keep my breathing calm. 

“No. I mean I noticed a place down on the corner if you want to go nearby.”

“I’m not going there.” I said, still staring out the front window. I could feel him looking at me. I slowly turned my head to look at him, not exactly meeting his eyes. I couldn’t. 

“I know the owner. I got him fired from his previous place of employment, unintentionally. The company downsized on my recommendation. He doesn’t like me much.”

“Oh…it sounds like hanging out with you might be kind of dangerous,” he said, laughing nervously. 

He was trying to ease the tension, but I was so wound up, that wasn’t going to happen. I just gave him a small smile and put the car in reverse. 

I picked a small cafe about 10 minutes away that typically wasn’t very busy at this time of day. Lauren and I were regulars, so we usually got pretty good service. They let us sit out on the small back patio that was enclosed by tall hedges. We were the only ones sitting outside, which was probably a good thing, because I didn’t know what was about to happen. 

I reverted to old habits, ordering a Long Island Iced tea, water, and a salad with grilled chicken. I had a feeling that I was going to need some liquid courage to get through this conversation. Once we finished ordering and got our drinks, we were silent for a few minutes. Neither of us really knowing where to start. I could feel that my jaw was clenched, I could only imagine what my face looked like. He finally broke the silence. 

“Look, I’m sorry I just showed up. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“How did you even know where I worked?”

“Google.”

“I never even told you my last name.”

“I.. I saw it on your security badge. I-It was on your nightstand. I swear I wasn’t snooping or anything.” 

I shook my head up and down, I had no argument with that. It has been out in plain view.

His hands caught my attention. They were bigger than I remembered, but the feel of them was still ingrained in my memory. He had the fingers on both hands tracing the grooves on the glass of his drink. He was obviously anxious too. Without thinking about it, my hand went up to my collar bone and started rubbing as I looked around. This was so fucking awkward. He broke me out of my thoughts by grabbing my hand and pulling it to the table. I looked at his hand sitting atop of mine, then pulled mine away gently, sitting it in my lap. 

“Did I do something to make you mad in New York? I don’t understand why you’re acting so pissed at me.”

I propped my elbows on the table, putting my fingers on either side of my temple, rubbing, with my eyes shut. I sat like that for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts before answering.

“I’m not mad at you. You did absolutely nothing wrong. I’m just…kind of on autopilot mode right now… trying to keep myself in check. You did catch me off guard showing up at my office. You’re the last person I expected to walk through that door today.”

I opened my eyes to look at him and our eyes met for the first time since leaving the office. I noticed the sadness was there again and he looked like he hadn’t slept well in some time. I felt even more guilt for treating him so badly today. I continued speaking.  

“I didn’t have time to prepare for this, so my anxiety kind of spiked on me because I didn’t know what to expect given everything that happened. This is just me trying to manage it. I actually feel like shit for not reaching out to you afterwards. I completely ghosted you; I know.” 

“Honestly, that makes me feel a lot better. The way you were looking at me when I walked in, I thought you wanted to rip my head off. I think I officially got the full dose of the ‘fucking scary’ side of you.” He chuckled at himself. I finally broke a smile too, which caused him to visibly relax some. 

“I’m sorry, I know, I really do need to work on that. My face kind of has a mind of its own though.” I shrugged. 

“So do you want to talk about why you ghosted me?”

“That’s a little more complicated…”

The waiter appeared at that time to drop off our food and refill our drinks. After he walked back inside, Dieter picked up the conversation.

“I’ll be the first to admit that whatever that was in New York freaked me out a little. I’ve never experienced something that…intense before. Honestly, when I didn’t hear from you initially, I was kind of relieved.”

I raised my eyebrows at him, trying to figure out where this was going. He noticed the look on my face.

“BUT, after a few days, I was actually a little hurt by it. I felt like we…I dunno…maybe it's a delusion, but I felt like we connected. You know what I mean?”

I continued to stare at him, trying to digest what he was saying. My face giving nothing away. He looked down at his glass before he continued.

“At the same time though, I’m not sure I’m in a place that I can process and deal with whatever that was. At least I definitely wasn’t at the time. I felt like my fucking soul had been ripped out of me and laid bare in front of you. It was a lot for me and something I just wasn’t prepared for or have ever experienced.”

He understood it more than I ever thought he could. He felt it too. I could feel my chest tightening as my eyes fought to hold back the tears that wanted to fall. I took a deep breath reaching up to grab one of his hands away from his glass. He relaxed further and I immediately felt better as a result. 

“Dieter, I…I actually get it. You put that into words better than I ever could have. I felt the same way. It was…overwhelming and scared me too. I think that’s the biggest reason I just left it all in New York. I couldn’t process it. I was seriously so fucked up at that point from my marriage, I didn’t even know who I was anymore. And to be clear, hooking up with random people is not something I have ever done before, so I was a little shocked and embarrassed at myself for that.” 

“I was a little shocked at myself too because that isn’t something I do on the regular either. I was worried you thought I was a big man whore after that.”

“Why, because you’re currently one of the biggest celebrities in the world right now and could have any woman you wanted at any time?”  

He sucked in air between his teeth and gave me a tight smile. 

“So, you figured that out huh?” He laughed nervously. 

“Hard to miss your face plastered all over billboards.”

“I’m sorry, I should have been honest about that. I was kind of thrilled by the idea of someone not knowing who I was. It helped me feel a little more at ease with you.”

“I figured. I won’t hold that against you.” I smirked at him.

“So how are you doing these days,” he asked. 

“Well, I’m still kind of a mess, but I’m better than I was. I’m still working on things though.”

“Same.”

We sat in silence for a moment, both unsure of what to do with that information. I had to admit to myself that it was good to see him and good to know that he wasn’t mad at me. I watched him for a moment as he released my hand and started to shuffle his food around, my mind playing through all the scenarios this situation could lead to. I was more open to some of them than I would have thought. Dieter raised his head, giving me a questioning look.

“What’s going through that mind of yours right now?”

I gave a small laugh, “What isn’t?”

I leaned my head into my hand that was propped on the arm of my chair and shook my head, inhaling deeply. I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Dieter smiled back at me; he looked as deep in thought as I was. 

“How about we just start over? Try to forget about New York. Clearly neither of us are really in a place for anything too serious, but that doesn’t mean we can’t just be friends. Right?” he asked.   

“You’re seriously going to be able to forget about what happened in New York?” I asked with doubt in my voice and a small smile on my face. 

“Well, no. It’s impossible. Those images aren’t going anywhere, but I can behave myself and just be here for you. However you’ll have me.”

I laughed at him. At least he was honest. I wasn’t going to be able to get those images out of my head either. 

“Do you think we can really be ‘just friends’ after that?”

“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like you’re supposed to be in my life. It’s a feeling I can’t shake, and I think we can be good for each other. If it means it’s just as friends, then fine. I’m cool with that. I honestly didn’t expect anything more and I would love to have at least one friend that’s supportive of me getting my shit together.”  

“Alright, so we’re gonna do the friend thing then,” I agreed. Feeling a sense of relief and a little excitement at the thought of him being a constant in my life. He did have a way of making me feel more relaxed. He nodded in agreement.

“So can you text me your number now?” he asked with a smirk on his face and a playful glint in his eyes.   

“About that…I actually deleted your number as soon as I got on the plane in New York.” 

I covered my face with one of my hands, then gave him an apologetic look through my fingers. He feigned shock.

“I knew if I didn’t, I would’ve called you,” I added. 

“Damn, you are ruthless. You didn’t even give it a few days,” he said in disbelief as he shook his head at me. Then he reached over to pick up my phone, quickly held it up in front of my face to unlock it, then went to typing as I gave him a dirty look. 

“Excuse you.” I said as he started to laugh, eyes crinkling as he did so.   

“I’m putting my number in your phone again.” 

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. 

“I’m also making sure I have your number this time. No more ghosting.”

“Oh, trust me, I can still ghost your ass if I wanted to,” I said laughing. 

