#a fun little topic methinks

[kalied0skull]

Do you like foreshadowing, if so what’s your favourite use of foreshadowing from a piece of media ?

THAT IS ... a fascinating question

it took me a bit to get to this one because anytime i check my inbox on my main account I'm absurdly tired of socializing but here i am again

I'm weird when it comes to foreshadowing; i love when there's objects connected to what we're meant to be looking for, either that or vague feelings.

i love being stuck in a memory with foreshadowing, and going through the story with the narrator because they know everything that happened and me as the reader / watcher does not.

for the objects though i am insanely fond of a story revolving around a person place or item that challenges the entire narrative, kind of throwing us around a bit on WHAT it's there for ...

I'm a bit brain-fogged right now funnily enough but this question was entertaining to think about despite the fact I'm terrible at describing words... hehe

[sillysiluriforme]

i Need to Know if you had any primary irl fashion house references for la terreur agreste!! sooo fendi & choé coded methinks

Oh !! Very fun question !! I’m not as well versed in fashion history as I’d like to be yet but it’s such a cool topic to research.

For Gabriel’s early designs I tend to get a lot of inspo from Vivienne Westwood’s works ! Since LT takes place way earlier than canon i like to think agreste house had a big impact on punk subcultures :3

Early years Agreste house is very chaotic and colorful. It’s the type of stuff people think of when they complain about high fashion. They make monstrous silhouettes and perfumes that smell like bloating bodies on purpose. It’s bold it’s bright and it’s repulsive. Art for the weirdos.

As of the events of the comic I take more inspiration from 90s Gucci and diesel. There’s some Versace, fendi and Chanel, Ralph Laurent, YSL thrown in the mix too. It’s meant to be more generic so it’s kind of a hodgepodge of high end brands.

In the late 90s the designs lose some color and become sleeker. They look more sensible. The spectacle is in the set up of the show instead of the fashion itself.

And then after the 2002 PFW stuff starts looking a little funny :3 🦋

[lets-try-some-writing]

Shortstack to Brickhouse

Jazz had endless fun making Orion run after him before the war. Unfortunately for him, Optimus has taken it upon himself to pay back the vorns of runs through Iacon.

(This is going to be part one for a series methinks. We shall see.)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

"There's a bar this way that I enjoy. Best engex in Iacon." Orion, looking more than a little winded, huffed as he all but sprinted to keep up with Jazz's strides. The archivist's vents flared as he ran along, his fans running on their highest setting in an attempt to follow Jazz along the purposefully convoluted path.

Any potential guilt he might have felt for forcing the far shorter mech to tail him was smothered behind amusement. Orion hardly left the archives, and when he did leave, he usually just took the train. Jazz's logic was simple. He took his bestie for a walk in order to get him to move for once, and in return, said bestie got a treat at the end of the trip.

"How far is it?" Orion managed to choke out a question in-between frantic venting. The poor mech hardly reached Jazz's hips. Every step Jazz took was four or five to the smaller bot, a fact that he found eternally amusing during their outings.

"Just a few city districts." Jazz had to fight back a snort as Orion all but deflated, his optics wide in distress.

"A few districts? Jazz, it can take me joors just to get through one!" Orion's exclamation was one that had been repeated many times over their various trips. He never stopped being dramatic, especially when forced to be active for once. It didn't matter that Jazz had been slowly working Orion into taking longer and longer trips. The archivist was agitated regardless.

And it was hilarious.

"Then we better be moving quickly, Rion! Otherwise we'll miss out on the bar!" Orion made a sound that bordered on a wail as he increased his pace in order to match Jazz's casual jog. His shorter companion straddled the line between being categorized as a minicon and a small civilian frame. It showed in his every step, especially with his frantic sprinting.

The only reason Orion wasn't legally registered as a minicon at all was due to the lack of rights for such frame types. It had taken more than a little effort on Orion's part to prove himself worthy of being listed as a normal civilian instead. But secretly, Jazz was pretty sure Orion was some flavor of minicon all the same, if only because he was built like a brick despite being on the taller end for such frame types.

Not that he was going to tell Orion that, of course. Orion was rather touchy when it came to his height, a fact Jazz abused on the regular.

"Come on shortstack!" Jazz laughed as Orion almost tripped over his pedes in an attempt to keep up. The archivist threw a middle digit in his direction, a scowl on his face as his frame steamed.

"I'm going… to shove you… onto a train… track." Orion wheezed out between erratic venting. His optics blazed with anger that Jazz had only ever seen directed at him while on similar trips. He liked seeing Orion all riled up. If he was pissed off when they got to the bar, he'd be far more fun than he would have been otherwise.

Angry Orion made a great drinking buddy, unlike calm Orion, who would chat the audial off the nearest bot, likely to rant about his favorite philosophical topics. Jazz shivered at the memory of Orion's last composed trip to the bar. Jazz had fallen into recharge in his seat watching Orion preach to some poor spark who got wrapped up in conversation with him. Yeah, he'd take his chances with angry Orion any cycle if it meant his bestie would actually be interesting outside of his work.

"You can try, Rion! If you can catch me, that is!" Grinning, Jazz gave Orion only a nano-klik to gather himself before he broke into a proper sprint. As he ran, he laughed and gleefully listened to Orion's screech of outrage.