“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The remainder of our lunch was filled with jokes and laughter. It was almost like we picked up where we left off, minus the flirting and sex. I was acutely aware that this was meant to be a friendship and I wanted to be cognizant of that line. I couldn’t cross it again.

Once we finished eating, we drove back to my office. He walked me to the back entrance, then stopped.

“Is it ok to give you a hug?” he asked timidly. I laughed at him and nodded yes. He wrapped his arms around me completely, pulling me in close. His face was in my hair, and I could tell he inhaled deeply. I wrapped my arms around his back and buried my face in his neck, taking in his scent. We stayed like that for a minute, before he kissed the top of my head, then pulled away. Our actions always saying what our words wouldn’t. We had missed each other, more than either of us would like to admit. 

He smiled at me before turning to leave. “I’ll text you later this evening,” he yelled as he walked away. I watched him jog across the street to where his vehicle was parked. Once he reached his car, I went inside. 

When I walked in, Aubrey and Kerrie were standing in the reception area. They paused and looked at me. They had been watching us through the window. I could tell they wanted to ask me a million questions. I stared at them and rolled my eyes.

“He is just a friend. Don’t get any crazy ideas.”

“That hug lasted a little longer than socially acceptable for a friend,” Aubrey said with a smirk on her face. 

“He’s a friend I haven’t seen in a while,” I shrugged. 

From the looks on their faces, you could tell they didn’t believe me. 

“Anyway, I have things to do, so excuse me,” I said, walking to my office.   

My last few afternoon meetings dragged on painfully slow. Through all of them, Lauren was texting me, asking for updates. She was going to be mad that I made her wait all day. It was driving her insane.  

When I pulled into the driveway around five, Lauren was there waiting on me. I should’ve figured. I just laughed to myself and shook my head. I pulled into the garage as she got out of her car and followed me inside. I smiled at her and gave her a quick “hi” as she stared at me expectantly.  I didn’t say anything else as I walked inside and sat my things down, keeping my phone in my hand. I went to the kitchen and pulled one of those cold coffee drinks out of the refrigerator and offered her one. She was still staring at me expectantly and did not respond. 

“Can I help you with something?” I asked her, with a sarcastic tone.

“You have GOT to be kidding me. Come on, out with it! What happened?”

My phone pinged in my hand, and I glanced down at it without answering her. I chuckled, seeing the name that popped up. He didn’t list his number under his name. He put it under “Guy from the Bar”. I unlocked my phone to read his message, still ignoring Lauren.

DIETER: You home from work yet?

ME: I’m sorry, I am not sure which guy from this bar this is. Can you clarify? 

DIETER: You’re HILARIOUS. Figured I would get creative to make it harder for you to delete as soon as I was out of sight. 

ME: Now who’s the funny one…but to answer your question, yes, I’m at home. 

DIETER: Can I call you? I hate texting. 

ME: Yes.

I glanced up at Lauren who was looking at me like I had three heads. 

“What is happening right now?” she asked. I smiled and shrugged as I walked toward the table to sit down. My phone rang and I answered. 

“Hello mysterious stranger from the bar,” I said with a laugh. I could hear him chuckling and I felt it to my core. I was getting butterflies. 

“Hello. What are you up to?”

“I am sitting here with Lauren, who looks like she wants to choke me because she has no idea what’s going on.”

He laughed again while Lauren flipped me the bird as she sat down in front of me. 

“Who is that?” she mouthed to me. I waved my hand at her dismissively. She sat back in her seat, crossing her arms and eyed me grumpily.

“So, does Lauren know about me?” 

“Yes, somewhat. She knows we met in New York. She’s the one I was on the phone with when you came into my office today.”

Lauren smacked her hand on the table with force while saying, “I KNEW IT” very loudly. Dieter heard her and started laughing again. 

“That makes sense, I was wondering who you told to shut up.”

We both laughed at my earlier behavior. 

“So, what are you doing tomorrow evening? Want to hang out?” 

“Well, Lauren and I usually have dinner and hang out on Fridays.”

Lauren perked up, “Invite him over, I wanna meet him,” she whisper-yelled at me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that or not. I gave her a warning look.

“What did she say?” he asked, chuckling.

“She wants me to invite you over to hang out with us. Do you think you can handle that? I’m warning you; she’s probably going to interrogate you.”  

“I think I can handle it. What time?”

“We usually eat around six, but you can come earlier if you want. She usually helps cook or just hangs out until it’s ready.” 

“Cool. I’ll do that. Can’t wait to meet Lauren. I think she and I will get along great.”

“Yeah, that’s my concern,” I said laughing. “You two better not gang up on me. I can see it happening already.”

They both laughed. 

“Well, I’ll let you go since you have company, but I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Can I bring anything?

“Just yourself.”

“Alright, text me your address. See you tomorrow.”

“Will do, bye.”

After I hung up, I sent him a quick text with my address. Lauren was still eyeing me.

“So are you going to tell me what happened? Clearly it went well.”

“Just so we’re clear, he and I are only friends. Starting over. So, no suggestive jokes about me and him ok? I don’t want this to be weird.”

“Just friends? Really? Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.”

She rolled her eyes at me and laughed. 

“What are you gonna wear tomorrow?” 

She was gauging my reaction. I shrugged. 

“I don’t know, something comfortable. Let’s keep things chill. I’m not trying to impress the guy. Pretty sure I already did that.”

I gave her a wicked smile at my joke. 

“Oh, you’ve got jokes now. Ok. I like the funny you. Keep those coming.”

My phone pinged with a text message and Lauren saw the name pop up. She started laughing. 

“Is that him?”

“Yes, he said that’s how he put his name in my phone so it would be harder for me to find and delete it as soon as he was out of sight.” 

She continued to laugh as I opened the message to check it. It was a screenshot of a map with directions. I stared at it for a minute, my brows knitting together, slightly confused. Another message came through. 

DIETER: You literally live four streets over from me. 

ME: No fucking way.  

DIETER: Apparently so. LOL

ME: That isn’t weird at all. 

Lauren was looking at my confused expression. I sat my phone down. 

“I don’t think I want to tell you this.”

“What? Why?!”

“Because you’re going to start going on about fate or whatever again.” 

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t going to let it go. I sighed, before giving a slight chuckle. 

“He lives four streets over from me.” 

“I can’t believe you all haven’t run into each other before now. I’m telling you, read the signs woman. The ‘powers that be’ have a plan.”

I shook my head, “Stop that.” 

I got up and started straightening up the kitchen some. I should probably give the rest of the house a quick once over, I thought. Lauren got a text as I was running through everything I needed to do. She stood up saying she had to go, mumbling something about having to close the shop that evening because somebody’s kid was sick. As she was leaving, she mentioned how she couldn’t wait to meet her new bestie tomorrow and was looking forward to giving me hell. I gave her the bird as she pulled the door shut behind her, cackling loudly. 

I spent the rest of the evening cleaning and prepping for the following day. I had to admit that I did feel nervous about him coming to my house. There was something so personal about him being in my space. You can tell a lot about a person from seeing where they live. I wondered what he would learn about me. 

Even though I tried to play it cool with Lauren about what I was going to wear, I was completely stressed about it. I finally settled on dark denim shorts, a white tank, with a loose fit light purple long-sleeved mesh top. It was casual, but cute. 

Around ten, I finally decided to call it a night and settled down in bed to watch some TV. Soon after, my phone pinged with a text message.

DIETER: Wanted to send you a quick good night message. Friends can do that, right? Can’t wait to see what you’re cooking for me tomorrow. 

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I wasn’t sure how well this ‘just friends’ thing was going to work out, given our history, but we needed it to. At least for now. 

ME: Pretty sure that is acceptable for friends to do…good night. Make sure you rest up. You’ll need it for the interrogation that is sure to come. 

He sent me back a thumbs up and a sleeping face emoji.

I laughed at him before setting my phone down. I set the TV timer and turned my nightstand light off. It didn’t take long before I was out.     