Sooner or later, Orion would give up and resort to his alt-mode to try and keep up. It would dig at the smaller mech's sense of pride, only serving to make him more upset. This particular trip was long too. Jazz was betting at least twenty shanix on Orion being absolutely livid when they got to the bar.

Primus, he couldn't wait.

----

"We have an inspection to perform. Please follow me." Optimus, still reading a datapad, tapped Jazz on the shoulder to stir him from his defrag. He reset his optics to rid himself of any lingering lethargy before standing up with a stretch. His spinal struts popped as he did so, earning a groan of relief as he fell into step with his friend turned Prime.

Gone was the archivist who could barely ride most attractions even if he were to be allowed into Six Lasers. Now there stood a towering giant who dwarfed Jazz and most of everyone else by at least three or four heads. It was a lot to take in.

"Righty Rion! Lead the way!" Before the words even formulated fully, Optimus was already striding forward with newfound grace. Jazz adjusted his visor, processing just how fast Optimus was moving at a casual walk of all things. But he quickly got himself back in order and hurried after his friend and leader.

He had to jog just to keep up, a fact that he noted with a hint of surprise as Optimus didn't bother to slow down as he usually did with others he brought with him for whatever reason. Jazz didn't mind the extra effort it took to keep moving, but he did file the chance in behavior away for later. Was Optimus feeling alright?

Optimus led the way out of the Citadel, guiding Jazz through all sorts of back roads that the Primacy would faint seeing their Prime walk down. The path was meandering and wild, with no coordination that Jazz could pick out. Even more strange than that, Jazz could have sworn Optimus was picking up his pace. He didn't look like he was moving all that quickly. His every stride was graceful, weight perfectly distributed. Compared to him, Jazz was starting to feel a burn in his legs as he forced himself to move faster just to keep up.

"Where are we going? This isn't a path I know." Jazz called out, but he was met with a contemplative hum instead of a real answer. Optimus hadn't even looked up from his datapad, almost as if the path and the brutal pace didn't bother him in the slightest.

"Military installation 43B." Optimus finally spoke up as they rounded a corner. The moment Jazz registered what was being said, he skidded to a halt and stared at Optimus in horror.

"That's on the other side of Iacon!" Optimus, slag him, turned around slowly. As he did, Jazz found his spark sinking as he noted a smug grin on the Prime's face.

"That it is. But I'm sure if we move quickly, we can still arrive in time for the inspection I scheduled." Optimus returned back to his datapad, his pace absolutely picking up as he started into a casual hustle. Jazz scrambled to keep up, having to sprint to make up the difference as Optimus laughed.

"If you can keep up, that is." Oh that slagger.

"Rion!" Jazz lamented his every life decision as Optimus continued on his merry way, settling into a slow run that left Jazz throwing all the power in his frame into running as fast as he possibly could.

Slag it all. The Matrix may have made him bigger, but it hadn't made him any less Orion.

[dailyboothilldoots]

all i ask of this blog is to please not draw ship art/turn into a blog of only two certain characters if you know what i mean 🙏

hiii! I will say first of all, I don’t mind at all if someone asks for ship art, nor do I mind doodling it (within reason obviously)! (((and personal opinion. some ships like rappa or luka and boothill I won’t draw as I see them in a very familial way.))) This blog is definitely centered around boothill, but I don’t mind wandering off topic, as I adore a WIDE range of hsr characters. If I respond to an ask requesting ship art, please do not attack them! It’s 100% just for fun and interacting with the community.

HOWEVER!!

I can also understand where anon is coming from. (Another note, please don’t attack anon, I will delete comments of the sort!) You probably won’t see any in-depth content of the sort, nor will I completely rule it out as— with love, whimsy, and kindness in my heart— I draw whatever I want. Some people may dislike the ship and want to only view non-shipping content. I totally respect this, and am well aware that not everyone enjoys that sort of thing. I am also aware that sometimes shipping can be very important for some people, whereas methinks i’m very chill about it. All I can say is please scroll or ignore it if it’s not what you want to see from me! I don’t want to stress about that sort of thing, and want this to be a chill little community. But rest assured, my focus for this blog is boothill. <3

[daughterofevil158]

I’m imagining Desmond taking apart his room trying to find Damon’s gift only for Damon to show up at his door with it in his hand, a completely exhausted expression on his face because he refuses to believe that all of his soulmates are in this killing game with him

I think that just leaves Jett and Mark?? I can see Jett’a soulmate reveal being something really dumb, like Damon tripping and landing on his arm with Jett watching or something equally as silly

Would Grace and Wolfgang be soulmates here?? Her and Eva must be ENEMIESS here because even if Wolfgang doesn’t tell her she attempted to kill them, she would probably notice Wolfgang acting even more hostile to Eva and know something happened

While on that topic, I think Jett and Mark might also be soulmates here

The beauty of this soulmate au is that, if you're not a big fan of a certain character/Damon ship, you can just have them be platonic soulmates and your preferred ship be romantic (or they can also be platonic, I'm making suggestions, not rules) (I just don't talk about them as much since the au revolves around Damon)

Desmond, upon seeing Damon: "I'm really sorry, I said I'd appreciate your gift but...I kinda lost it"

Damon, holding said gift up with the most deadpan expression imaginable: "I know."