Next Chapter

Tag List: @rhoorl

[faerywhimsy]

Vamptember Day 24 -FREE DAY

I am a huge fan of book to TV adaptations, so much so that a portion of my Honours thesis was actually dedicated to that particular portion of media.

The Hunger Games books and movies offer a perfect example of so much of what I love about it; a series of books that are from a limited 1st person perspective, then expanded out into a series of not just three but four movies to make room for perspectives that are hinted at within the books, yet given no explicit voice given the nature of the perspective choice.

But even a faithful adaptations can turn sour is when enough of the central themes of a story get overturned over the course of a longer running series. I’m thinking Game of Thrones here. That first season was almost a play by play of the first novel. Things like the Red- and Purple Weddings later occurred more or less as expected, though timelines of surrounding events were fudged. There were some really cool graphics made on this topic back in the day.

And then... well, we got the last 3 seasons, didn't we? What a disappointment (sorry Jacob, you're an actor capable of doing things that are very subtle, but that show let you down).

Reimaginings can likewise be good or bad, but they have built into them a bit more leeway. Where these usually turn sour is around the time they fully abandon the source material. This is mostly your ‘loosely inspired by’ stuff. It’s putting a name on the door that’s generated to sell tickets. I’m trying to think of a good example of this, but the stuff I haven’t liked doesn’t tend to stick in my head because I’ve usually moved on by then. At their strongest, reimaginings bring well thought out and updated content to a fandom.

BBC's reimagining in Sherlock was innovative when they brought Conan Doyal's characters into the modern day. They succeeded in doing that because what they kept sacred, at least to begin with, was the relationships between the characters and the overarching themes that came from that. By doing only those two things, they were able to reinvent satisfying ways to touch on the main plot points of the original stories.

That team also, sadly, offered a cautionary tale of what happens when such a project deviates too far from its source material.

The reimagining in AMC's Interview with the Vampire is far more ambitious and therefore complex in what it proposes, with an equal half of its story existing in a space that will be close to what was written in the books. I genuinely hope they end up succeeding with their ambition. Part of that is that it's not pretending to be any sort of directly faithful adaptation.

The first hint? The entire premise of S1: It’s 2022 and Louis invites Daniel for a second interview. That just didn't occur in the books.

This one change brings the story straight into the modern day, which is easily arguable as something needed for a series that released its first book in 1976. While I love a nostalgic- or period piece as much as the next person, I’m not disappointed by this.

This is the kind of change that’s a deal breaker. It stands to give new watchers the introduction they need into the world at the same time as giving something entirely unexpected to old fans. In other words, it’s narrative gold to someone like me.

The reasons I love it are completely different to what draws me to a straight like for like with added scenes adaptation as outlined above in Hunger Games. By changing the timeline and beginning straight out of the gate, it means that you can change everything.

And, god, they do.

Okay, obviously not everything. Character names, places, even dates on their own aren’t enough to hold the narrative cohesion of a reimagining if it doesn’t hold tight enough to the central themes of the source material to maintain that the original plot points still make sense to come to pass. WHICH S1 DOES.

I have so much interest in dissecting how they’ve so far kept hold of (most of) the themes and yet, in only 7 episodes, have already told a story with so many different details. And, if I’m gonna be totally honest, TVC is perfectly primed for exactly this kind of adaptation simply because, as a collection, these books have never been consistent (thank you, Anne for this dubious and ongoing gift).

There has been a single possible inconsistency with themes that did give me some cause for concern, but it’s also not the one that most people seem concerned by. So, let’s get into the analysis!

Armand:

I’m beginning with this character, because a supercut on YouTube I finally got around to watching made me realise we got a total of 15 minutes of Assad on screen in the 7 episodes of S1, and less than 5 of those are of him in the named character. So it’s an easy place to start.

Obviously, there is little difference that can be pointed to in those fewer than 5 minutes other than the differences in physical appearance than described (17 y/o, red hair, brown eyes) in the books, and that’s what I’ve seen a lot of discourse on thus far. That, and what on earth this Louis had on him to convince him it was a great play to pretend to be Rashid in front of Daniel. (He is a theatre kid, I guess…)

There is however a short detail in The Vampire Armand after Armand goes into the sun, however, that briefly describes his eyes as being orange (maybe amber?) as he starts to heal, and therefore the choice on making Assad’s eyes this colour in the series becomes an interesting detail to me.

Also, let’s be honest – if you’re gonna make the creative choice to have both Sam and Jacob in these luminescent contacts, but leave Assad’s natural throughout… well, I mean, what is being said on that side of the coin if that’s the choice being made?

On the side of details they kept AND CHANGED at the same time, my favourite for this character continues to be the below image that shows the physical resemblance between one Assad Zaman and, yes, a different Botticelli painting than any referenced in the books, but ultimately a Botticelli painting all the same. We're good to go!

Louis:

I don’t really want to focus too long on the obvious differences between Louis the slave owner (books) and Louis the pimp (series) except to say they are there. As are Louis’ signature green eyes.

However, that is where the resemblance ends. And I’m not just talking about physical.

In Louis’ case, the biggest difference I clocked and remarked in DMs up till now that—as a fanfic writer of both books and series fandom—Louis’ was the voice that consistently gave me most trouble to move between. I literally could not convincingly write him in any series fic at the same time as I was writing my mammoth long fic How They Get to Trinity Gate.

And it was not the fact that Louis was white in the books that tripped me up.

Another big thing is the change to when Louis and Lestat meet. This changes things for Lestat's character a bit as well, but I think it's more clear at this point the ways in which Lestat being set up as that much stronger and older than Louis on first meeting has had an impact on their story. Armand will be that much older than Louis as well, but what's a difference of a handful of decades when Armand already was that much older than Louis canonically?

As a linguist, I remain most fascinated by the dialogue changes that have been given to Louis’ character, particularly in historic New Orleans scenes. When reading Interview With the Vampire, there’s not a great deal of difference to the voice of Louis in the present vs the past that he gives to the boy interviewer. In the series, however? The difference in character from past to present is as unavoidable as it is riveting. To me, that alone offers so many details about who Louis is as a person, the disparity between Louis and a Lestat who obviously still gets to keep his book canon French accent.

In terms of how these changes effected the story as Louis relates it to Daniel, however? I mean, for the most part, the Louis I watched was equally convincing as he hit the main plot points his character needed to hit to stay true to the source material. That makes it a successful update to me!

Daniel:

Daniel is a laugh, both in the books and in the series. But, though the series has held on to the aspect of his sense of humour from the books, that humour is depicted in a completely different way.

Self deprecating, for the most part, or actually laugh out loud funny is what we see of Daniel in the books. Occasionally his anger gets the better of him, but for the most part he’s more docile—or possibly just as drunk—as many of us would be in similar circumstances. Apart from, say, when he’s calling Armand an immortal idiot.

The humour we get from Daniel in the series, though? That’s cutting. Yes, aimed to slice others up, especially when he’s deflecting from himself, but also the stuff that's made to cut through bullshit.

He’s had another 50 years to hone it, and none of them were lost to madness or absence from himself. No, this Daniel has been present every year of the 69 that have been given to him, and it shows. His wit has grown up with him, because he has grown up in a way he never got to in the books.

Something else to consider, however, is the fact that this Daniel is half David.

Actually, it's more than half. We got less of Daniel in S1 than we got of Armand. When I say this, I mean the only parts from the book canon we've got were in a couple of flashback scenes and the recording Eric listens to, then plays in Dubai in Episode 1. Only Luke Brandon Field has so far shown me anything close to a faithful version of Daniel, and I've no doubt this actor is destined to continue to follow that trajectory throughout future seasons.

That leaves me with wondering who we've got in the present from Eric? And that's David Talbot who, it turns out, is another canonical interviewer within The Vampire Chronicles. You may remember him as the guy who interviewed Armand, a version of which we're also set to see in S2.

David, when we first see him in Queen of the Damned, is someone interested in vampires not as puff portraiture but as a reality. He’s an older man coming to acceptance he’s near the end of his life and career. And he does not want to be made into a vampire.