Grace is actually really fun to think about in the context of this AU (Wolfgang has 2 hands and deserves 2 mean blondes methinks). Other than refusing to speak with him, Grace wasn't really all that antagonistic with Damon compared to the others in canon, so I don't think having more outspoken people vouching for Damon from the start would change much about their dynamic. After finding out they share a soulmate it'll be a bit awkward between them, but if the soybean apologizes on his hands and knees for saying her talent's useless, she might consider letting bygones be bygones (he isn't doing that of his own free will). But oh boy it is on sight when she next sees Eva after finding out about the murder plan. Whether or not any fists fly, it is ugly and out there for everyone else to see, that's for sure.

Because Kaimon gets along a little more quickly here, there's not much on Kai's end to convince Damon to join the gaming tournament. That role goes to Cassidy, who, by virtue of having been mostly chill with him this whole time (and also being annoyingly persistent), manages to get Damon to accept the invitation right then and there, plus roping him into helping set the tournament up.

The conversation with Wolfgang happens shortly after, and Damon gets out of the questioning using Cassidy's request and makes a "tactical retreat" (aka running away). He's distracted, falls off a step stool, and his own muffled curse gets drowned out by Jett's "Yeowch!"

Rough interpretation of what happen next:

[digitaljesterr]

Pixie's Intro ♡

lets be best of friends PLEASEPLEASEPLEA

hihi! i'm pixie :p i'm making a new lil about me type thing bc my last one felt outdated so yippieee

basic info

- i'm 20

- i'm queer both in the sense of sexuality and gender, alongside being polyam and pretty strictly t4t

- i use they/them pronouns but don't mine he or she pronouns occasionally

- i'm engaged to my silly lil partner

- i am disabled and use walking aids to get around

- i live in ireland 💪

hobbies + interests

- music, specifically alternative music of rly most alternative genres

- video games (stardew valley, sims 4, skyrim, forager etc but anything multiplayer is fun wif friends!)

- the tv shows supernatural, house md and teen wolf

- makeup

- clowns

- animals

- randomly deep diving into topics that interest me

DNI

- if you're under the age of 18, a cishet man, bigotted in any way (racist, lgbtphobic, ableist, zionist etc)

PLEASE INTERACT

- neurodivergent, trans, queer, or polaym people!

- anyone with similar interests OR completely different interests that you will yap about to me (i luv listening)

- you may be a little bit silly

otherwise jus be cool n we will get along fine methinks :p

[fluffyyymocha]

I SEE EVERY SINGLE REBLOG LOL, I'M SO INSANELY DEVOTED TO CHECKING EACH AND EVERY NOTIFICATION

kyotama walked so kunizai could run

[theofficialpresidentofmars]

been thinking about a less serious totally campy 2000-2010s teen movie adaptation of Hamlet in my spare time (female lead Hamlet and not word-for-word... bite me) after listening to Nirvana's Nevermind on repeat and it was all coming together up until Act 3 Scene 2: The Mousetrap.

Now this one's an interesting one, as seeing as there aren't many travelling actor troupes around these days, often modern takes tend to modernise this performance, with Ethan Hawke's Hamlet utilising the art of indie film and perhaps my all-time favourite take on it, Ryan North's To Be Or Not To Be A Choosable Adventure Book that has Claudius play a Choose Your Own Adventure book within the Choose Your Own Adventure book (spoiler alert- he chooses the kill-your-brother path). In this way I am a fan of when the play-within-a-play is changed to suit the medium of adaptation, but I wasn't really feeling a movie for the characterisation vibes I was going for.

Until I had possibly the greatest idea ever. While travelling theatre troupes that perform edited renditions of well known plays just out and about are less common, there's another and often more mobile theatre form, close to my heart, that could be utilised to fit this scene well: comedy improv.

Hamlet, hearing word her old theatre group is back in town, inviting her mother and uncle along to an improv night, with a secret plan to reveal her uncle's guilt through the art of theatresports.

It'll probably go either one of two ways: she pulls aside her old teammate, asks for a favour- she knows that it's improv, and the whole point is that it's Not planned ahead, but if just this once she could get a certain scene to play out in front of her parents. and while reluctant, they agree, and on the night, announce a game of New Choice, asking Hamlet to be their caller.

It goes a little something like this:

'I shall now pour the deadly poison down his throat-'

'New Choice!'

'Into his eyes-'

'New Choice!'

'Into his ears!'

'Wow, that's crazy. Poisoned by his own brother. Would be a real shame if he were to go and marry his wife now, wouldn't it be, Claudius?'

Alternatively, instead of asking to rig a game (which is a cardinal sin anyway), Hamlet asks if she can join them for a special round, like old times. She offers to write for a game of Typewriter. Her teammate agrees, then jokingly implies that she's grown rusty, asking if she remembers the most important rule of improv. Rolling her eyes, of course she remembers to yes-and, she says.

She does not yes-and.

She flat out refuses the first two offers from the audience on the ask of 'interesting relationship between two people' until her plant Horatio eventually pipes up with 'wife and brother-in-law', she prefaces her scene with a lengthy disclaimer that it may cover some morbid topics but they shouldn't bother anyone (unless they have something to hide), and proceeds to run the scene with an iron fist, shutting down any offers that don't suit her purpose. Her teammate is making plans to chew her out afterwards when she shuts down their fifth offer to do ANYTHING but keep talking about how great a wife they are and how much they're not going to cheat etc etc. Eventually they get somewhere, and someone's getting poisoned, but then a bell rings and they get the '30 seconds, wrap it up' (about time, the pacing's gone to shit). but instead of wrapping it up in any manner that might salvage the scene, Hamlet takes it as an invitation to suddenly start typing quicker than normal, like she HAS to get all these words out before her time is up, and is ignoring everyone to go on this tangent about the king's death and how the brother takes the throne and she's just started to talk about how he marries the late king's wife (bit weird innit) when her uncle stands up and storms out of the room.

Anyway it would just be fun, methinks.

[thewardenisonthecase]

top 5 non-recruitable-companion npcs from any/all of the games and what you like about them

(do not anxiety friend <3 you are too cool to be afflicted by the horrors)

(there's so many of them bestie oh my god-)

1 - this is cheating a little bit methinks but the whole cousland family + ser gilmore. they're there for like 5 fucking minutes maybe and yet, i felt their presence hauting my warden's narrative. i fell in love with them and then they were taken form me so quickly.

2 - the Arishok. I love him, he was justified in his actions. I love the secret point system to get his respect. He feels like a continuation from Sten but in a different position, and I wish there was a way for him to live that doesn't involved screwing over isa. i love him and he's one of my favorite parts of da2

3 - teagan. fucking flirts with you while his city is burning but also he has one of the most iconic lines in game ('did he also do what was best for your husband, your majesty?') and I just find his character so fun. if i could, i'd ditch haven and just say 'make teagan the arl already man-' (also no, i do not fuck with the teagan/isolde thing)

4 - still in the topic of haunting this narrative. leandra and malcolm hawke. i've thought about them SO MUCH. About their relationship with themselves and with their children and how they shape so much of this goddamn narrative.

5 - feynriel. I love him, for a character that's there very briefly, he impacted me a lot and i love that he considers hawke his one true friend, i love the possible different endings for his quest hes just great

honorable mentions: sandal and bodhann, evka and antoine and meeran

[the-kr8tor]

Wait double headcanon—

Ekko as a teacher, though?

I feel like he'd be a high school teacher, he does like the little ones but teenagers already have enough brain to discuss topics on a deeper level other than toddlers.

He'd pursue probably geography but focus on political geography methinks. He'd go out of his way to give the best classes with the best examples he could find, do I have to say the teens loves him?

As a coworker, I feel like he would be a chill guy, would help if needed if someone needs. If you're also a high school teacher, he probably would offer to help if he sees you selling your lunch break over correcting homeworks.

Ekko could also be an art teacher, but like, an extra class? When the students got to know he would be the one teaching them, it didn't took much for all the seats to be taken. He'd teach from drawing, to painting, to street art, he'd talk about music-

I could go for much longer but I'm eepy... Good night!!

— 🎏

DOUBLE FOR TODAY?! DID I WIN THE LOTTERY?!

Daily Ekko HC 💚💚💚

TEACHER! EKKO WEARING GLASSES THO 😳

He's definitely everyone's favourite teacher!! Like he's all fun and easy to talk to but once you do some shit in his class or bully someone he'll turn into a very strict one that you don't want to mess with

Oohh yes i see him teaching maths too! And art for an after school club!

Teacher! Ekko who helps you with the lesson plan tho 😍

[blossomingtininess]

evidence gathered! now, friendos, allow me to introduce my semi-embarrassed writing of the following topic:

"rock paper scissors, to me somehow has very agere coded protagonists and i'm asking you to hear me out - coming from a person who's only ever seen one person in the main tag agere posting"

don't mind paper. he's a bit awkward about it

(mentioned episodes i got info from came from a google drive! i'm happy to dm the link for anyone interested, anxious abt posting it out in public very sorry)

anywho, let me begin

Getting basics out of the way:

- The show's about the aforementioned protagonists (Rock, Paper + Scissors) who're all roommates also i think they're in a poly relationship but that's another story

- They get up to whatever chaos they can, and things always seem to take a chaotic twist. Be that through overconfidence or insecurities

- All in all it's a fun time, even if some stuff could be seen as flaws to other people

now let's get into the fun stuff! why i think they're all small

EXHIBIT A: ROCK

- He actively calls himself whimsical ("I wanted a hot air balloon because I'm whimsical!" or smth close to that)

- Described often as "like a child" - friendly fellow, naive at times. They say that and I hear "regressor who's comfortable enough with his peers to regress openly"

- ⬆️ Related-ish, often seen going off on his own adventures and having his own form of fun (not that he isn't keen on his friends' view of fun)

- Described as a mediator who can understand who his roommates are deep down and explain why they're doing stuff that they do. very experienced in the smallness business

- All in all very small fellow! Wants to have fun and have his friends get along even if his emotions get a bit outta control sometimes

EXHIBIT B: PAPER

- BUDDY. HE'S SMALL.

- He really wants to be smart (since his family is apparently all high-achieving) but struggles with it. such stress calls for smallness methinks!

- He gets frustrated a lot, see the above point

- Does at least seemingly relax and have some form of downtime with his pals when he's not all stressed out

- absolutely a "small when stressed / tired" guy. trust me on this

- THIS WHOLE SCENE IN THE WEEKEND STORY (+ the buildup)

- I'M SORRY BUT THAT'S ➡️➡️➡️⬆️ A SMALL GUY i mean they both are but stilll

- I think he mentioned in some episode that he got bullied when he was younger?