Louis: A still hand, time to watch your daughters marry. Daniel: And divorce. And die.

Sound familiar?

Let me explain something of what I suspect went into this decision behind the scenes: The character of Daniel is underdeveloped in the books to say the least, something I’ve written about already during Vamptember. There was never going to be enough of the book character of Daniel in AMC's version to satisfy every book reader. Anne simply didn't give us enough of him, and fandom remains wildly divided in how to interpret him.

By contrast, David was a character readers got far too much of because of Anne's attempt to shoe horn us into a different romantic interest for Lestat. He's just not as popular. Imagine for a second the reception if the early promotional material had named Eric as playing 'David' instead of 'Daniel'? It's a marketing mislead, and one that's paid off.

When setting up the core "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf"-esque central cast, the creative team over at AMC did something very clever, I think. They pulled over characteristics of another underdeveloped character from the same canon in order to flesh their version of Daniel out. We'll almost certainly see a body swap, and that's where the David, and Eric's, part of the story will end.

In conclusion, I will absolutely eat my hat if we see someone called David Talbot walking around in this series ever ever. And, when it comes to the eventual plot line of making Daniel a vampire, they've set up three good options in front of them (and another example where we old fans have no way to expect WHICH WAY IT WILL GO):

He'll be coerced into it (David, canonically by Lestat, but in this universe almost certainly Armand)

He'll change his mind and demand it again (Daniel in true Devil's Minion style)

He'll almost die and someone will have to turn him (Daniel, yes, but also Jesse)

Two of these methods of becoming a vampire from the early books canonically turn a Talamasca character, and I definitely have some on-a-tangent theories there, given the presence of Talamasca characters already in Mayfair Witches.

The only thing they’ll need to change from the books here is Armand being Daniel/David’s foil, instead of Lestat. And, look, they’ve already positioned Louis right there as the love of his life in the face of the love triangle that’s sure to follow in the series, as in the books.

Fareed (bonus):

This is further to my passing body swap comment in the last section, but I really wanted to add:

Why include this minor character front and centre as early as S1? Why then have him explicitly say he is not there not once but three separate times as part of his only dialogue?

Fareed: That is not my voice. And I'm not here. [...] I am not here. [...] I'm not here. [...] Pleasure never meeting you, Mr. Molloy.

Is this not explicitly designed to have the same effect as telling a person not to imagine a pink elephant? Not to mention, it's as meta as fuck. That's Schrödinger's Vampire right here.

So why do these things if not to bring to the front of people's minds not only that the entire of Anne Rice's canon is free game in this reimagining? But that Fareed in particular is a character who's the first of his kind in the Chronicles; a scientist who can and does invent a clone?

A clone that might just end up looking very much like Luke Brandon Field?

Why, also, spend so much time and promotional material on another actor we see for about the same short space of time within S1? Minute for minute, I reckon we get about the same amount of screen time here with Gopal Divan as we do with Luke.

That, and they both happen to appear for the first time in Episode 6. Just saying.

In terms of canon deviation, if there was a physical description of Fareed in the books, I honestly don't remember it. He was just one of Anne's many, many characters that were a) created to function as a plot point, and b) forgotten beyond the original purpose he was created for.

As long as they manage to keep Fareed interested in the vampiric sciences, I honestly don't see there being any problems.

Lestat:

Saving the best till last, am I right?

Lestat is Lestat is Lestat, isn’t he? The blond hair. The blue eyes. The arrogant swagger. Both the father’s anger matched with the uncontrollable laughter raging within him at all times. Completely out of control. Hedonistic, definitely to a fault. A Byronic hero in the package of an immoral vampire.

I hated Lestat and, when I read the books as a teenager, it was despite him.

I was ready to go into the series doing the same. The stories, the themes, the history, the characters (minus Lestat). There is so much richness to love in the world of the books, despite so much of it being told by Lestat. And there was no doubt we were gonna get less of The Lestat Show in a show that’s not told from his PoV and has three other main characters vying equally for that attention.

I will amend this statement now to acknowledge he does get less obnoxious by the time we hit the final trilogy, which were obviously not out when I’d made the judgement call of despising him. (Hell, Tales of the Body Thief wasn’t yet out…)

In Lestat's case, the changes that have been made aren't so much of appearance or characterisation, so much as moments. And I understand why. Lestat is iconic and, in many ways, impossible to change in any meaningful way because of it. So the choice of changing moments here and there becomes the perfect way to cast a new spin on Lestat's character.

ESPECIALLY when you have Armand right there behind Louis the whole time, almost certainly controlling the narrative.

Obviously, there was That Scene in Episode 5. That particular scene is one that never happened in any of the books. But Lestat’s aggressions, micro and otherwise, are a well known particularly in early canon, and Louis is certainly not exempt from them.

Nor is Claudia. And who among us haven’t put up with less when it’s aimed towards a person we love than what we’ll put up with aimed to ourselves?

Despite it not following an actual canon event, it held intact location, characters and central themes all together – the summation of most important aspects when we have an adaptation and hope it will continue to hit the major canon plot points in its reimagining.

We saw Lestat, Louis and Claudia all moving towards an event we all knew was coming, and what ended up being the climax of S1.

What I don't see being talked about anywhere near so much is the beginning of Episode 3, as Louis begins to commit himself to becoming a nuisance to the feline life of New Orleans.

Lestat: Say we come upon a murderer planting a flowerbed, thinking only of flowers. How long do we wait before his bloody deeds reveal themselves? Louis: As long as it takes. Lestat: You haven’t thought this through, Louis.

The charitable view, of course, is that Lestat is just not wanting, in this moment, to encourage anything Louis wants to say. If so, it would hardly be the only time Lestat shuts Louis down. Louis says he doesn’t want to feed on humans anymore so Lestat’s immediate response is to push as hard in the opposite direction. I would be satisfied with that.

Equally, I would be satisfied if, come S3, Lestat is revealed to remember this conversation completely differently. It would make sense. Of COURSE Lestat wants to feed on the evil doer and only the evil doer. What else are monsters like them supposed do? This would speak perfectly to their being many things in The Vampire Lestat that are different once Lestat takes the reigns of the books and supposed pen name.

The more I think about it, the more I won't be terribly surprised if they decide on one of these—or even a secret third option (Armand, I'm looking at you)—being the way this moment washes out later. The repercussions of deviating from Lestat only feeding from the evil doer are far too detrimental to the canon they seem intent to create.

Basically, their Lestat holding fast to this opinion for any longer than this scene would leave them struggling to hit more than one major plot point in future seasons.

Anyone who's read the books knows Lestat has already come across Marius before he meets Louis. He's heard Marius’ treatise on only eating the evil doer, and understands why his mentor holds to that tenant. Likewise, Lestat has prior to that come across Armand—something that has all but been confirmed for the series, again in the S2 trailer—and, after meeting both fledgling and maker, Lestat is able to pull together for himself an ethical stance he will take into the rest of his immortal life.

Lestat doesn't have to figure out what his code is gonna be, or whether he's gonna have one, like he way that's depicted for Louis in Episodes 2-3. This ethical stance informs him and carries through from there to the time in the future where Lestat’s made Prince of all vampires.

We'd have a very different looking future seasons ahead of us if Lestat were to abandon that code. It would make Episode 5 look tame.

But Sam knows those books. Rolin knows those books.

I love these monsters. As unreliable as Anne was with her famous lack of editing, this was something even she never flipped back and forth on. And a bunch of monsters with a code is still what we are seeing in S1 just from the fact that Daniel has survived this far into the interview in 2022.

They were and continue to be monsters, her characters, but they aren't that monstrous. There's a line for these serial murders. Honour among the thieves of mortal life.

That’s what makes them so enduringly interesting in all the variations we see for them.

@vamptember

[arecomicsevengood]

THREE UNCIVILIZED BOOKS

If you ever come to visit me in Philadelphia, particularly if you are a visual artist of some stripe, odds are good I will invite you to visit the Barnes Foundation, home of some very beautiful paintings. A few months ago, I was with a cartoonist, looking at a piece by Pascin, maybe overhearing a docent providing commentary to a tour group, when the idiotic commentary of my own mind said to myself: Hey, didn’t a cartoonist do a cartoon biography of Pascin? Maybe there are copies in the gift shop. There were not, but once I was at home and googled I confirmed the cartoonist in question was Joann Sfar, and this book was published in the U.S. by Uncivilized Books. Months later, the publisher had a big sale on their website, and now that book is in my hands.

The comics biography is a much-maligned genre, for an number of reasons. One particularly egregious offense is telling the story of an artist via a style that gives no indication the storyteller cares about or understands the artist’s work. This, however, is a gorgeously drawn book. The affinity between Sfar feels for Pascin is clear, though pastiche is not attempted, there is still an understanding of the role of brushstroke, and characters struggle with the questions of art in a way that remains unsettled for the cartoonist. There’s a bit late in the book where two painters are discussing drawing from models, and how the goal is to capture the life and motion of a figure so it’s not like a photograph, and has a richness to it, but not to approach this goal the way the cubists go about it. It feels like this is a part of Sfar’s concerns as well, and he is choosing the looseness of a sketchbook approach, with varying materials, as his own way of achieving this aim. The page layouts are sketchbook-style, lacking the sense of forward momentum you get from a grid, but remaining well-timed in their progression across a sequence. To the best of my knowledge, it’s the only book of Sfar’s in English that’s in black and white, and we get to see his decisions unencumbered by color, as he focuses on textures, the body, nudity, eroticism.

The traditional structure of the biography is dispensed with, in favor of telling little stories that work as comics. There isn’t a narrative of cause and effect, of rising and falling fortunes. Rather, a man is who he is, throughout his entire life, and different scenarios illuminate what that means. Sfar really focuses on Pascin as a dude who is either having sex or is drawing women as a way of gratifying himself as an alternative to fucking. In doing so, he turns Pascin into a character, rather than a node in historical time. I am unsure if I favor this approach because I’m a fatalist about human nature and don’t think people change that much over a lifetime, or if I just think that’s what works for comedy and I prefer comedy to drama. Most likely these things are interconnected.

This seems to me the right approach for Pascin, both because a comic works well with cartoon characters as its subject, and because of what it is to be a painter. It has occurred to me, walking through the Barnes, or other museums, that if you are seeing actual paintings, you are seeing them absent a grand historical narrative. An art book, filled with reproductions, can break an oeuvre down into periods, showing examples of each. But in a museum, you take what’s on offer, whether it be sketches or a handful of finished works. It is the rare museum that features enough of an artist’s work a viewer can take in the grand sweep of a career. This offers its own correspondence to what it is to be a person: how a lover has a different perspective on their partner than a close friend would, and parents, coworkers, and casual acquaintances have their own individual takes. While a biographer might seek a full compendium of everyone’s shifting opinions, over a period of years, all this will lead a reader to is the inconclusive conclusion that such-and-such was “a complicated guy.” A portrait of the artist as someone primarily interested in women and their work might not satisfy a biographer, but it is not necessarily inaccurate.

Other artists (Soutine, Hemingway) get walk-on roles and they’re all presented as coherent characters - possessing a degree of psychological depth, but defined by their actions, and usually driven by base desires. Juxtaposing them against each other allows for themes to emerge without the book needing to lapse into narrative captions offering didactic explanations. There’s an episodic structure, and I enjoyed it from the beginning, but with each new chapter I felt like the book was getting better, cutting closer to its subject. It’s a very satisfying reading experience, and made me interested in reading more of Sfar’s work.

Another book I purchased from Uncivilized during this recent sale was Jesse McManus’ The Whistling Factory. Jesse recently gave a talk for the New York Comics Symposium I appreciated for a number of reasons. He is about the same age as I am, and he touched on having read as a kid some of the same black and white kids comics I wrote about in my article for issue 2 of But Is It… Comic Aht. (I still have copies available, if anyone’s interested.) While writing that piece, I had noted that there were similarities between how Jesse approached the cartooned shape and the shadows it cast and Scott Roberts did in his comic Patty Cake. My whole reason for writing that piece was that I feel like these comics were really under-discussed, because despite the nostalgic tendency in comics criticism, that primarily benefits superhero comics, and the comics I was talking about were never that widely-read. Jesse was totally disinterested in superhero comics that get discussed ad nauseam, and his perspective both feels unique to him and familiar to me.

Jesse McManus diverges from me by being very good at drawing, and he goes beyond a lot of people by making a system out of following the logic of squash-and-stretch, taking the Fort Thunder tendency to focus on characters moving in space and applying it to this Kricfalusi-derived shifting of forms. The interest in images-for-their-own-sake abuts an interest in language-for-its-own-sake, and they work in concert to create something just a few feet beyond the fathomable. So many comics are interesting because you can see the artist thinking on paper, but in McManus you see someone who’s been drawing so long that the brain is on paper so fully it feels like the unconscious mind is behind what we’re seeing. Objects seem to flow in and out of being symbols, with new meanings dependent on the context. If Uncivilized feels like a weird publisher because it’s not clear what exactly they publish, besides feeling like the farm league for D+Q, these books seem to take the name of the company literally, in very different ways, to put to paper things that feel half-feral, untamed.

The subject matter of the half-feral arises in Sam Alden’s New Construction, but in order to talk about what makes Alden’s comics interesting to me, I’ve gotta briefly digress: Recently I reread the first two issues of Adrian Tomine’s Optic Nerve, which Drawn And Quarterly published in 1995. In high school, I borrowed a friend’s copy of Sleepwalk, which collected the first four issues of the series, and enjoyed it, vaguely intending to buy my own copy of the collection eventually, and buying all the issues that would later be collected as Summer Blonde. Now I’ve got the first two issues, and I might as well try to find issues 3 and 4 so I can have a complete set of the series in single issue format.

By and large, when I read comics from the 1990s for the first time decades later, there are two reactions I have: “Wow, they don’t make comics like that any more. That was so good, and so strong, in a way I can’t imagine anyone attempting that now” - these are, generally speaking, works that are “edgy” or transgressive in some way: Seven Miles A Second, for instance, or Nurture The Devil (still trying to track down issue 2 of this) or Villa Of The Mysteries. Julie Doucet’s Dirty Plotte fits this bill. Paul Pope was likely not trying to be transgressive, but his P-City Parade is still impressive for how much of a game-changer its approach to visual storytelling would’ve been at the time, and has stuff in it any editorial or self-censoring impulse would blanch at today. In comparison, work that feels inoffensive  often feels sort of boring in a way it likely didn’t at the time: The comics of Michael Dougan, say, which I tracked down after he died, are well-told, but also seem like they benefitted from there not being as much competition at the time. Interestingly, this perspective feels like the opposite of what most people mean when they say work “didn’t age well.” I am not sure if my tastes reflect a hunger for the transgressive for its own sake as much as I am interested in how work reflects the time of its creation, and I remember the nineties well enough to know people were not so well-manicured in their self-presentation as they are in the time of social media. (Again, these things are likely interconnected.)

When I read Optic Nerve, it strikes me as work I liked when I was younger, that was made by someone who was themselves quite young at the time of its creation. One thing that makes the single issues interesting is the letter columns. Tomine was known for having good ones, as his work attracted a special type of weirdo that was comfortable offering their unprompted criticism to strangers. This is another aspect of the nineties which has fallen out of favor: All the criticism seems offered in earnest good faith, as opposed to today, where if someone tags a creator on social media when they’re offering criticism they will be called out for being a dick, people largely thinking of audience feedback within terms of a praise or trolling binary. James Kochalka has a letter in issue two, offering a take on Tomine’s work which has aged like wine, and I will reproduce it in in full:

…I’ve been enjoying your comics, but I’m beginning to find the critics tiresome. To me, it seems like you’re not particularly wise beyond your years. Your comics seem very much like they were written by a young person. You don’t seem particularly extra knowledgeable about what makes human beings tick… To me it seems like you’re as good you are simply because you work very hard at it. Sometimes it almost seems like you’re trying too hard, especially in Optic Nerve #1. It’s drawn with such rigidity. The pictures seem like they’re made almost entirely of vertical lines, with minor horizonals and very inconsequential diagonals and curves. To  me it seems like the stories don’t automatically call to be treated in this manner. Rather, it seems like your desire to appear “professional” is having a restricting effect on your drawing hand. Please, flow freely into your work.