- Overall Paper is a guy who's doing his best but it's hard and he just gets stressed out and angry and it boils over into smallness

EXHIBIT C: SCISSORS

- canonical dad issues and it makes sense he might want to have another chance of a childhood. poor lad

- always tries to be cool but is just pretty insecure deep down even when Rock + Paper have their own "things". like paper, such stress calls for smallness

- Seems like a little who's proud and chaotic at his core, but he shuts down quick if he thinks he's messed up even a bit. fortunately his roommates are far better father figures than what his likely was

- also probably the last to willingly admit his own smallness? I imagine Rock admitted it naturally which then prompted Paper to accidentally slip a few days afterwards (making him open up), and then Scissors finally decided to be open too when it clicked that his pals would get it

- I'm sorry i have less points for him

In conclusion! Small roommates. my god i feel so embarrassed writing this but i'm willing to let people hear me out on this if they wish

also if that one person i mentioned at the start sees this uh hello! you aren't alone friend

anyways have a good dayy

[iyohme]

Adding this ahead of time too, because this was such a fun thing to look at:

a little bird

raven-at-the-writing-desk is a great author; but it should be noted that everything they say is also detail-based observations! Not so unsimilar with the twitter OP. It feels a little mean-spirited to me when fans put down other fans' headcanons based on he said/she said/the source material said circumstances, because at the end of the day, Ridomama is decidedly an unlikeable fictional character, unless Yana decides to make her undergo a change of heart. Characters can be hate sinks for the purpose of being hate sinks, unfortunately. Like how some real people are unfortunately also terrible people that are just not good people. The fans who agree with the takes of "Ridomama corrected Riddle's Dominant Hand from Left to Right" and "Ridomama made sure Riddle could use dual wielding as a Future Surgeon" can honestly coexist, since either way, the action of "correcting the hand which Riddle writes with," whether done through brute force or manipulation, is a highly disturbing route for any parent to take for their kid's success, regardless of whatever career their parents want them to pursue, imho. (And i feel like the people agreeing with the former have probably experienced/heard of the same left-handed abuse at some point in their lives, which makes this a very visceral experience from them! Fandom headcanons do tend to have a little mix of personal experiences thrown in them from time to time.)

"There is usually a logic to them, which is why Riddle finds it hard to condemn them," is the key here for me.

We're separate bodies from Riddle who observe TWST as observers, and some TWST players even probably have experienced the same abusive dynamics with their own parents at some point. So it would make sense that lots of people who relate with Riddle breaking out of his mold as "Perfect Son" would be more vocal in their criticisms of Ridomama's character, methinks. Riddle is still mentally stuck in the system he's been for years. Others (Players, people who watch playthroughs) are outside that system and can recognize Ridomama's "uber-prepping logic" for what it is: a need for control over her son. Sure, she does love Riddle, in her own twisted (heh) way, but it can't be denied that Ridomama's methods caused him more grief in his life than the successes he's attained. Overblot seems to be a big hush-hush topic in TWST, with the dangers associated after all. There's no logic to ever justify what Ridomama did as "uber-preparing her son for greatness," but I don't think Riddle is still in that stage of Realization yet, unlike the readers.

I just can't see how this fits in other than "person did other bad things, so surely did this bad thing also," which is a slippery slope in a villain game

IRL people who play/watch TWST and who have undergone similar treatment with Riddle from their own versions of Ridomama, or people in general who have Bad Experiences with people like Ridomama might do that by association and drawing on personal experiences, methinks. Abuse takes on a lot of forms. One of them comes from people with good intentions but with the wrong methods, which is Ridomama's. There is no "slippery slope," here, tbh. Just people drawing from past experiences based on character events that have happened to them, and making a reasonable guess at why Riddle's dominant hand is reversed. No one is saying this is canon either; everyone is saying that this is a pretty interesting bit hidden in the game, and that OP in JPtwt is raising a pretty valid (if not heartbreaking) theory based on said bit hidden by Yana Toboso.

Someone noticed this about Riddle ☹️☹️☹️

[satorisoup]

erm hi fwendss ^_^ this is gonna be like… a bit of a question but also a wittle bit of a rant… m’ confused ehehe T^T in tha small font cuz… s’ embarrassing for me… sniffles sosbsbs !!!!

b4 i start here are tha main components of da topic at hand : talks of little space, mentions of toxic ex bf, lots of typing quirks, some selfship stuffs, and wanting to feel more comfortable in my space without makin’ anyone else weirded out… needin’ advice methinks /nf

so like… i didn’t know that it wasn’t necessarily considered “normal” (?) to like… wanna be treated like a child sometimes… ?????????? (՞߹ - ߹՞) n e ways…

i’ve avoided dis topic for shosho long bcuz… i didn’t wanna be viewed differently n’ i didn’t wanna lose any of my cutie mooties or sumthin’ :< … but sometimes i rlllyyy wanna post how m’ feelin at tha moment but i don’t want anyone to be liek… “ lene never posts stuffs like dis” or “ why is lene talkin’ like dis” or “ lene is actin’ weird” yeah…

yeah n’ like… the thing i imagine tha most with my f/o’s is… them holdin’ me & rockin’ me like a baby or something… cuz s’ just so comforting :< n’ i want them to take care of me… and stuffs… and do fun tingsss like !! i wanna watch my favorite cute show wif them and ramble about it while they nod their head and tell me m’ so smart… MWUEHE dis is so embarrassin’. omigoodness…