Tom Kaczynski, the future publisher of Uncivilized Books, also writes in, saying “…I did find this issue to be bit awkward in execution. Some panels, it seemed, you were unsure of. I don’t know what is causing it. In the past, you seemed to have certain confidence in the line of the brush (especially on the “Smoke” story) which seems to be repressed under the tightened inks.”

I bring up these things to note that Sam Alden, similarly, was perceived as a young cartoonist for a minute there, and his stories in New Construction seem very well-observed in capturing young adults and subculture. He would’ve been a bit older than Tomine was. (These letters were written in 1995, when Tomine would’ve been 21, the stories in New Construction would’ve been made, I think, when Alden was in his late twenties.) Tomine’s work is about young people as somewhat repressed, lonely, aching to find their place in the world. Alden’s characters, a little bit older, have found comfort in subculture but are not necessarily great at navigating the world they’ve chosen for themselves, which might be harmful to them. Contained in the contrast between the two is a Generation X-er’s ability to enter into the world of professionalism, albeit with trepidation, as Tomine himself approximates the literary short story, and gets gigs doing illustration for The New Yorker, while Alden documents the sort of extended adolescence millennials fell into in the absence of other options.

Sam Alden is by no means unemployable: He worked on Adventure Time at the time he made New Construction, and his earlier comic Haunter is the sort of post-Fort-Thunder genre comic that might earn someone such a gig. The two stories in New Construction, on the other hand, are literary fiction: One, Backyard, follows a group of young people living together in a house in New Orleans, where one person has stopped speaking altogether, and now communicates only in barks, and has moved to the backyard. Everyone is accepting this in the manner of open-minded young people, doing the best they can, noting she seems a lot happier now. The other story follows two siblings, also living in New Orleans, who have gone through a traumatic with their parent in the past and are ill-equipped for the larger world, and are having an incestuous relationship. They are much looser in their visual approach than you see in a Tomine comic, with scanning and printing technology developing enough in the intervening decades that Alden can work directly in pencil. He really nails the texture of water at night. The elliptical quality to his comics seems oriented towards the visual, towards capturing a gesture or atmosphere, something that might be elusive if attempting to recall it later, making for comics that feel decidedly immediate. Alden self-released a book called Sledgehammer digitally at the end of 2022, and my distaste for paying for digital comics has prevented me from reading it. I should get over this. It’s probably pretty good.

We all need to find a way to negotiate the digital space. It’s funny that Uncivilized proprietor Tom K, as he is known in shorthand, shares a surname with the Unabomber. It’s less funny that the company’s website does not offer anything in the way of interior art previews to show what these comics look like, which is almost certainly a big part of why I didn’t read them until they were deeply discounted. Images are from Uncivilized Books included in this post partly to remedy this problem, although they of course have far more comics that I have not read and have no idea what their art looks like. The images from mid-nineties comics I highlighted are included as part of my general largesse.

[typicaltypeone]

The Dexcom G6

There’s plenty of different ways and plenty of different brands of glucose monitors to help you keep track of your blood sugar. The Freestyle Libre is a pretty insurance friendly choice and a quick go to for many diabetics both type 1 and type 2.

But for those who can afford it, I use and recommend the Dexcom G6. It’s a wonderful setup that I’ve used twice in two different periods of my diabetic journey. I mention this because I’ve had two very different experiences with it based on my knowledge at the different points in time.

For beginners - I don't actually recommend using this if you’re only just starting out as a diabetic. While it is an amazing tool for later use, there is a catch to it. See, it reports your glucose levels in intervals of somewhere between fifteen to twenty minutes. On top of that it can take up to thirty minutes for insulin to kick in. As a beginner I found it very easy to “chase” after perfect numbers. I’d take medicine, get impatient, take even more, send myself into hypoglycemia, eat way too much and wind up with high blood sugar, then repeat the cycle. Be wary of this.

For average to experienced diabetics - Its amazing. Get it, use it. It’s a great way to avoid the constant pricking of your fingers. To stop being frustrated over how calloused your fingertips are getting and making it harder to draw blood. As a more experienced diabetic who understands better how insulin works now, my A1C has never been better than my second time using the Dexcom. Some perks to the Dexcom: 1. You can either use the App, or the hand held device delivered with your first package. I personally use the hand held device, as it’s more accurate and more easily picks up the signal from the monitor.

2. Super easy to charge. Comes with its own adapter and cord, and it doesn't even take two hours to fully charge it.

3. It’s water resistant! It’s waterproof up to a point, but best not to push its limits. However for just taking a bath or shower, or taking a normal swim in a pool, this thing will last you without issue. The adhesive is pretty good, though it can come slightly loose from hot water. However, its never come loose enough to ever be an issue for me.

4. If you miss one alert, it’s relentless in making sure you’re made aware. Especially good if you’re a heavy sleeper, if you miss an alert, every five minutes or so it will alert you again, while also progressively beeping louder each time. It gives me a lot of peace of mind for if my blood sugar dips during the night while i’m asleep. (I speak only for the handheld, as I’ve never tried the app. I dont know if the app also does this.)

5. Simple and easy applicator. I admit I’ve never used any other auto glucose monitor other than the Dexcom, but the applicator makes it so easy to put on. Do you feel it? Yes. But It feels like an itch, not painful and never has been for me.

6. It can later be used in conjunction with an insulin pump. I dont have any experience in this, as I still manually inject my insulin, but its a cool feature nonetheless.

Pretty awesome right? But it can be a little confusing when you first get the kit, so let me give you a nutshell layout of all the parts and what they do!

This is the applicator. You don't have to load anything into it. There is a number on the bottom on some paper that you use to help link it to your handheld device. But after removing that, all you do is take that orange tab off, press it to wherever you want your patch to be, then press the button! It inserts the sensing needle in flawlessly. I recommend rubbing along the adhesive to make sure it sticks well after using the applicator. The patch lasts ten days before needing replaced. Each applicator is only good for one use, then you discard it.

Here’s your transmitter. This tiny part is what takes the info from the patch/sensing needle, and as per its name, transmits it to your handheld/app. This piece is not automatically in the patch when you apply it to your body. You have to push it into the patch after application until it clicks. Doesn’t hurt in the slightest. It lasts for three months and can be reused until then. The patch, once taken off, can bend at a certain spot to easily remove the transmitter for the next patch.

Here’s a quick photo of what it looks like when the transmitter is locked into place inside of the patch. Warning! The adhesive can itch if you’re sensitive like me! I used to think this might be the needle poking me but trust me, that needle is not moving.

Here is the handheld device that comes with your supplies! I can personally attest that everything about this device appears as you see it in the picture. It shows you your last reported numbers, what time they’re recorded, and the arrow next to your number tells you if you’re headed up, down or steady. When setting it up it’ll ask you for basics like date and time, but it also asks you what you consider to be high blood sugar and low blood sugar, making it pretty easy to set goals for yourself as you slowly work to better control your blood sugar. I personally use the default settings. Anything below 70 is too low, and anything above 200 is too high. I still aim to stay within 90 to 150, but 200 is a good max limit I have for myself.

Something to know now that you know all your pieces; when setting up your Dexcom for the first time, it asks for a number, found either on the outside of the box, or on the bottom of the transmitter. Use the transmitter because there are at least four different numbers on the box your stuff comes in. There is only one number on your transmitter and that is the number you’re looking for. Makes it a lot easier. You’ll have to repeat this process every three months when you get a new transmitter.

To nutshell my nutshell, the only numbers you will need to be concerned with are:

The number found on the flat bottom side of your applicator, used when setting up each patch every ten days.

The number on your transmitter, used during first setup and then every three months.

Other than those, you don't need worry about any other numbers you see or find on boxes. You don’t even need to keep the boxes, though I tend to for easy storage of my applicators.

Another thing to note is that they send you 3 months worth at a time, so it’s easy to keep track of when you need a new transmitter. You need it when you simply run out of your whole batch of applicators.

And last thing I’ll say! As of this post there is a newer Dexcom out there, one meant to be worn on your arm rather than your belly. I have not used this and have no knowledge of how similar it may be to the Dexcom G6. Any questions on that should be sent to your doctor or endocrinologist.

DISCLAIMER: As always I am not a doctor or licensed medical professional. These are simply my experiences and observations as a type 1 Diabetic. You’re welcome to ask me about my experiences and personal journey but for any serious issues please seek professional help from your doctor or endocrinologist.

[embossross]

Initial Thoughts on the OPLA: Ep 2

I’ve just reread the manga through the East Blue + rewatched the anime through Orange Town with my sister (a coincidence on that one), so I’ve got the story really fresh on my mind and want to record my initial impressions on what works and what doesn’t. On to ep 2!

The Good

The big circus tent is a killer setting for most of this episode. It’s so dramatic, so “flashy.” The right amount of eerie and camp.

Some great adaptational changes in this episode. Love the way they integrated the people of Orange Town. We don’t have time for Mayor Boodle to spell out their troubles, but we can see what they’ve been reduced to and root for them without giving them too much mindshare. The change to Cabaji’s story was great. So glad we’re not going to give all the goons their fights and slow down the pace of the episode. The writers did a great job finding ways for Nami and Zoro to contribute without 1 v 1s and in drawing out the nuances of their characters (e.g., Nami’s devastation at townspeople suffering at the hands of pirates)

The way the flashbacks are woven throughout this episode worked even better than in ep 1. They never took away from the action because they were so thematically intertwined.

Jeff Ward is outstanding as Buggy. While watching I said, “that man must have a theater background” and he absolutely does. He just chews the scenery up. It’s delicious to watch. And his chop chop powers look great too. No notes!

Luffy eating the map of the Grand Line. It’s so silly! It’s so One Piece!

Emily Rudd continues to deliver as Nami. I think of the 3 Straw Hats so far, she’s giving the most layered portrayal.

The Red Hair pirates look great. Their fight was one of the highlights of the episode for me. They have a great chemistry. Peter Gadiot took some time to grow on me as Shanks, but I’m more and more convinced.

The Meh

Some of the torture sequences drag a bit. They never feel out of place exactly, but I got a wee bit bored. The risk of sticking to one setting for most of the episode and breaking it up with flashbacks.

The Ugly

Listen, I’m glad we didn’t get the Shanks/Buggy flashback. But unless Buggy returns later in the story, what we have is a character telling us Shanks is a betrayer, he did terrible things, he’s a bad man, and then no explanation of what that entails. Obviously, we draw the conclusion Buggy is wrong because we see that juxtaposed against how kind he is to Luffy, but new audiences must assume Shanks has a dark past or something. Feels like a loose end.

Continue to be deeply unimpressed with this depiction of Garp (though I do like the way he questions Coby’s loyalties)

Zoro claiming Luffy’s inspired him to Cabaji makes zero sense. Completely unearned. If you’re not going to have him moved in Shellstown, you need to give him a different moment to be inspired by, and nothing happened in between to change Zoro’s mind. Maybe he was just talking to distract Cabaji? Idk just unearned

Withholding judgment for the Time Being

Zoro continues to be a very angsty boy. I would like to see him laugh at Luffy’s antics, ease in a little bit. Withholding judgment as this could be a very rewarding longer arc to bring him to the character we know and love or it could be an over-committal to the “cool” side of the character, that I’ll find ultimately disappointing

[kyliafanfiction]

Colonies and Imperialism in Fantasy Fiction

tl;dr - Depiction is not endorsement, and (fictional) colonies in fantasy fiction - in entirely fictional settings) is something I think can make for a very interesting story, and the interplay between colonizer, settler, collaborator and resistor makes for very interesting worlds and very interesting stories especially. I include these sorts of dynamics in my fiction that I write not because I endorse colonies or colonialism, but because I find the dynamics that they create in worldbuilding to be fascinating. Anyone who knows much about the original fantasy worldbuilding that I do, either for the heck of it, or for stories that I write with an eventual eye for publishing (and this is a very small number because I don’t tend to talk about this stuff that often) knows that colonies show up a lot in my settings. Empires too.

Now, these Empires are not always monarchies, though sometimes they are. What they often are, however, is inspired by the flavor of the British Empire, drawing from bits and pieces in the span from 1700 to 1890 in an anarchromism stew. Also, because I’m American, there’s a lot of America in there, and occasionally a dash of the Ancient Roman Republic because I’m a big Rome nerd.

Regardless, these countries, which are usually but not always the ‘protagonist country’ (in the sense that the stories I want to tell tend to focus on them, I give them the most worldbuilding attention, and most significant characters - especially POV  characters - tend to be from them), are not categorically and universally painted as perfect, flawless and right. They are painted as being better in some important respects than many of the alternative powers of the setting, but they’re usually host to steep wealth inequalities, severe poverty for the lowest classes, political corruption that runs deep and wide, and often political systems that are prone to stagnation and infighting over sometimes the pettiest of bullshit. While they may present themselves as doing Imperialism because it’s moral (i.e. a fictional variation on the White Man’s Burden) the stories also make it clear that it’s as much or more just greed and power politics, or so is the intent. Of course, that moral imperative they claim may also inspire them, because some people who think their civilization and culture is the Best One™ are going to genuinely think being part of it is good and right and forcing people to do so is good and right.

These Empires then often have colonies.

These colonies are in distant parts of the world, across some great ocean or sea, linked back to the metropole by naval travel and trade, and sometimes by magical communication (rarely magical teleportation, which does not tend to lend itself to the stories I want to tell). These colonies are generally partially settler colonies, but often continue to have extensive native populations, and even existing native power structures continuing to function to varying degrees. Sometimes these colonies are glorified trading outposts ala the Portuguese feitorias that wield significant influence over local leaders without formally annexing the region, akin to the Residency systems practiced by various European empires (and other non-European empires have engaged in similar practices in the past as well), though the actual level of influence can vary and sometimes shift with the political winds.

For Example:

In the world of the Kantriverse, one such setting of mine, the Kingdom of Kantrias (very much the 'protagonist' country, as per the definition above) exists on the pseudo-Europe (and Middle East/North Africa) continent of Bayetz. There is, to the southwest, and partially in the tropics of the planet, a continent called Guayas. This continent is loosely - sometimes very loosely - inspired by India, Southeast Asia and China. More accurately, it is based on certain specific elements of certain specific periods thrown together into anachronistic stews to fit the stories I want to tell. There is certainly room to discuss the merits or problematicness of this sort of cultural chop suey as a tool for worldbuilding, either in general or how I do it, but that's neither here nor there for this conversation. On Guayas, for centuries, there has been a long-standing cold war between the two largest and most potent nations, the Kingdom of Kharash and the Telvir Ascendency. Because of the geography of the continent, neither nation tends to fight the other directly, even when open war breaks out, and instead, they may fight on the seas, or through their proxy vassal states. Because large swaths of the continent are home to small states, sometimes kingdoms, sometimes not, that both Kharash and Telvir seek to influence, extra tribute from, and use to weaken their rival. By this point, this rivalry has had extensive influence on the internal politics of these smaller states, and existing internal political divides tend to get played out in the various powershifts - one state, Irido, even maintains two royal dynasties, or two distinct branches of one royal dynasty, depending on how you look at it, one that is more partisan to the Telvir and one to the Kharash. The divisions are not always so deliberately artificial, but in each country, wherever you find a two-sided political dispute, one side tends to lean Telvir,  the other Kharash. Which ideology aligns to which power is not always consistent from small state to small state. Gauyas, being the continent from which tea, coffee, sugar and many desirable spices originate, is of course of great interest to Kantrias, which, being British-inspired, sure would like to control the trade in those valuable commodities. Kantrias certainly has products to export, and there is demand for the products Bayetz can produce in some parts of Guayas (for instance, Kantrian wine is considered quite tasty by many in the small Kingdom of Vacca), and Kantrias did - sorta - have a technological edge, as their gunpowder technology was superior when they first started seeking to meddle in Guayas (Gunpowder was invented on Bayetz by the priesthood of a deity that is now literally most often known as 'The Gunpowder God' and while the secret quickly spread, it did take longer to reach Guayas). But that edge was hardly enough to allow them to curbstomp anyone, especially with the distances and logistics involved, and while Kantrias certainly could out-muscle any of one or two of the smaller states, the Telvir Ascendancy and the Kingdom of Kharash both represent enough power to make conquest and colonization impossible. In pure video game 'numbers', Kantrias may have Telvir or Kharash beat, may, but of course, empire and warfare does not work like that. As such, when Kantrian desires to force favorable and lopsided trade agreements on local rulers ran into the reality of the situation, Kantrias adapted. For reasons not worth going into in detail, relations between Kantrias and Kharash were better, due in large part to certain shared cultural values, and the internal politics of the Telvir at the time. As such, Kantrias inserted itself into the existing cold war, on the side of Kharash. And thus, brings it's economic, magical, diplomatic and military weight to bear on the smaller states, swaying more to Kharash's side, and thus... theirs. Because basically part of the terms of the Alliance between Kharash and Kantrias is that Kharashian 'vassals' (even if that term is not often used and only partially accurate) should agree to favorable trade deals with Kantrias, or otherwise give Kantrias some sort of 'favored' status for trading, allowing them the space to build local trading towns/outposts that follow Kantrian law, station ships and troops there (in small numbers, not enough to occupy) to protect their business interests, etc. And with that in place, Kantrias has it's 'Empire' in Guayas (they do have a more conventional settler colony elsewhere, but this post is getting waaaaaay too long and I'm not even to the main point of my post). With their in, they are mostly content, as trade and money is the goal here, but of course, their alliance with Kharash is far from perfect, sometimes they lose out a lot of money when a small state turns Telvir (allying with Kharash does mean pissing the Telvir off more, of course) and that can spark a small war or not. But they do sometimes try to cultivate fully 'Kantrian' factions at the courts or in the populations of the smaller states, rather than just try to work with existing pro-Kharash factions. Because of course, even with most divides splitting between Telvir and the Kharash, some people and demographics get left out in the cold, or maybe Kantrias just has more to offer in some cases.

All of that example is simply to illustrate one set of scenarios that go into the empires and colonialism I write, and the ways I use it to tell what I think are interesting stories. Because I do think colonies lend themselves to some very interesting stories.  Because, let's imagine a fictional colony - Colony X. X is a region that is geographically defined, but was neither culturally nor politicall unified when Empire 1 came along. Empire 1 used a combination of diplomacy, threats, bribery and outright conquest to take over the whole region, unified it under one administrative unit (Colony X) and sent settlers. In this specifiic scenario, Empire 1 had some sort of advantage over Colony X's inhabitants. Probably several. It was larger and more unified, and thus able to take the local political components one by one. Maybe it had superior tech, or superior magic, or a better organized society that allowed them to mobilize more manpower, more resources, more material faster. Maybe Colony X had a big war recently, or major internal tensions,e tc, that were exploited. Who knows. The point is, you now have, let's say a century on, a lot of competing forces in the colony. You have the metropole (Empire 1), which may or may not be unified in what they want from or what they want to do to the colony. You have the settlers, not all of whom may be fully onboard with Empire 1. Some may just not like being taxed and dictated to by a government hundreds or thousands of miles of ocean away, some may descent from dissidents of some sort (political, religious, cultural, etc), some, of course, will be onboard with Empire 1. Some may see the native peoples, or some of them, as potential allies against Empire 1, someone to make common cause with, some may hate them as much as Empire 1 and want to oppress them the same (or even more) and some may be more afraid of them than Empire 1, and see Empire 1 as their defense against them. Meanwhile, in the native population, you may have some groups - local elites, certain mercantile interests, maybe a previously oppressed or maligned cast or ethnic group that Empire 1 lifted up specifically because they were previously oppressed or maligned or mistreated (and thus would be more loyal to Empire 1), maybe just one ethnic group in general is favored over others, etc - who might generally be in favor of Empire 1's continued presence. Then you have another group of collaborators, who might see themselves as just pragamtically accepting the world they live in now, and accepting Empire 1 is in charge because kicking them out is currently seen as impossible. And then there's collaborators who want to try to mitigate Empire 1's damage, or maybe want to learn their ways and techniques and so on to eventually use them against Empire 1 (but of course, have to prove themselves in the meantime). And all of these groups will have their own ideas about the settlers. Then you have people who aren't collaborating, but aren't actively opposing the Empire. And then you have the resistance - some may be native peoples who still see that Empire 1 had advantages, and we should copy those advantages. Some may want to return to old political divisions within the region, so may want unity. Some may want unity on their terms. Some may think that any borrowing of the ideas, techniques, technology or tactics of Empire 1 is horrible and vile and verboten and blasphemous or w/e. Some may want to drive all the foreigners from their shores, some may want to work with settlers willing to work with them. Some may not want to really get independence (because they might be worried about uncontrolled fallout from that) but want better terms or local home rule or whatever. And then you have other nations entirely - say, Empire 2, or Smaller Nation (But Still More Powerful than Colony X) Alpha. Empire 2 or Smaller Nation Alpha may have an interest in Colony X. Maybe they want to take it over, and try to offer (sincerely or not) a better deal to the settlers, the natives, whoever, to get them to jump ship. Maybe they just want to conquer it outright, no need to talk. Maybe they just want to weaken Empire 1, and don't really care how it happens, and cynically arm anyone willing to fight but without any intention of helping them more - it's just about bleeding Empire 1. Maybe there is a genuine anti-Imperialism in Smaller Nation Alpha's governing ideology. Maybe Empire 2 or Smaller Nation Alpha don't want to take over Colony X once it's independent, but they wouldn't mind having economic hegemony or strong influence over the region afterwards. Maybe it's many of these things at once. You take all of these groups, and all of these interests, and even if you tell a story that just a simple 'rebels overthrowing Empire 1's rule over them' narrative, with rebels as good guys and Empire 1 as bad guys - which you by no means have to do, as gray, nuance and complexity makes for a more interesting story generally - there's still a lot of room for cross-purposes, well-intentioned good people fighting one another, disagreement, drama, intrigue. Colonies tell really interesting stories. They're not the only way or place to tell interesting stories, god no, but I have found that for the kinds of stories I want to tell, with the worldbuilding I like to do, colonies and imperialism lend themselves well to it. In the real world, colonialism and Imperialism are, to be blunt, bad, for the colonized people. Sometimes they're great for some specific demographics within the colonized region, but usually not even then forever. They're usually pretty damn good for the Colonizer, but even then, Empire can sometimes come with a  poisoned pill domestically. And that too, is often fascinating and can make for really interesting stories. In fiction, you can sometimes get away with making colonization not entirely bad for the colonized, but usually not, and it's not a great idea to try unless you're sure of what you're doing. On the other hand, depiction is not endorsement. Even when the 'protagonist' does it. Even if the 'bad guy' (protagonist or otherwise) wins at the end of the story. Even if the Empire still controls the colony at the end of the story, or the rebels cross all sorts of moral lines and do things just as bad as the Empire. You're endorsing Imperialism to include it in a story, and every story doesn't have to end with Empire ending. Because, every kind of story you can tell with colonies will often, will almost always be, very, very interesting. Because colonies lend themselves to some really interesting narratives.