which dis also might explain why i usually type wif lots of cute little quirks if anyone was wondering abouts dat… right now i’m feeling extra cutesie so m’ usin’ LOTS & LOTSSS ehe !! ^_^ it’s very comfortin’ to me so… yeagahshdb !!! :,>

dis alllll leads to my question… what would this be considered ?? :”0 is this weird… fwieeeeendsss :< i dont know wat to dooo… someone hold my hand or something i might cry T^T

when i was datin’ my ex (bad, yucky guy… nunu���) i do remember feelin’ little (?) at times… n’ wanting to feel comforted in a way that he couldn’t provide mefinks… like. sumtimes id hold two of his fingers wif my hand and he’d shake me off n’ stuffs… or when i wanted him to cuddle or hold me at all, even in a way dat was “normal” he wouldn’t… ehe… n e way… he did lotsa stuff that kinda made me feel wantin’ to be comforted more… but he was the cause of me feeling sad and i didn’t know what ta do… m’ very glad he’s gone :> there was too much pain in dat relationship… i wasnt ever comfy… n e way. i know kou wouldn’t ever dream of doin’ that stuffs to me… but i want to cope like dis… it makes me feel happy T^T

if i started typing more like how its comfortin’ to me… or if its a bit more quirked… would you be mad :< not all da time… but ya… ive always held back on it cuz… i didnt wanna seem weird or nuffin… sigh </3

will probs delete this tomorrow but !! i wanna know what ta do for realsies… this isn’t considered little space right ?? what is little space… :0 cuz if its when you feel younger than you are at times… yeah *nods* i fink. m’ sho sorry is this weird of me… :,< i dont wanna make n e one uncomfortable or something… oki. anyways…. WAHHHHHH !!!!!

any ways— to distract myself from dis ramble… look at my pwetty kiri (っ⸝⸝⸝ <) i wuv his hair like this shosho much… i just wanna smooch his cheeks :> nomnomnom !! (*ᴗ͈ ̫ ᴗ͈) his teefies… ehe :,> he’s so manly n’ strong… i want him to hold me mwuehe !! :3

sometimes i js wanna post abouts how much i wuv my sweetie pie shoto… n’ how i want him to smooch m’ cheeks ehe… or about kou :< my precious kou… s’ also why in all my selfships my nickname is usually sumfin’ along the lines of “baby”… ehehe ^_^

n’ i really want katsuki to hold me n’ rock me to sleep… s’ that weird ?? it might be out of character but… i like to imagine it mhm mhm :,>

or sumtimes i wanna play wif satoru… n’ be silly while he feeds me sweets n’ calls me his pwetty sweet princess :< andand there would be lotsa cakes !! and strawberries !! m’ favorite !! >//<

n’ i rlly love imagining gettin’ all dolled up in pwetty sundresses n stuffs dat choso likes :> n’ havin’ him hold my hands in his… ehe

ohoh !! and… holding two of sugu’s fingers wif my whole hand… :< n’ makin’ pinky pwomises… ouh… how cute… m’ kicking my feetsiesss !! ^0^

or ume holdin’ me like a princess… n’ lettin’ me watch as he cuts his veggies to make me a snackie… cuz he knows i wuv veggies… mhm :3

m’ sorry… gots a bit distracted thinkin’ bout all the stuffs i’ve wanted to say b4… ehe….. (つω`｡) i couldn’t help it !!

anyways, goodnight friends :> if u see dis & i delete it… yeagh… comments or askies r definitely appreciated sniffle :> im supa curious EEEK !! m’ shy excuseee me >//<

[fleshcarverfugitive]

House Dryaalis

Family's the other fun topic with Drow.

Cazador's philosophy of "what is family if not the monsters we're obliged to love?" really applies to them, methinks! Stupid bastard. Can't wait to punt him.

So let's talk about Amalica's family! The house she can from, what they're known for, and who's still alive. These and more, below the cut.

House Dryaalis is a minor noble house - still royals, but nowhere near the power of houses like Baenre or Oblodra ( before it got yeeted into the Clawrift ). The house is known for producing powerful Sorcerers who channel the churning primordial magic within themselves - Wild Magic. The chaos of their magic made them unpredictable foes, and almost certainly aided in their rise to their little sliver of power.

Hence, Amalica's whole existence.

The current Matron Mother of the House is Amalica's maternal grandmother, Rilithra Dryaalis. Her first daughter, Yasvrae, was Amalica's mother, and our favorite Fireball Enthusiast(tm) has eight siblings.

She doesn't really remember her father, since he wasn't the house patron ( bc her mother wasn't the matron ), and was likely one of many partners her mother took. How many of her siblings are full blooded is entirely up for debate.

Nydoss and Lythrana are the most important in the story of Amalica, but the complete order of the Dryaalis children is as follows:

Nydoss Dryaalis, first son, the Dryaalian Icarus ( deceased ).

Amalica Dryaalis, first daughter, bane of Gromph Baenre.

Lythrana Dryaalis, second daughter, professional pain in the ass.

Orgolyn Dryaalis, second son.

Molra Dryaalis, third daughter.

Shri'aste Dryaalis, fourth daughter.

Felyn Dryaalis, fifth daughter.

Adintel Dryaalis, third son ( deceased ).

Malonia Dryaalis, sixth daughter.

[givehimthemedicine]

ace max mayfield

just a couple quick thoughts on Max being aspec and relationship stuff *unfurls a huge dusty scroll that rolls across the floor and down the stairs and out the door*

let's start with Ralph Macchio. taken at face value this exchange is the #1 proof I'd point to for both allo Max and aspec El. but let's say it's not face value, and that Max could be saying this because of internalized stuff, and that's how she thinks she should feel, and that this is what girls say at sleepovers.

but I think there are motives specifically involving El here too. if milkvan is outkissing lumax, and I'm certain they are by a lot, Max has known it all summer. but now El has come to her for sage relationship advice and she doesn't want to let on that she's actually less experienced in that department than her little protégé, so she's trying to sound like she's some kind of expert but without actually lying.

her delivery of the amazing kisser line looks like she's more interested in El's reaction than she is in actually thinking about kissing this boy (otherwise I'd expect her to keep staring at the picture).

btw you know that post about teenage girls strategically choosing a harmless boy to decide to be in love with? Ralph Macchio is 1000% harmless boy material.

I don't think there's any arguing that Max is aesthetically attracted to guys. you can definitely experience aesthetic attraction without realizing it isn't also more than that, and that would explain Max's behavior for me

it's funny that she's in a relationship for a year and yet we really only ever see her express physical interest in anyone from a distance (a safely unattainable celebrity and Steve 50 yards out in the dark).

actually I just realized I don't think Max or Lucas have ever complimented each others' looks in any way. ily lumax

anyway it's surprising to me that Max would ask about Mike's kissing skills given her relationship with him (if anything I'd hc El volunteering something and Max being like "ew TMI"). maybe she's not so much a fan of kissing, but figures it must be super enjoyable if El is doing it so often, right? so maybe El and Mike know something she and Lucas don't, and maybe she can find out while still sounding like she totally already knows?

methinks the lady doth hype kissing too much

wouldn't you think somebody written to be this pro-kissing would be the one who's constantly making out with her boyfriend?

milkvan ditches the party to go make out for the millionth time and Max defends it as romantic

Lucas makes fun of Mike for wanting to make out with El forever and Max tells him to stop

Ralph Macchio is probably an amazing kisser

is Mike a good kisser

no but the fact that she brought up kissing at all, when El did literally nothing but silently look at a picture of a boy

she might've let the topic go but she's still thinking about kissing when she opts to use spin the bottle as a means of random name selection when there are easier ways. El has no idea spin the bottle is a thing. that was Max's idea.

like, check that ralph moment again and tell me you'd guess the character who's only shyly kissed (1) time is the one on the left? Max is all bark and no bite, El is all bite and no bark.

have you ever kept bringing something up because that would make it true somehow?

this eyeroll at the couple making out in the hallway could be explained as any combination of Max being unhappily single, depressed, and judgy about PDA. where's "aw, it's romantic" now? did she get disillusioned by milkvan?

this is the only time we ever see Max react to the idea of kissing when she's alone with no one watching, in a way that's definitely not performative. if you ask me, this is how she really feels about it.

lumax's only kiss

Max kisses Lucas in a very "quick before I lose my nerve" way, and that can of course be explained as they're kids and first kisses can be nerve wracking.

but it's very easy for me to read this kiss as Max checking off a box, like she wanted to have kissed more than she actually wanted to kiss. or as the panic of oh boy this situation is a high kiss risk Ima take charge and get it overwith 1 song in so I can actually enjoy my evening.

after the kiss she looks relieved she's done it and hugs him, which is the part she really was looking forward to. I can debate the kiss but that hug is sincere affection (and a huge chunk of why I love lumax). a hug isn't really a social milestone or something anyone feels much pressure to do or brag about having done in the way that kissing is, she really just wanted to hug him, not out of attraction but because he's her first friend who's really cared about her in a while, maybe ever, and she feels safe with him. (and as a bonus the hug also closes the door to a second kiss)

as of the snow ball they're about on par with milkvan, but we don't see their physical attraction level up at all as they get older.

Max acts very 😒 about her relationship

I started writing a post about whether lumax was even supposed to be Max's first relationship because she acts so much more experienced. she displays the weary aloofness of a girl who's seen it all and is long over it. but she's 12? where are the butterflies? the only moment I can think of is that 1 second smile when she kisses Lucas. what she'd have you think is maturity and confidence I think is actually just her not giving a shit.

Drive Him Wild! 9 Ways To Sit That Scream "Cool Story, Bro"

she's not the slightest bit pleased that she's brand new in school and 2 boys immediately have crushes on her

she confidently says she thinks Lucas is making up all the upside down stuff to impress her or fool her for "experience points"

Steve's advice to Dustin doesn't work on her at all, which is hilarious because the advice is "treat girls like you don't care" and Max is the one who doesn't care for real

when Lucas is trying to ask her to dance, he's all fumbly and she's just like lmao let's go loser

compare the pre dance scenes, Lucas is rehearsing nervously in his mirror, Max is sulking while her mom tries to do her hair and rolls her eyes when she says it looks pretty. (and ok I'm getting into a tangent here but she wore pants <3 if her mom didn't intervene Max would've gone to that dance in the same thing she wore to school that day)

when El said Mike was her first boyfriend that would've been a perfect time for her to say if Lucas was also hers, but I really think Max preferred El not to realize that

throughout s3 while Max clearly has affection for Lucas she gives me the consistent impression that she's the one less invested in their romance. the closest she ever gets to flirty is sarcastically calling him smooth or don juan (actually has she ever said anything genuinely nice to him?). she dumps him at the drop of a hat to the point where he's paranoid about it. by dump #6 she doesn't even have to tell him so, he just correctly assumes.

I know a lot of that just chalks up to Max's personality and them still being kids, but you'd think a 12-13 year old girl might be a bit more twitterpated about her first boyfriend?

this relationship seems mostly like a comfortable friendship, especially for Max. in fact in s3, if you blink at the wrong few moments, you could almost miss that Lucas and Max are even a couple.

Max's "romantic experience" is secondhand from media

this doesn't exactly fall under orientation but it's worth mentioning how Max's perspectives on romance are informing her decisions.

Max has no positive examples of romantic relationships in her life. being a child of divorce, seeing her mom marry an abuser, and watching Billy grow up and start pursuing girls in what's probably been a gross way from the start, has not done anything to give Max a great impression about romance/sex/relationships, and she's had to look elsewhere for examples.

I imagine young Max spent a lot of time alone and, like El and her soap operas, gaining a lot of her ideas on relationships from media. and when you do that it's probably not all realistic, healthy or age-appropriate, only you don't always know that at the time.

Max seems very into magazines especially. to broaden El's horizons regarding boys and relationships, she supplies her with Tiger Beat, Bop and Super Teen, and sure that's just for fun, but it shows that a lot of what Max is taking in is sensationalized if not outright fantasy. probably the most realistic thing she reads is Skateboarder.

this whole family loves their periodicals

"oh but El already had those magazines before she was friends with Max! everybody read magazines in the 80s!"

nah. that's a TV Guide she's pretending to read. (and did Mike bring a Space Gamer magazine to El's house hoping to get El interested, or for himself to read there?)

anyway, notice how the parts of Max's advice that actually help El grow as a person are the parts that come from the heart (ha) and that's all the stuff about being independent. her relationship advice doesn't serve El super well (act like he doesn't exist! he'll come crawling back!! yeah, to Will lmao) because it's not from experience or real positive examples, it's just the regurgitated wisdom of shit-stirring teen gossip magazine advice columns.

Max thinks to lend El a Cosmo so she can learn about happy screams herself because that's probably how she learned. (I'm not putting any greater meaning in the way she's grossed out by that conversation in general considering they're talking about Billy and who wants to give their friend The Talk anyway)

I can only guess that not-so-healthy romantic relationships being glorified in media are how she can defend Mike and El ditching their friends all the time, even though she sure had a problem with similar behavior in season 2 when her new friends kept ditching her, but the difference is this is Romance and that makes the same shitty behavior okay, because romantic relationships are more important than anything else, right? (until she finds out El isn't actually having a good time, and maybe she's lowkey relieved to be able to drop that cognitive dissonance, and then suddenly there's more to life than stupid boys)

Max says "boyfriends lie all the time" like she's never been able to trust a word Lucas says. and yeah, in this episode he does back up Mike's lie, but he has not done that yet at the time when Max says this. as of this point, the only thing close to a lie I can think of him telling her is that out-of-order sign on the arcade machine (which he felt bad about). to me, in 1 and 2 he came off as the most honest one in the party. if he's become a huge liar since then, we didn't see it. I feel like Max might be regurgitating external stuff again that isn't really even about Lucas but just boys in general.

maybe the "emotion not logic" stuff is because it makes no sense to Lucas how Max goes straight to petty tactics and breakups whenever they have an issue. in his parents he has basically the show's only healthy marriage to look up to, and we even see him ask his dad's advice at one point, so when he and Max are having a problem he wants to talk and work through it. Max, having only broken relationships and fake bullshit to refer to, doesn't know how to deal with someone caring about her so seriously and she gets cagey and runs.

high school hits different

I know she's just deflecting but oh boy is that line easy to read in an ace way.

I also just noticed the banner behind Max's head that says "all the way in 86" when she says this, which is an interesting choice of wording and timing when it could just as easily have said "go tigers" if it wasn't supposed to evoke anything besides basketball. Max talked a good show for a middle schooler but now her peers are starting to get sexually active for real and she could be starting to feel social pressures (not from Lucas, but in general) and it's becoming rapidly more apparent that she's Different. OR it's just random set decoration!

anyway she still cares about Lucas and loves him at least as a friend, but still keeps him at a distance. of course depression has a lot to do with that, but it could be that she's afraid if she lets him too close even platonically that he'll get romantic ideas again.

which he does. as soon as she says she's glad he's there, he asks her on a date. going to the movies isn't explicitly romantic but, that's a date. she sure took it that way.

so why might an ace Max not only accept but draw adorable stick figures holding hands? maybe she's remembering times that were happy for other reasons and she's going all in because her current circumstances are pretty bleak and she welcomes something to cling to. I feel like it's a little bit of a pipe dream to her at the moment, like mikvan's snow ball and jopper's enzo invitations made on the cusp of probable death. she knows full well she might not be alive on friday. maybe she figures if she survives by some miracle she'll give the romance thing another whirl and that'll magically work too.

there's probably more but this post is getting too long. tl;dr max internalizes a lot of stuff and doesn't know she's a gray ace. the end

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warnings/ Ratings:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now you want to fuck him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like salt kept on the lips,

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

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

With keen, slick hinges.”

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

“A ruined peach

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

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

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

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

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

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

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

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

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

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.  

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

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

“Or else I rust.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

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

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

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

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

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

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

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That really does sound nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

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

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

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE