#smiling richard 💖💖💖

[mrsfitzgerald]

Rammstein - DRSG @ Madrid - Estadio Civitas Metropolitano

[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics pt. i

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited smutty piece with a planned sequel. I hope you enjoy, ya filthy animal 💅🎀💖

Summary: It’s the 60s, you’re three weeks behind on a deadline, and your professor, Doctor Reed Richards, makes you face the consequences. 

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, science talk, Reed has powers, dub con, spanking, dom/sub dynamics, implied dacryphilia, dirty talking, sub drop, aftercare, stern Reed 🥵

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/161199763

Applied Physics

Dr. Reed N. Richards always wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches that show off his broad shoulders and give him an irresistible swagger. He teaches physics at your college part-time - when he is not out saving the world - and he is equally terrifying as he is warm, a combination of traits that you have learned can actually coexist but only after meeting him. 

You have been wanting him since he walked into the classroom that morning many months ago, carrying a black leather binder seemingly filled with little to nothing since everything appears to be stored in his brain. 

He has standards, you find, and traditional ways of doing things that somehow emphasize his love for the delicacy of science. For instance, he only grades papers with a fountain pen and therefore expects every assignment to be handwritten instead of done on a typewriter which is tedious and difficult for those who don’t possess a steady hand. The scary part of him comes out when he says he simply won’t grade the papers that aren’t turned in as he wants them to be. The warm part shows itself when he later makes a self-deprecating joke about knocking over whiskey during his grading. 

The idea of the paper smelling like his cologne or even, if you are lucky, has a stain of his favorite liquor, makes you hand in each assignment whilst the ink is still drying on the paper. Perhaps you will be the first one to receive notes and feedback from him if you turn in your work before its deadline.

You imagine him hunched over a desk, pen barely able to fit in his rough hand. He wears something casual, maybe even has taken off that jacket, scratching his beard and sipping his drink whilst smiling to himself as he reads words that come from your mind. Your mind makes him smile to himself, makes him single you out from the rest of your class because you are special and he knows this. It’s the image you imagine the first time you come whilst thinking about him, shower head between your thighs and legs against the tiled wall in the shared bathroom at the boarding house you reside in. 

When you do finally get your first essay back from him, you read all the comments in the margins during your lunch. You lick a drop of juice from an apple away from your lower lip as your eyes skim over a scribbled good or well done, trying to find an excuse to read more into the way he looks at you when you talk during class. You made him laugh once, that must mean something, right? He clearly has your sense of humor, the same ways of applying theory and reasoning. 

You know that it is hardly rational what you are doing, projecting all these things onto him when, in reality, you only know of him what you have seen during his lectures and office hours. Yet you have found yourself noticing the way he smiles faintly when you correct one of your fellow students during group work, and it has spurred you on to become even more insufferable to your classmates only to get his attention. His approval too, if you are lucky. 

Yet despite all this, here you are with an assignment running three weeks late, your procrastination having reached its limits and your excuses to your professor wearing thin. It’s a challenging state to be in when you’re so used to ranking your popularity with Dr. Richards higher than everyone else on this course. Sure, his attention is nice when it is rooted in praise but you don’t know if the kind that will follow this lecture, the deadline you’d agreed upon for your paper being yesterday, is the kind that will satisfy something in you like the small smiles have. 

You keep bouncing your leg beneath your desk as you wait for Dr. Richards to enter the lecture hall with that cool aura about him and let the fast-paced lecture begin. If anyone sees you, they will recognize it as an itching to suck up to him once more but in reality, it is the first time you’ve been in the room with a nervous tic. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greets as he finally arrives and you find yourself jolting with nerves at the fact that he is finally here and inevitable doom is just around the corner. It doesn’t make it better that his brown eyes sweep over the crowd in a hurry until he spots you, his gaze full of concentration until he gains eye contact with you for less than a second. You sit up straighter at the way he measures you and the subconscious movement of your leg stills completely. Frustratingly, the man keeps talking as if nothing happened. 

After several attempts to regain your composure, you realize that you have completely missed his introduction to today’s lecture and while trying to ignore the thrill that is simmering beneath your anxiety, you scramble to start taking notes. It’s not to show him that you can go back to being his favorite student but rather a necessity to keep yourself from being three weeks further behind.

You power through the lecture even with your fuzzy mind, scribbling things down and making sure to appreciate the privilege it is to be taught by one of the greatest minds to ever live. This is even if he, multiple times, falls into the usual pattern of diving headfirst into multi-layered explanations of different phenomena and concepts, droning on as if none of you and the rest of your classmates exist to him anymore. 

You pretend to keep up when he does this but even you must admit that he loses you. However, you know for a fact that it is not out of disinterest that you stop listening but rather your mind focusing on something else when his words become too difficult to follow. Instead, you end up mapping out the length of his gorgeous neck, the beauty spot where his collar ends. It is enough to leave your mouth dry, but not enough to drag your mind off the scolding you’ll get soon.

When the lecture comes to an end, you have psyched yourself enough to stupidly get up and try to follow the rest of the students out. They trickle out hurriedly though and you find yourself at the back of the school of people heading for the door. 

“Hold it right there,” Reed’s voice travels through the room and hits you right in the back, making you falter in your step. Your last name rolls off his tongue with the same kind of confidence and composure that you’d tried to conjure up just an hour ago. 

“Sir, I was just—“ you rest your hand on the doorknob to signal that you are leaving but you know already that you have lost the fight to exit the room. 

You hear it before you see it; the faint and strange rustling of fabric as something wooshes closer. Suddenly, your teacher’s stretched-out arm moves past you like you have seen it do on television and then his hand attached to said arm splays flat on the door. He closes it with a soft click while you hold your breath. 

Slowly, it retracts back to normal and you follow it with your eyes by glancing over your shoulder. Time stands still for a moment at the sight because while Reed Richards has stretched his body multiple times in the past, without much thought behind it and much to his students' shock, he never puts anyone in the position to experience it firsthand. 

“Sir, I—“

“Come here,” he says quietly. 

You grab the strap of your bag tightly and make your way to the desk where he sits. You decide to beat him to his reprimand, talking even if your voice shakes at his disapproving stare, “I’m sorry I missed this week’s deadline.”

“This week? Try the last three,” he calmly corrects you, “You have done your research on force, impact, and energy transfer in non-elastic collisions, have you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you’ve still not turned anything in? Why?”

“I've been overwhelmed with coursework and–” You trail off when he raises a brow. He is still sitting down but even so, you feel like you are shrinking underneath his authority. You find it hard to believe that anything out your mouth right now will be taken seriously when you have let him down three times already but you try to reassure him anyway, “It won’t happen again, I promise,”

“No, it won’t,” he agrees as he pushes himself to stand. He drags the chair away from the table as if he thinks it is in his way, “You’re brighter than most, so I don’t believe I need to remind you what happens if you keep slacking.”

“No, sir, I’m aware.”

“I mean, we’ve already moved way past force dynamics and energy exchange on this year’s curriculum, so you’re wasting my time,” he goes on with an annoyed sigh that tells you he has better things to do, “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you stare at the flooring.

“Come closer,” he orders calmly. He lets his gaze flick down to your hand clutching your bag of books, “Take out your book on core concepts.”

You follow his eyes and pull out the right book before gently letting the strap of your bag slide off your shoulder until the bag hits the floor with a soft thud. Something tells you that you’re not leaving anytime soon.

“Place it on the desk and find the pages on Newton’s Laws,” he continues and your heart slams against your ribs at the thought of an impromptu pop quiz instead of a handed-in paper. Yes, you know these pages but in the presence of him, you’re not so sure. 

Behind you, Reed has shrugged off his jacket while you were flipping through the book. He folds it neatly and hangs it over the back of the chair he was displeased with a moment ago, making sure not to crease the fabric. Then he reaches for the sleeves of the white shirt that he is wearing and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the slightly visible veins of his forearms. Your head swims and you subtly press your thighs together, images of what you’d like him to do to you flooding your mind.

“Bend over,” he says suddenly, murmuring it almost as if he knows he shouldn’t have said it. 

Your eyes widen and you glance in the door’s direction. There are so many people on the outside of this room right now but the chances of someone walking in are slim since lectures are rarely started at this hour of the afternoon, “I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to understand anything. I want you to put your palms on either side of the book and bend over,” he elaborates and clearly notices your hesitation, the direction of your eyes. His arm stretches out in front of you again, snaking its way past the rows of chairs until it reaches the door once more. He locks it, the soft click of it mixing with your unsteady breathing, and then he pulls down the curtain in the window at the top. 

When the arm smoothly retracts once more, you naturally think it will stop at his side but instead, you feel his palm on the back of your neck. His other hand joins to lay on the small of your back and then he pushes down gently to maneuver you into the position that he wants. 

You exhale shakily as you place your hands on the desk, feeling the smooth wood underneath your fingertips as a way to ground yourself in a moment so electric. Your body is way ahead of you, reacting to the anticipation of his next move by making a dull ache settle right between your legs. Your clit throbs, your walls flutter. 

“Your paper was supposed to use Newton’s Laws as a foundation, let me make sure you know them properly,” Reed says simply while removing his hand from your lower back. His other hand, the one on the back of your neck, slips down your spine to take the previous one’s spot, leaving fire in its wake, “Recite them.”

You swallow thickly, “Newton’s First Law states that a body at rest—”

Smack. 

A loud gasp leaves you at the surprise of Reed’s free hand coming down on your backside, heat spreading out underneath the fabric of your skirt where it has struck you. Your head whips around to stare at him in disbelief at what he has just done, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“Eyes on the book,” he commands sternly, curling his fingers slightly into the hem of your shirt, “Go on. Newton’s First Law.”

You count three whole breaths before you will yourself to face forward again, looking down at the text in front of you and trying to regain your ability to read. You swallow the lump in your throat, the letters jumbled on the page, “Uhh…”

“Concentrate,” he adds and gives you another blow, one that makes you jolt forward on the desk and send the book almost over the edge. You frantically reach for it, noticing the way your heart leaps into your throat when you consider what would have happened if it had fallen off. 

You drag the book back down and try to act cool but your voice tells on you as you start to read out loud, “A-a body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion—”

He spanks you again and elicits another gasp but you seem to have expected it since you don’t go flying forward. This is even if his palm leaves behind a much more painful sting this time and makes your toes curl in your shoes. 

“Until…” He sounds impatient. 

You act immediately like a dog who is learning about action and consequences, “Until acted upon by an external force.”

“Good girl,” he praises and you don’t know why the softness of his voice makes you tear up. His broad palm traces over the spot that is warming up already and you make a show out of sighing with content. 

However, the soothing touch is short-lived and you start struggling just slightly as Reed’s hand descends until he can grab the hem of your pencil skirt and roughly tug it up. He settles it just above the plumpness of your ass, swatting you to make you focus and stop squirming. 

“I’m not going to fuck you so stop moving around,” he scolds and surprises you with yet another smack. It feels different now that each slap is skin-on-skin contact, sounds different too as the noise echoes through the empty lecture hall. You whine in slight disappointment, even if you have inappropriately imagined his cock in you during circumstances so different so many times. 

“Second Law,” he murmurs, occupied briefly by the bruise forming on your cheek and scraping his nails across it. 

“W-what?” You let out a whimper, your thighs pressing together to soothe your pulsing clit. In theory, you know what he has said but it just isn’t registering since your mind is occupied by you knowing exactly what you will be doing back home if he won’t touch you. In fact, a thrill goes through you at the thought of another blow to recall in your bed with your hand stuffed into your underwear.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he repeats with a smaller swat following. You suck in a breath to calm yourself. 

“Newton’s Second Law states that the net force on an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration,” you say somewhat confidently, a sense of calm settling over you as you finally feel like you are getting a handle on the situation. 

“Apply it to the situation you’re in right now,” he tests you. You feel your face grow hot and hesitation seizes you for a second. It takes a moment too long for him and a much sharper smack lands right on the jiggliest part of your ass, the sharpness of the pain making you moan for the first time and the noise of the blow bouncing off the walls. You almost even swear in your professor’s presence, and you would have if it weren’t for the way tears in your eyes take off the edge.

“You’ll get one more if you don’t open your mouth soon,” he adds. You’re just about to speak, about to follow orders, when he takes a step closer and presses his cock into your hip. You freeze at the size of him, a sound that can only be described as pathetic leaving you. Reed huffs out a chuckle and smacks you once more albeit slightly less maliciously.

“Y–you’re applying a force to me. Your hand is the mass and the acceleration is essentially the swing of your arm. The shorter the time and the greater the velocity of the impact, the bigger the force I feel,” you try not to hiccup through the whole explanation but the words take a longer time to come to you and your backside is hypersensitive, warm, and sore. Your pulse rings in your ears too, and you swear you can almost taste the adrenaline in your mouth from how it is coursing through your body. It might just be salt from your tears though which you realize will simply give you an excuse as to why you stayed behind after class. If you really try, you might be able to conjure up an act of a student who got some terrible feedback.

“Still with me?” You hear him ask, feel him soothe your burning flesh. You wonder if his palm is imprinted on your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble with a sniffle, your palms sticking to the desk from how clammy they have become. 

“Speak up,” he corrects you and his palm leaves you long enough for you to start anticipating another strike. No hands on your body makes it harder to abstain from feeling his hard cock resting against your hip, the heaviness of it making you even wetter and oh God, aching to be filled.

“Yes, sir,” you enunciate without coming off as bratty. The next strike doesn’t come and relief washes over you, allowing you to relish in the cool air brushing your tingling and bruised skin.

“Last but not least. Newton’s Third Law?” 

“F-for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” you say and rest your forehead on the book that has absorbed a few teardrops, He doesn't give you praise or a soothing touch. It bewilders you, makes you question if your scatterbrained state has accidentally made you say something that is wrong. You go quiet except for your rapid breathing as you go over your answer in your head but nothing comes to mi–

The sudden smack instantly makes you realize where you went wrong, landing across the exact spot that’s already stinging and causing you to hiss and whine through your teeth. Quickly, you scramble to relate Newton to what Reed is doing to you, “If… if you strike me, my body exerts a force back on your hand.”

“Mhm, good,” he hums while your head swims, “And I bet you’re feeling that force right now.”

“It hurts,” you whimper feebly and turn your head to the side. Yes, it’s the truth but your body can’t tell if it’s supposed to register this as pain or pleasure, the sensations overlapping intensely.

“That’s part of the lesson,” Reed’s hand returns in a gentle touch, his large palm settling carefully over the same spot he has just mercilessly spanked, “Why does it hurt?”

You wish he’d move his hand down between your legs and make you come when he realizes how soaked-through your panties are, “B-because when you spank me your hand transfers kinetic energy into my skin. The force and the friction cause heat to build. The tissues and blood vessels react, and it—”

“Gives you that glow. Precisely,” he finishes your sentence and curls his hand around your hip firmly. He sounds enthralled by his work, “And I respond with arousal, meaning it makes me so goddamn hard. Now, hold still. These last three are for the three missed deadlines.”

You know he means business when his finger slips underneath the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down just enough to settle them underneath the globes of your ass without exposing your needy cunt, the elastic of them digging slightly into sore skin. His other hand lifts and you brace yourself even if you know that any human can suffer through even uncontrollable pain if they know there’s an end to it. 

The first of three strikes lands right on the curve of your backside, harder than any of the several ones before it and making your entire body seize up. He isn’t playing around this time, your skin immediately blooming with newfound heat and fiery pain. It makes you moan out loud and squeeze your eyes shut until fireworks go off behind your eyelids.

“Count,” he says calmly. 

“O-one,” you manage to say in a voice that makes it sound like an apology instead. 

The second one makes it feel like there’s a clap of thunder going through your bones. You jolt forward on the desk enough to finally send the damn book flying off the edge to the floor. Reed tightens his grip on your hip to steady you, dragging you back to him again as if to remind you that despite everything he’s got you. 

“Two,” you say shakily, “I’m sorry, Professor Richards.”

He rubs the spot to soothe your burning flesh and by now, a part of you wants to crawl into his lap and be held. He coos softly at you and gently squeezes the roundness of your ass, making you bite down on your bottom lip and exhale a needy whine through your nose. 

“No need to bring me apologies,” he tells you, “We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson. Last one.”

He lets you wait for the final smack, but when his hand lands on your skin, a sharp cry rips from your throat. Tears start flowing freely from your eyes now - even if you’re still not fully crying as emotions have not caught up with you yet - but it’s not solely from the pain, but also from the swirl of adrenaline and arousal that tightens below your belly button. You wonder if you should reach up to wipe your eyes but you can’t make yourself let go of the desk underneath you, clutching it in an iron grip because of how wobbly your legs are.

“Three,” you hiccup as Reed loosens his grip on you. You feel the ache of your behind with every heartbeat and want to sob now that it is over. You’re hyper-aware of what is happening in your body which is the adrenaline starting to crash, and the emotions, coming in like a wave, are just about to overwhelm you when—

“Sit up on the desk for me,” Reed says gently. 

“But the book,” you glance toward the textbook that you sent flying not long ago. It is a silly thing to cling onto but there’s an emotional wavering in your voice as you say it which Reed seems to catch onto. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs, an order but not like the previous ones, “Sit. I need to make sure you’re alright.”

The task seems impossible. You barely manage to push yourself fully upright, your shaking legs nearly not able to hold you up, and when you turn around to lift yourself onto the desk, you feel the edge dig into your sore behind in a way that forces a hiss out of you. A tear that you have no control over rolls slowly down your cheek.

“Easy,” Reed is beside you, catching onto your motive when you get ready to jump up onto the surface in a hurry due to his earlier lack of patience. He has previously had a hovering hand nearby but now, he grabs a hold of you to still you, “Do it carefully.”

When you’re finally perched on the desk, you’re not sure if the calming cool sensation of the wood beneath your thighs outweighs the pressure against your smarting skin. What you are sure of though is the storm of emotions inside your chest, a raging one made up of an overwhelming mix of new pain, embarrassment, and vulnerability, all of which makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage. 

“I’m okay,” you lie but you hear yourself and know it isn’t very convincing. He gives you a raised eyebrow. 

“Seems like you’re experiencing what is known as a drop. Come on, deep breaths,” he guides you gently when he spots the way your bottom lip wobbles, “If you have to cry, let it out. No one’s going to see you.”

From his words, you realize that your breathing has become unsteady and hitched in very little time. Your shoulders shake and your chest has a ball of unleashed feelings in it that nearly makes you feel sick. It unravels when the tears that you hoped would subside resurface at the permission to let them flow. You feel them brimming at the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” you say shakily when they finally spill over even if the tension in your torso slowly ebbs away as you let go. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe for me,” he says softly. He brings his hands to your thighs and rubs them in an attempt to soothe and ground you, “Slow and steady in through the nose and out the mouth. Right now, you don’t have to do anything but calm down, and then I can take a look at you.”

The room around you seems distant as you try to breathe more steadily but you’re lightheaded, feeling almost as if you’re wrapped in a woolen, fuzzy blanket that blocks everything out besides him. You aren’t sure if it is the adrenaline crash anymore or the way that your whole body is so tightly wound for pleasure that won’t come but you crave his touch, crave him taking care of you.

“You’re okay,” he says over and over, drowning out the static in your ears, “No more crying, sweet angel. I’d rather not see you leave here like this.”

The nickname makes you snap out of it. Angel? Did he just call you an angel? Your tears go on hold when you continuously blink up at him from your seat on the desk, pawing at his chest without knowing what to do with all your longing. He makes you feel all the things you have felt since you met him all at once now, a dizzying flurry of thoughts and feelings. 

“That’s better,” he smiles genuinely for the first time and you melt right then and there. He looks so damn handsome when he does it that you go ridiculously doe-eyed at the sight. 

“Thank you,” you mumble while playing with the buttons on his white shirt. The butterflies in your belly have nearly made the pulsing ache of your backside disappear. 

“Stand up,” he says and removes your hands from his chest which you probably make a much bigger deal out of than him, “I need to take a look at you.” 

You stand on wobbly legs. Slowly and carefully, he skims his fingers over the inflamed skin and notes out loud that it is warm. It’s not a soothing caress for the sake of tenderness, but rather a deliberate check-in to take note of how much damage he’s done. He works methodically, like a man who daily works with scientific research and experiments, going over each part of you while humming at his discoveries. 

“Right. Cool compress when you get home for the swelling, ten-fifteen minutes on and off. Frozen peas will do,” he instructs in the exact same tone as when he gives out science homework, “The skin is still intact but you’ll be sore if you don’t treat yourself with a little kindness. Lotion if it is too much to bear and loose clothing. Not a pencil skirt like this one, we clear?” 

You nod with the hint of a pout.

“And,” he adds and grabs lightly at your chin, his tone suddenly playful, “Try not to miss any more deadlines.”

It’s a joke, you realize, something to lighten the atmosphere in the lecture hall and you barely register it from the way his fingers hold your head in place. Despite your watery eyes and racing heartbeat, you huff out a little laugh.

“There we go,” he coos at the sound of your chuckle, “Not so gloomy anymore.”

With gentle hands, he reaches just below your hips to pull your underwear up over the curve of your ass again, careful not to let the waistband tug at the sensitive skin. He does the same with your skirt, tugging the hem down over your thighs until you look decent once more. 

Your lips part slightly as your eyes slide up to look at his face, feeling dumbstruck by his brown intelligent eyes and his aquiline nose straight out of the statues from Ancient Rome. You admire the column of his neck, the mentioned beauty mark just above his collar, and the dip that you want to kiss. 

After a moment, you realize that you have gone quiet and when you look back at his eyes, you are dizzyingly meeting his suddenly intense gaze. It is as if he has calculated that you are back with him, lingering with desire albeit still a little shaken by your tears. His eyes are burning into yours and you can feel the restraint behind them. It is as if you can sense the electricity in the air, the warmth that prickles in your cheeks, and the heat that radiates from him. 

Without a word, he reaches to tuck your shirt into your skirt until it hugs your figure tightly, a fashion choice different from how you had arrived in his classroom earlier. The dominance of styling your clothes as he prefers it makes you press your thighs together, the dull ache returning between your legs. 

“I’ve noticed, seen it all. That’s why I did it,” he says cryptically as he stuffs your shirt down at the back, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine until heat racks up it. 

“Noticed what?” You ask foolishly but had you stopped to think, you would have figured it out already. 

“All the energy you’ve put into getting me to notice you and getting my undivided attention. Congratulations, you’ve finally got it,” he clarifies and lets both his hands rest on the small of your back for the briefest of moments. When he lets go of you, you follow his touch by leaning in to close the distance with a kiss. 

He places a hand on your chest, holding you back just when you are pressing the ghost of a kiss to his lips. He has given you so much by now. Why not this? A ball of frustration settles in your chest and comes out as a little whine of impatience, “Why can’t we?”

He doesn’t pull away, simply speaks less than an inch from your face so you can feel his breath on your mouth, “Because you need to learn restraint, sweet angel. I can’t have you missing your deadlines three weeks in a row - or at all really - due to some little crush.”

You want to defend yourself, say that it has nothing to do with him but deep down, you know it would be a lie straight to his face. So instead, you swallow thickly, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

“And you will have me,” he kisses you so softly that you want to sink to your knees, “Just not until I say so, and certainly not before you’ve been a good girl and turned in that paper.”

“Sir,” you try one last time.

“I’ll teach you to be patient, to have restraint,” he tells you and makes you realize your attempt was to no avail, “Whether you like it or not.”

You give in, buzzing with the need for more, “I can turn my paper in on Monday. Would that suffice?” 

“I’ll hold you to that, but no late nights and last-minute scrambling. If I find you’ve rushed through it…” he lets the sentence drift off, letting your imagination figure out the consequence, “And it best be your best work yet.”

“Yes, sir,” you reluctantly pull back when nothing seems to work, “Whatever you want.”

“Hand it to me during office hours before class,” he instructs to which you nod.

“But what now?” You ask with a tiny impatient noise, letting him know just how much you’ve got against his reluctance to touch you. 

His hand flexes by his side, “Now you go home. You lock your door and you touch that pretty thing between your thighs just how you like it most. I want you to come for me until you’re hoarse. Three times for three weeks but no more than that, not until we see each other again.”

It is Wednesday and you won’t see him until Monday. How on Earth are you going to survive on only three orgasms after this? Your mind races with protests but you don’t get to voice your concern about the limit he has set because he has already stepped back to pick up his jacket from his desk chair. 

You decide to circle the table to pick up your book and stuff it into your bag. Behind you, Reed’s eyes are definitely on you as you lean forward with a hand on the desk. He is fixing the cuffs of his sleeves and putting on his tweed jacket, trying to come off as if letting you have a private moment to compose yourself.

“Monday,” he reminds you when you stand upright again. His arm stretches out between the rows of chairs and tables once more so he can unlock the door for you. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and then you leave.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[thebibliosphere]

Pennyworth: The Daring Young Man

Chapter Six

“You sound like you’re worried,” Bruce replied, a slow, wry smile spreading across his face. “What happened to me being a hellion who prepared you for everything?”

“Yeah, well, worried’s a strong word,” Alred said, grimacing as he watched Richard reach the end of the monkey bars, flip himself up onto his feet, then did an impressive double somersault off the edge into the sandpit and took off running. “Although not even you were quite so mobile. Coincidentally and entirely unrelated, I am owed some annual leave…”

[Keep Reading on Ao3]

Alfred: pft, I raised Bruce Wayne. How hard can another child be?

Also Alfred watching Richard “No Bones” Grayson jump from the highest point in the playground with zero fear of gravity: …do you know, I think I’ll visit London. I hear the radioactive mutant cultists climbing out of the Thames are lovely this time of year…

——

Thank you for the continued comments and kudos 💖. I know Pennyworth isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but I’m getting so much fun out of writing it from my sick bed and seeing other people enjoy it is immensely cheering.

[harrywavycurly]

I NEED to know what it was like with Harry following her around the book store holding her stuff for her and maybe he’s asking for baking advice?🩷

Hiii lovey!! I’ll give you a little something with them in the bookstore because I just know Harry was so excited she even invited him in the first place, so enjoy💖

-find all things Southern Comfort here✨

A/N: Harry is in charge of carrying things while you wonder around looking for books that you think you’ll actually read✨

Harry can’t stop smiling. He knows he probably looks a little odd standing in the middle of a used bookstore with a tote bag with the state of Texas on it over his right shoulder and your pink and gold coffee mug that has “cup of ambition” painted on the front of it safely in his left hand, and no matter how odd he knows he might look he can’t find it in him to care. He is taking his job of holding your things very seriously as he watches you pick up a book and turn it over to read the back of it, he raises an eyebrow as you squint your eyes and bring the book closer to your face making him wonder if you wear glasses and just forgot them or if you need to get some.

“Sugar what does this say?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts as you take a step towards him and raise the book up so he can take it with his free hand. You smile at him as you reach over and take your coffee mug from him so you can take a few sips while Harry looks over the back of the book, you reach up on your tiptoes so you can point to the top corner of the book. “Is that the price?” Harry looks where your finger is pointing and he also finds himself squinting in an attempt to try to read the absurdly small writing.

“It says five dollars I think?” You roll your eyes as you snatch the book out of his hands making him chuckle at your obvious dislike of the price. “Is it not on sale like the others?” He asks as you give him a smile when he reaches for your coffee mug so he can hold it once more while you put the overpriced book back.

“No it’s regular price and while I love a good romance novel I just don’t think one about a cowboy named Richard is worth that much because honestly what cowboy is named Richard? And it says he’s a calf roper and they ain’t nothing but bad news and I just know he’s gonna wreck that poor Mary Anne and not in the good way so back to the bin with him.” Harry feels his eyes go a bit wide as you explain what the book was about and he doesn’t know why the idea of you reading romance novels just makes his cheeks get pink. He knows everyone enjoys a good romance novel but here you are in your shorts and sweatshirt that has “let’s go girls” on it in bright yellow letters and your sunglasses holding your hair out of you face talking to him about cowboy smut.

“Richard is a horrible cowboy name.” He agrees making you laugh and Harry smiles at himself at the fact he made you laugh as he follows behind you when you go down the row and stop at a bin that’s labeled “friends to lovers” and Harry begins to wonder if the two of you have been in the romance section this whole time and he’s just been too distracted to notice.

“What’s your favorite trope honeybuns?” You ask him as you pick up a book and give it a once over. “I’m thinking you’re a slow burn kinda man.” He doesn’t miss the teasing tone of your voice that always seems to make your accent thicken and he grips your coffee mug a little tighter as you turn around so you’re facing him and it’s not until then that he realizes just how closely behind you he’s been standing because the top of the book in your hands touches the middle of his chest.

“I uh don’t uhm-”

“This one seems good it’s about Francine who is good friends with David who honestly sounds like a dream boat and they get trapped in a cabin during a snow storm and it’s the wildest forty eight hours she’s ever had but will their friendship survive?” Harry is enamored with the way you can somehow make the synopsis of a fairly uninteresting book sound so intriguing and while most of it has to do with your accent it’s the way it mixes with the softness of your voice that sucks him in and he knows he would be perfectly content standing here all day listening to you read to him.

You look up at him as if you’re silently asking him if he agrees that the books sounds good and all he can do is nod even though if he’s being honest it doesn’t sound that interesting to him but he can tell you seemed into it. You smile as Harry removes a handle of the tote off his shoulder so you can toss the book into the bag so it can join the few others you had found during the half hour the two of you had been wondering around the store. It takes all of Harry’s willpower not to grab your hand when you turn and begin to walk further down the row of bins, but he knows this is exactly why you handed him your things because it’s your way of setting a boundary with him and he is a gentleman after all so he’s going to respect it and just slide his hand into the pocket of his shorts to grab his phone as he follows behind you. He doesn’t think before he snaps the photo, it’s nothing scandalous it’s just you leaning over the bin of “slow burn” books with a small smile on your face and he can’t help but chuckle to himself when he notices you’re on your tiptoes trying to get to the back of the bin clearly reaching for a specific book.

“Honey can I borrow your-”

“Here you go love.” You smile when Harry just reaches over you and grabs the book you were struggling to reach since it was at the very back of the bin, handing it to you with a smile. His hand lands on the edge of the bin while he looks over your shoulder so he can glance over what the book is about. “Does that say Trisha and Harry?” He asks making you giggle as you nod your head and move the book so he can get a better look at it.

“He’s in love with her but he’s scared to tell her so he drags it out for damn near a decade but when he does finally tell her it’s on her wedding day.” Harry feels his mouth slightly drop at the dramatics of this plot and he already knows you’re going to want to add it to the tote bag.

“Her wedding day? What a twat.” You laugh and shake your head as you turn around and look up at him making him momentary forget how to breathe at how close you are.

“You kiss your momma with that mouth Harry?” Harry feels his cheeks get hot as you slide the book into the tote. “Always forgetting you’re supposed to be a gentleman.” You tease as you take your mug from him and take a few sips as you reach up and playfully tap his chest with your free hand. “Come on sugar let’s go see if they have any books on baking.” With that you shoot him a wink and Harry drops his hand from the edge of the bin so you can walk away from him and towards the cook book section.

“God she’s good.” He mumbles to himself as he finally find himself able to speak, he runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh of content before he turns and heads off in the direction of the aisle he just saw you disappear down.

[traintrainingmontage]

[March Prompt Event related] HELLO >:3 CONGRATS ON YOUR 150 FOLLOWERS AND ALL THE WORK YOUVE GOT DONE SO FAR, TE!! For my prompt, Godred being visited by his CFR brothers one by one, after they discover that he is, in fact, alive [but not well]

THANK YOU, COLE!! 💖 I've been looking forward to doing this one for quite a while, and now, IT'S TIME!!

The organization that rescued Godred, Toby (the OC), and some of the story beats included herein have been borrowed from Cole (with permission)!

The language that Culdee speaks at the end is Zurich, keeping in line with where he was built, and I had to use Google Translate, so apologies for any incorrect translations!

(CW: Engine injury; mentions of engine death)

(Have an idea for a prompt I should write? Want to see what I've written so far? Details are here!)

Someone fixed Godred, and they want to bring him here.

Such was the terrifying, tantalizing thought curling within the smokeboxes of the eldest four engines of the Culdee Fell Railway once the news had broken that morning. Their Controller, Mr. Alistair Richards, had delivered the announcement in a rather unsteady voice, as though even he couldn't quite believe the contents of the call he'd received, although his disbelief was quite understandable. His grandfather had been the Controller when the... initial decision had been made, and Godred's name had long been scrubbed from all official documentation and tourist pamphlets, leaving it only to linger as a lump in the back of his brothers' throats.

All of the engines had thought about and considered this particular situation for the rest of the day, each of them feeling some kind of way about this particular announcement. Now that night had fallen and they were all back in their sheds, finally alone, it was time to discuss.

As the other six engines began to talk about the recent news, Culdee was silent. He in particular had always had the strongest feelings about Godred. He'd been the one to try and convince his brother of his foolishness. He'd been the one keeping the eldest's name alive though telling others of his demise, only for all the rest of the world to assume he was telling a ghost story or, even worse, making it up.

Now that had been an unpleasant conversation, the one he'd had to have with Skarloey and Rheneas of the Skarloey Railway. Once Duncan and Sir Handel had left, they'd so genuinely complimented him on his "made-up" story. It was the perfect thing to teach their younger engines a thing or two about safety, and no story of theirs could have been nearly as effective. Their faces so earnest, their laughter that of being in on some kind of joke. It had made Culdee want to vomit, should he have had the ability.

Instead, a long-dormant anguish, donning the guise of wrath, had erupted up from his boiler, filling his body from his tubes to his cylinders so quickly that for a moment, Culdee had forgotten how to breathe. The other two engines' good cheer had so quickly fallen away at the stony expression that stole away his smile, at the glint of steel in his once-affable gaze, leaving them both staring at him in wide-eyed confusion. "You think that I made that up?" he'd rumbled in disbelief, volcanic anger and chilly disappointment battling for dominance over each word. "You think that I would sully my brother's name and memories by lying about him? I had not realized that you both thought so little of me."

"No, it's not like that at all!" had come Skarloey's predictably panicked reply, and nearby, Rheneas had been struck silent, eyes overflowing with the clear desire to do damage control but not quite knowing where to start. "We didn't mean anything like that!" Skarloey had continued to plead, a note of desperation in his voice. "We'd heard about the accident, but all we'd heard was that Godred had been scrapped! Not anything about... his parts being... recycled..."

Culdee had taken a deep breath at Skarloey's clumsy attempt at delicacy, but decided to take the other engine at his word. "Very well. But please understand that I did not entrust you all with my brother's story just for it to be reduced to some tale. It is a tragedy, from beginning to his eventual end, and because nobody else will speak of it, I must. Otherwise... everything he died for will have been for naught."

Such a statement had struck the other two engines dumb, and thus, not another word on that particular topic had been shared for the rest of Culdee's visit.

"Culdee... y'alright?" came the quiet rumble of Shane Dooiney beside him, shaking him loose from the decades-old memory.

"Yes," Culdee muttered, willing himself to calm. In a louder voice, he started to address the rest of the shed, all of the other engines quieting themselves and listening closely as their de facto leader spoke. "Listen, everyone. Ernest confirmed that our Controller looked into the claims, and confirmed their authenticity himself. Godred is... in fact... alive."

A strong hush fell over the shed as the engines of the Culdee Fell Railway all shared glances, some of which were rather unsure, while others held deep dread. In the pit of a boiler, in the teeth of a wheel, in the base of a chimney, a certain tension had come to rest.

Culdee took a breath, and continued to speak. "Godred will be escorted here sometime next week. Patrick, Alaric, Eric, I know that you only know of Godred through our stories about him. However, I will ask that you reserve your judgement for when you actually meet him; we don't know what kind of... condition he will be in."

Nervous glances, followed by affirming sounds answered Culdee's instructions, and the No. 4 engine took one more breath before adjourning the meeting. As all of the engines settled into their berths, Culdee couldn't help but share glances with his two older brothers, as well as Shane Dooiney. All of them seemed as though they weren't quite inclined to sleep just yet, thoughts still stirring about the apparent revival of their eldest brother, long thought to have been scrapped.

Ernest had taken up the mantle of eldest ever since Godred's passing, and while Culdee had ended up becoming the leader of their little fleet, Ernest had taken it upon himself to be their representative to the management, not wanting to burden his little brother with more than he had to.

Wilfred's usual good-natured smile was nowhere to be seen; usually, he acted as the moodmaker of the group, and could reliably be counted on to bolster everyone's spirits during their worst days, but this time, he seemed remarkably somber, eyes staring off into years tinted in sepia.

Shane Dooiney, always one to make his thoughts plain, wore a deep scowl, clearly rattled by this turn of events. While he could be grouchy on the best of days, his candor and loyalty to his brothers had always been his best qualities, as well as his distaste for "nonsense and theatrics," and it was clear to see that he was less than thrilled about the return of one who'd caused them all so much grief.

As for Culdee himself... well. He still felt somewhat responsible for Godred's accident, and that feeling was likely to never go away. He also felt responsible for the rest of his brothers, both the older and the younger, given how he'd somehow ended up becoming their leader. However, as always, he would do the best he could do to get them all through the day, and that would simply have to be enough.

As each engine closed his eyes, one by one, all of the mountain engines fell into a fitful slumber. Certainly, Godred's return was something to be excited about, ecstatic even. It wasn't every day that a supposedly already-scrapped engine got a new least on life, much less one in Godred's condition. However, nobody quite wanted to admit that along with the joy they were supposed to feel, a looming trepidation skulked along in its shadow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As promised, the next week, Godred was delivered to the sheds at Kirk Machan for what his new owners had stated would hopefully be something of a warm reunion. All service had been cancelled for the day in order to allow the engines some "peace and privacy with their dear brother," meaning that all they could do was wait. A team of representatives from the group that had rescued Godred, known as PeCos, had already come by to introduce themselves. This particular group was being led by a woman named Melinda and her assistant Toby ("Hi; my name's Toby and I'm the vice-leader of this excursion. No, I wasn't named for the NWR's No. 7."), who gave their greetings and introductions to the Controller and the assembled engines. The team then performed a quick survey of the area before giving the all clear, and now, there was nothing to do but see this through.

All seven engines internally steeled themselves as the flatbed pulled up, a tarp covering what was supposedly their brother. Ernest and Wilfred put on what they hoped were warm, welcoming smiles, as Culdee and Shane Dooiney looked on with carefully neutral facades, and the youngest three couldn't hide their curiosity, tinged with no small amount of nervousness. With them stood their Controller, an expression of grim dignity on his face. Who could know his thoughts, now that he would be coming face to face with what was perhaps one of the most infamous incidents in his family legacy?

All four of the original engines remembered how Godred had looked, from start to finish. How could they not, especially when he'd been dismantled, cannibalized, piece by piece in front of their eyes? When he'd waffled between angry and apologetic, blaming them all one moment and tearfully wailing the next, cursing God and all above before pleading and praying that his salvation might still come. Telling his brothers how much he loved them in one breath and cursing them to fates as horrific as his in the next. However, whether or not any of his wishes were answered was unknown to them as his cries became softer and softer with time—up until his tubes were removed to fix Ernest. With that, Godred, the CFR's No. 1 engine, was silenced forever, his husk unceremoniously dumped in the pile to be taken to the scrap yard the very next day.

The image of such a gruesome, mangled mockery of a steam engine, a fate that no engine deserved, really, had bubbled up to the forefront of the eldest four engines' minds. Thus, they could only brace themselves, hoping and praying that seeing Godred in a supposedly "fixed" form meant that the guilt they felt building up in their borrowed parts would soon alleviate.

With the help of a crane, Godred was placed onto the tracks before them, and the tarp lifted by members of PeCos. Before the engines' eyes, there he stood: it was certainly Godred, and much to his brothers' deep and overwhelming relief, he appeared to be whole, all of his parts intact, with not even a chip on his paint to indicate that he was anything but immaculate. The only slightly odd thing was that his eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but perhaps he'd had a long trip; it seemed that only the Controller actually knew where this organization was based.

In unison, four mountain engines took a deep breath, feeling the pressure they'd carried for many a day now disperse. Finally, it was Wilfred who finally worked up the courage to call out to their brother. "...Godred?"

At once, the eyelids fluttered open to reveal an achingly familiar gaze, which bored itself into each of the assembled engines in the shed, taking in the smiles, the steady gazes, and the looks of curiosity before his eyes began to take in the sheds themselves. Although he hadn't yet spoken, the other engines couldn't hold themselves back any longer.

"Godred! You're back! Thank god!"

"I can't believe it! It's been so long! I thought... well, it doesn't matter. You're alive!"

"Can't believe how lucky you are, getting saved from scrap like that!"

"So this is Godred? After Culdee's story, I thought..."

"Well, what else were you expecting? A zombie?"

"Oooh, that might have been cool..."

"Everyone, quiet." This command had come from none other than Culdee, who was staring at his eldest brother with appraising eyes. Immediately, the chatter around him ceased, all eyes quickly settling upon him before shifting toward Godred, who still had not yet spoken, but was shaking in his frames, looking around the sheds with wide eyes and naked panic on his face. "Ha... haah... haaaah..." His voice was barely intelligible, so quiet that his panting could have been passed off as the laughter of the wind, but this was no laughing matter; from every angle, it appeared as though Godred was having a panic attack.

"Godred..." one of the PeCos members began, and reached out to touch him, just as Culdee yelled "NO!"

Yet, despite his warning, it came a moment too late; the touch was enough to push Godred over the edge, and with wild, unfocused eyes that clearly weren't seeing the present, Godred forced himself backwards, away from all assembled.

Unfortunately, when he'd been unloaded, his brake had apparently not been applied, because the jerking motion that Godred made was more than enough to send him careening backwards, off the track, and sending him skittering back down the bend toward where their rails met the NWR's main line.

"GODRED!" the PeCos members shrieked, and they hurried over to the prone engine, with Toby shouting orders as the others scampered to comply. The other engines could only watch on dumbly, not entirely sure how to parse what had just happened; even the Controller appeared to be at a complete loss for words.

Suddenly, biting through the silence as surely as a pinion against a track, one solid, steady command rang out amongst the cacophonous quiet. "Sir. Please steam me up. We won't be going far."

Mr. Alistair Richards' eyes swung towards Culdee, who was staring back at him with steep determination, and amidst the rest of the confusion, it comforted the Controller somewhat to know that at least someone had a plan amidst this... this farce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After about an hour, it became abundantly clear that Godred was in no condition to be either moved or touched, given the way his crazed gaze landed on anybody who dared approach. Not a word had escaped his lips, but his discomfort was clear enough to be understood by all assembled. Toby, the vice-leader of the visiting PeCos team, was roundly scolding his subordinates, particularly the poor soul who'd made the mistake of touching Godred during his panic attack and another who hadn't secured the brake properly, and was clearly trying to get the situation under control while Melinda, who was supposedly leading this team, simply looked overwhelmed.

With such a mess on their doorstep, Culdee was steamed up by the Controller himself and driven down a short ways to the site of the wreckage. After taking in all there was to see, the No. 4 locked eyes with Melinda. "Excuse me, could you please tell me what's going on? You said that my brother was coming to visit for a warm reunion, but now he's in this poor state. Please explain."

Culdee's tone was polite, but his eyes were stone cold, and Melinda seemed to shudder as she looked up at the engine and his Controller. "Well, you see... ever since we finished his repairs, Godred has been... less than communicative. We've tried everything we could think of, but after nothing appeared to work, it was suggested that we organize a visit here, to his old railway, to help him open up more. However, it seems that—"

"It seems that you miscalculated," Mr. Richards cut in, his words pretending politeness although his tone was ice-cold. "I would think that for billing yourselves as an engine rescue organization, you would do your research before exposing an engine so clearly in need of help to a place that was a source of such great trauma to him."

Melinda had no ready retort, and so could only bite her lip and nod her head at the criticism. "I understand. We will take full responsibility—"

"Of course you will," the Controller once again interrupted. "What shall we do now, Culdee?"

"..."

After a moment, the No. 4 sighed. "Please bring me closer to him."

The Controller silently obliged, with Melinda and the other PeCos members getting out of the way as Culdee trundled steadily forward.

Once Culdee was about as close to Godred as he could get, the CFR's No. 4 licked his lips and began to speak.

"Godred, ghöred Sie mich?" [Godred, can you hear me?]

One moment passed, then another. Godred continued to pant on the ground, but his eyes seemed to slowly blink back into clarity at the words.

"Ich bin's. Din chliine Brüeder." [It's me. Your little brother.]

"...Culdee..."

The reply was scratchy, forced out through a voice raspy with almost a century of disuse, and the listeners were barely able to make out that he'd said a word at all. However, for the first time since his rescue and overhaul, Godred, the CFR's former No. 1 engine, had spoken.

Culdee's eyes widened with delight, and for the first time that day, a small smile found its way to his face.

"Ja, da bisch du. Ich han gwüsst das es schaffsch. Du hesch dini Stimm wieder." [Yes, there you are. I knew you could do it. You have your voice back.]

"...Ich scho?" [...I do?]

"Ja. Ändlich chani dini Stimm wieder ghöre. Es isch so lang här..." [Yes. I can finally hear your voice again. It's been so long...]

There was a long silence for a moment, Godred's eyes fixed solely on Culdee and his gentle, sweet voice, before, to the amazement and sorrow of the onlookers, tears slipped out, running freely down the downed engine's cheeks. Those eyes, once so full of ego, had been broken, mellowed out by time and circumstance, to be softer now. It was a look Culdee wasn't used to seeing on such a proud face.

"Äxgüsi. Es tuet mer so leid. Bitte verzeihed Sie mir. [I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.]

"Ich het sölle zuelose. Ich hetts müesse wüsse." [I should have listened. I should have known.]

Culdee's eyes fluttered closed at the admission, trying to stifle the tears welling up behind his own eyes. After all these years of wondering what he could have, should have, done differently, of blaming himself for pushing too hard, and for not pushing enough, the simple acknowledgement so neatly cut through the cluttered emotions entwined around his heart. All at once, he'd been freed, from just a few simple words.

"Ich bin nur froh, dass du no läbsch." [It's alright. I'm just happy that you're alive.] Culdee replied sincerely, his smile growing slightly wider than before. In front of him, Godred's sobs continued, although they seemed to be tapering off, his gaze never leaving Culdee's as the No. 4 stared at him with a gentle expression.

"Es tuet mer Leid, dass ich so hässig uf eu gsi bin. Es isch nie eui Schuld gsi." [I'm sorry that I was so angry at you all. It was never your fault.]

"Muesch so viel Schmerz gha ha. Mached Sie sich kei sorge." [You must have been in so much pain. Don't worry about it.]

"..."

There was another beat of silence as Godred seemed to process all that Culdee had said, no longer shaking as the worst of his panic attack finally seemed to pass. As Godred's breaths evened out, his voice, despite still being in such poor condition, seemed to be a little stronger as well.

"Segeds mer. Bin ich eu allne nützlich gsi?" [Tell me. Was I useful to you all?]

At such a question, Culdee couldn't help but regard his brother with eyes warm with appreciation, mixed with what could only be heartbreak.

"Meh, als du jemals wüsse chöntsch." [More than you could ever know.]

Godred must have seen the pain in Culdee's face, but he didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he just continued to stare before a tiny smile crossed his face.

"Dänn langets ja." [That's good, then.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After another hour of discussion between the two brothers, Culdee finally turned to Melinda and Toby, who'd finished cleaning up as best they could. "It seems that my brother is ready to go back now," Culdee announced to the two, and both of them nodded, grateful smiles on their faces as they directed the crane to lift Godred from his position. "But please... let there not be a repeat of this."

"We won't let this happen again," Toby nodded solemnly, shooting a pointed look at Melinda. It seemed that someone might not be staying at PeCos much longer. "We'll keep you updated on his progress, and thanks to you, we have a much better idea of treatment options moving forward."

"That's good to hear," Culdee smiled, watching on as Godred was carefully transferred to the flatbed once again. "This place is no longer his home. I sincerely hope that he can be happier with you all."

As the PeCos staff worked to get him settled, Godred's eyes didn't leave Culdee, and Culdee's eyes didn't leave Godred.

"Chönnte mir..." [Could we...] Godred croaked, his expression hesitant, but he left the thought unfinished. Culdee, however, already knew what he wanted to say.

"Mir chönd rede, wenn immer Sie wend. Ich bin da." [We can talk whenever you would like. I'll be here.]

Thus, Godred was safely transported back to his new home. As the weeks passed, several calls came in to the CFR from PeCos headquarters, all asking for Numbers 2 through 5. Ernest's calm, steady voice told their brother about all of the interesting passengers he'd met and fun gossip he'd heard along the line. Wilfred performed his most recent rendition of his catchiest mountain-climbing songs, which earned him a round of applause from his many listeners. Shane Dooiney grumped about the weather, the trucks, and ridiculous passenger demands. Even the newer engines got their turn, introducing themselves to Godred and telling him about their most famous exploits.

For Culdee himself, however, he actually had very little to say. Instead, the CFR's No. 4 was perfectly happy to listen as his brother spoke about PeCos and his brand new life, smiling all the while.

[ladyshivs]

For the character headcanons ask game

Could you describe Richard's smile and laugh? I wanna see that man happy please and thank you :)

Aw! Thank you 💖 he can have a smile and a laugh, as a treat!

Richard tends to laugh low and soft in a chesty chuckle. Usually he tries to hide it in a snort or with a grunt, clearing his throat and fighting down the sound. If it catches him off guard, or is a more quiet moment, he’ll giggle a bit brighter and higher. The most common laugh you'll hear from him is a single, sharp bark of a laughter that comes from being startled by something snide Daniel has let slip out of nowhere.

His smile is a whip-thin thing, lips pressed tight and corners being fought back down. When he's in a genuinely good mood or feeling confident in himself, the smile turns brighter and more open, showing off his upper teeth and curling tight at the edges, head tilted back and eyes crimping narrow.

[marimayscarlett]

Hi! ✨

I just wanted to send Richard to check that everything is as good for you as possible and that there are no more idiotic anons to bother you:

I hope next week brings you a lot of nice and relaxing things! 💖

He arrived after some more walking...

...and in fact looked my inbox deep in the eye and told potential drama to shut up...

...demonstrated some of his defense moves...

...and made sure I feel alright 😌🤲

So thank you for sending him my way! And thank you for your concern and your words, your message really brought a smile on my face 🤍

[guruan]

Richard Muñoz Fluffy Winter Head Cannon Thoughts:

It's a snowy Saturday afternoon in December and you are both making Christmas/Holiday sugar cookies for an upcoming Party or cookie exchange.

You're icing some snowman sugar cookies and you have the idea to try and ice in his characteristic mustache under the carrot nose, and you finish it off with a little grey badge mimicking his uniform. You present him his snowself and he blushes, smiling the smile you love that makes his eyes crinkle in the corner. He decorates a snowman that looks like you. It evolves into a mustache contest and every snowman in the holiday cookie pile has some crazy silly facial hair.

While the both of you clean up you tease him lovingly about licking the icing with his fingers. He boops some on your nose and kisses it clean, laughing in turn while you do the same.

The night is finished off eating the snowmen you decorated for each other, sipping his special hot chocolate, and watching cheesy Christmas movies while he tells you about some of the Christmas traditions back home.

Hope it brightens up your day a little! 💖

Omg 🥹 that's going to make me daydream for hours

He's adorableee🥰

All the things we (you?) can cook, just think about it

Buñuelos, apple salad, gingerbread houses...

LOVELY

[1waveshortofashipwreck]

Should've Been Born Later, Nix - Chapter 3: The Twins

Easy Company x Fem!OCs

Chap. Synopsis: What will happen when Easy Company finally starts getting settled in 2023?

Words: 3,440

Find the fic's navigation page here !!

Have a question/want to be on the taglist? Let me know !!

Author's Note: (Link to picrew in collage) Hey everyone!! I just wanted to say that part of this chapter mentions irl Easy Company and I wanted to emphasize that this work means absolutely NO disrespect to the real veterans - this work of fiction is based solely on the characters in the TV Series 💖

“Well, how do y’all like 2023 so far?” Zay asked over her shoulder, the three arriving at a pair of elevators.

“It’s certainly… something,” Joe replied hesitantly, causing Zay to let out a quiet giggle. The trio made their way back to the emergency room, Zay leading them back to the beds. The nurse stopped at another desk similar to the one Liebgott and Speirs saw before, asking which bed Malarkey was in. After the short conversation, Zay led Liebgott and Speirs through the maze of hospital beds and patients before finally arriving at the rest of Easy Company. They saw Malarkey laying in his bed, the top half of the bed raised so the soldier was sitting up. The rest of the boys were spread around his bed, some in chairs, others standing and leaning against the wall. Zay could barely contain her shock and excitement - ten people from the show that she has seen way too many times, honestly she could probably quote each episode word for word, were right before her. Surveying the men, Zay smiled and put her hands on her hips.

“So this is Easy Company,” she mused before all of the boys who were sitting compulsively shot to their feet, quickly reminding Zay of the strict etiquette rules of their time. She let out a laugh before she said, “Oh sit please! No need to stand on ceremony!” What Zay did not know was that the men were utterly enamoured - they did not know what to make of the nurse. She was unlike anyone any of them had ever met; she was bright, bubbly, outgoing, but exuded an air of openness and authenticity, something that made the boys feel safe and at home, even in such an alien place. One by one, the boys who were sitting slowly sat back down.

Suddenly snapping back into his leadership role, Dick stepped forward and outstretched his hand. “Ma’am, I’m Richard Winters, thank you for meeting with us,” he said politely, trying desperately to hide his nerves. Dick felt something he had never felt before - simultaneously, he felt safe and comfortable, but incredibly nervous, as if he was going to say something wrong. Zay smiled and shook Dick’s hand with a gentle but decisive grip - he could have sworn there was a spark.

“Azalea Bennett! You can call me Zay though,” she introduced herself to the captain. “And I think I know everyone here…” Zay took a survey around the small area sectioned off by rolling curtain dividers. “Looks like we have Lewis Nixon, George Luz, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Bull Randleman, Doc Roe, an injured Don Malarkey,” she pointed to each man as she named him before turning to look beside her. “Joe Liebgott, Ron Speirs,” Zay finally turned to the quiet leader before her, “and captain Dick Winters.” There were mixed reactions from the boys. Most of the company were impressed and amused by the nurse’s memory, while Guarnere and Toye kept their guard up.

“How the fuck do you know our names?” Guarnere asked defensively.

“Don’t swear around the lady Gonorrhea!” Toye scolded as he smacked the man’s arm.

Zay let out another laugh before Guarnere could retaliate at his friend. “Okay, first, I don’t give a fuck if you swear around me,” Zay commented. The twenty eyebrows in the room shot to the ceiling when they heard the lady swear so casually - maybe they might like 2023. “And to answer your question… I’m not really sure how to tell y’all this,” she buried her hands in her shirt pockets, looking at the ground. “So… um…” Zay tried to find her words, the eight soldiers waiting anxiously. “There’s this TV show, called Band of Brothers, that follows the soldiers of Easy Company and all of their missions and challenges as they fight the Germans in Europe.” Zay meekly looked up to survey the boys, trying to gauge their reactions. Some looked at her with their jaws on the floor, unable to believe her words. Others were staring into space, attempting to process the revelation. Speirs and Liebgott were surveying the reactions with Zay, while Malarkey spoke up.

“So, here, we’re all just characters in a TV show?” There was a certain quality to Don’s voice - it almost sounded like disappointment. Back home, or at least in Europe, they were fighting the war to end all wars. Here, they were just some characters on television.

“Well, not exactly,” Zay explained, “your characters are all based on real people that really fought in Europe, y’all are portraying them in the show, telling their stories.”

“So if we looked for them, we could find people with our names?” George asked from beside the hospital bed.

“Well… you’d have to look in cemeteries,” Zay replied solemnly, “the war was eighty years ago, I don’t think anyone from Easy Company is still alive.” Heads nodded in understanding to Zay’s statement. “Do y’all know how you got here? Or how to get back?” Zay asked the men, scanning their faces with her ultramarine eyes. Her eyes may have been framed by her glasses, but they never obscured the authenticity that shone from her expressions.

“Hate to say it, but no, we have no idea how any of this happened,” Nixon spoke up from his spot leaning on the wall.

“So what exactly happened?” Zay replied, stepping a bit closer to the group. The men looked around at each other… who was going to tell her what happened? Would she believe them? Would this be the breaking point?

Eugene spoke up after a beat of silence, “Well, we were in Bastogne, and we started taking hits, so of course I dove into a foxhole. Except, I never hit the bottom…” the medic looked down at his hands, as if this was painful to remember. “It was probably only a few seconds, but honestly, it felt like I was falling for ages, and everything was pitch black,” he mumbled the last part under his breath, “it was terrifying.” Roe took a deep breath and shook his head, shaking away the painful memories. “Next thing I knew, I was landing on the concrete, and all these boys were falling from the sky.” Roe pointed around the room with a small smile on his face, earning a sparse chuckle from the room.

“I saw him fall in and not come out, so I jumped in to try and see what happened, then the same thing happened to me,” Liebgott spoke up from behind Zay. “Then that one landed on top of me,” he pointed at Bull with a smirk. “Don’t know how I didn’t bite it.” The group laughed as Bull shot Joe a wink.

“You’re welcome,” Randleman replied with a laugh.

“Toye and I went in after Bull,” Guarnere chimed in, “then I think Lieutenant Speirs tumbled in after us.” He looked over to Ron, who has been leaning on the wall next to Nixon.

“Yeah, a blast threw me backwards into the foxhole,” the officer explained.

“When I saw him go in I wanted to make sure he was okay, so of course I followed,” Nixon added.

“Of course I couldn’t let him go alone,” Winters interjected with a laugh, giving heart eyes to his best friend.

“When I saw the captain go in, the bombardments finally stopped, so Luz and I ran over to make sure he was okay, but of course that didn’t go as planned,” Malarkey shot a playful glare to Luz, who was sitting on the floor near the foot of his bed.

“I said I was sorry!” Luz held up his hands in surrender. The group let out another laugh - everyone could tell that they were starting to relax in the unfamiliar environment.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how we could get back to our own… time, do you?” Dick asked the nurse, looking at her with shyer eyes than he had intended.

“I have no idea, but I’d be happy to help you figure it out!” she said with a smile, the brightest smile any of the men had seen. “Do y’all have a place to stay?”

“Can’t say that we do,” Winters answered, glancing back at Nixon - the officer nodded his head, affirming Winters’ statement.

“If y’all want, you’re more than welcome to stay with me and my sister,” Zay offered bashfully, her eyes going to the floor. “My sister watches the show, so she’d know you guys too.” Everyone looked to captain Winters to see what his decision was. No one would admit it, but each of the men were hoping that their CO would agree to stay with the blue-haired girl.

Dick took a moment to think it over before he replied, “I’m not really sure if we have any other option.” He smiled and nodded his head at Zay, a silent acceptance of her offer for a roof over their heads and a safe place to sleep.

“Great! My sister’s actually on her way, I’ll talk to the doctor and see if we can get Malarkey discharged,” Zay replied happily, a bounce appearing in her step as she walked off to the desk in the middle of the room.

“I think I might like 2023,” Luz spoke up with a smirk.

“Hey! I saw her first!” Liebgott spoke up indignantly, sending a glare to Luz.

“Men, she is our host here and you will treat her with respect,” Winters scolded his men in a firm tone. Nixon and Speirs could not help but let out a scoff at Dick’s words, both of the officers quickly going to cover their mouths. “What?” Winters prodded, becoming slightly defensive at their antics.

“Dick, we all saw how you looked at her earlier,” Nixon responded in earnest. Before the captain could reply, their modern-times hostess returned to the group.

“Y’all are all set to go! My shift ends in a few minutes, so as soon as my sister gets here we’ll head out,” she explained happily, bubbly energy exuding from her.

“Thank you for helping us,” Eugene spoke up, a humble and thankful expression on his face, “I know you kind of know us, so to speak, but still, to take ten strangers into your home is one of the biggest acts of kindness I’ve seen.” Zay blushed a bright red and turned her gaze to the floor, unable to hide the smile spreading across her face.

“It’s nothing, really,” she replied shyly, “but that means a lot to hear from you.” Zay met Roe’s gaze for a moment before going back to the floor, her blush nearly matching her hair in regards to the saturation of the color. Before anyone could chastise Roe for his (what Roe would call unintentional) flirtations, everyone heard an odd sound come from Zay’s pocket. Only Zay knew that the sound was her cell phone’s ringtone, Somebody to Love by Queen, but all Easy Company heard was an unfamiliar song and the voice of an angel. The nurse pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up to her ear. “Hey! Are you here?... Great! I’ll meet you by my car! See you in a sec!” Zay tapped the lit-up rectangle before putting it back in her pocket. “My sister Chrys just got here! Stay here, I’ll get my things and then we can head out.” She turned on her heel, her signature bounce appearing in her step. Liebgott waited for the nurse to be out of earshot before turning to the medic seated next to Malarkey.

“TaKiNg StRaNgErS iNtO yOuR hOmE-” Before Liebgott could finish his mockery of Roe, the medic spoke up to defend himself.

“Hey! I’m just trying to be nice!” Eugene rebutted, voice laced with his trademark Cajun accent. Liebgott, Luz, and Roe began to bicker over flirting with Zay, Guarnere and Toye leaning back and watching the show with amusement. Bull looked on at the three arguing as well, waiting to see how things would turn out. Before things got too out of hand, Zay returned, a multicolored backpack slung across her shoulder.

“Alright! Malarkey is free to go! Ready boys?” She asked, clearly trying to contain her excitement. All ten boys felt their hearts warm at the sight. Roe helped Malarkey out of the bed, the redhead starting to stand on his own. Zay led the men to the elevator, the eleven of them packing in like sardines. Zay wound up squished between the corner, Winters, and Luz. She pushed a button on the side with the label “Garage” beside it before she smiled shyly at the men, backing up against the wall as much as she could. Luz and Winters tried to give the girl as much space as they could, but of course, said space was quite limited. While Winters kept his gaze firmly affixed on his feet, as if he would lose them if he looked away, George snuck a glance at Zay, returning her shy smile as he noticed the blush on her cheeks. As soon as her eyes met his, Zay immediately shifted her gaze to the floor, now staring at her shoes just as intently as Winters. Luz had to bite his lip to keep his smile from growing wider. All too quickly the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal the gray concrete of the hospital's parking garage. The boys filed out quickly, waiting for Zay to lead them to her car.

To anyone else, the group would look like little lost ducklings following their colorful mother duck. A mixture of emotions swam around the group - some were relieved that they found someone who not only knew this time period, but also knew them and liked them. Others were still coming to terms that something as fantastical as time travel happened to the company. How were they going to explain this to the rest of Easy? Or to Colonel Sink? Others in the group continued to be wary of Zay, especially Speirs and Guarnere. While they were greateful for the help, how did they know they could trust her? As for Zay, a mixture of emotions coursed through her body - excitement that she was about to spend time with the people who lived in her head rent-free, joy that she could help people who were need, and a hint of doubt that this was all actually happening… if she told anyone about this, would they believe her?

Zay led the group before everyone noticed the lights illuminate on a yellow car with a soft roof. The car had an emblem with a running horse on the back of it, something that only Zay recognized as a Ford Mustang. As if on cue, a bronze, sleek sports car came around the corner and stopped near the men. Zay put her backpack in her car's trunk before greeting the driver stepping out of the newly arrived Nissan Z-Car. The driver was a woman with short, curly black hair, the bangs and tips dyed bright firetruck red. Her look was punctuated by a pair of minimalist snake-bite piercings beneath her lower lip. The girl was wearing a set of auto-mechanic’s coveralls in classic navy blue, the name “Chrys” embroidered in cursive on the front. Zay engulfed the newcomer in a hug, earning the nurse a mild scolding.

“Zay! You’re gonna make me fall!” the girl laughed before loosely returning Zay’s ambush hug. Zay simply giggled and pulled away enough to talk to the girl, Zay’s arm still wrapped around her shoulder.

“Sorry Chrys! I just got excited,” Zay replied, turning her head to look at the group around her car. “Boys, this is my twin sister Chrys! She was kind enough to take the rest of the evening off work to help y’all get settled,” she announced, looking at Chrys with a proud smile. Chrys offered an awkward wave and a “hello” to the rest of group, not expecting the introduction. The boys replied in greeting before Liebgott spoke up.

“Shit! Captain Winters, we need to get our weapons from up front,” he reported urgently. Zay gave the group a confused look before Joe explained further, “We weren’t allowed to bring our weapons into the hospital, so we stashed them in the bushes up front, we put our helmets there too so we wouldn’t have to carry them.”

Zay nodded in understanding before turning to Chrys, “Do you wanna take half in your car and half in mine, then one of us can put their weapons in the trunk?”

Chrys nodded, turning to the group in front of her. “Alright guys, we gotta split up into two groups for the cars, who wants to go with who?”

“I’ll go with Zay!” Luz volunteered, all too eagerly.

“Me too!” followed Liebgott, glaring at Luz.

Nixon chuckled and shook his head at their antics. “I can go with Chrys,” he offered, meeting her eyes for the first time. Just like that, he knew he needed to know her.

“Me too,” Speirs chimed in. He refused to be in the same car as a bickering Luz and Liebgott.

“Can I just have a front seat, whoever I ride with?” Bull asked around his Emotional Support Cigar.

“Yeah sure, I think my front is roomier,” Chrys replied, Zay nodding along.

“Malarkey, do you and Doc Roe wanna come with me, so that you have medical support just in case anything happens?” The two men nodded in response to her question. Winters simply folded his arms, trying to mask his disappointment with focus. “And then captain Winters can take the last seat in my car, so that we have the officers spread out?” Dick’s eyes lit up at Zay’s offer, trying his best to just act casual.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he rambled out. “That leaves Guarnere and Toye with Chrys, right?”

“Yeah, I’m good with that,” Guarnere responded. He looked at Toye for his response, who nodded along.

“So it’s Nixon, Speirs, Bull, Guarnere, and Toye with Chrys, and Winters, Roe, Malarkey, Liebgott, and Luz with me, right?” Zay said, confirming the riding arrangements.

“Sounds about right,” Chrys agreed. “Now, just so y’all know, we each only have four seats technically, so someone is going to have to lay across three of y’all in the back.” Some of the men’s eyes grew wide, while others laughed at the notion.

“Enjoy figuring that out, boys,” Bull mused while walking to Chrys’ car. After a few more minutes of discussion and bickering, moderated by Winters, the seating arrangements were agreed upon. In Zay’s car, Malarkey would ride in the front, with Winters, Liebgott, and Roe in the back, Luz laying on top of them. In Chrys’ car, Bull would be in the front, with Nixon, Speirs, and Guarnere sitting in the back, and Joe Toye laying across them. Everyone shifted into their assigned seats/positions, some more willingly than others.

“Someone’s gonna fucking die…” Toye muttered under his breath as he laid across the three men, anger exuding from every pore in his face. Speirs and Nixon were able to keep a straight face, albeit with substantial effort, while Bull simply turned his face away and focused on his ESC. Guarnere, however, could not help the giggles that befell him. The harder he tried to suppress them, the more intense they became. Toye made a mental note to get Gonorrhea back for this…

Meanwhile, in the yellow mustang, Luz was getting situated on his human couch, inadvertently sticking his ass right into Liebgott’s face. “Hey! Watch where you’re sticking that thing!” Joe yelled as he tried to evade touching George’s ass with his face.

“Yeah! That’s a dangerous weapon!” Malarkey called out from his seat up front. Everyone in the car erupted into laughter, save for Luz who shot Don a playful glare.

“I said I was sorry like a million times!” the radioman yelled, sounding very much like a little kid. Once both sisters knew everyone was situated, they drove out of the parking garage. Stopping briefly to place their once-hidden belongings in Chrys’ trunk, the two cars made their way to the twins’ apartment complex. Something that blew the boys’ minds while en route was how the girls played their music during the drive. At first, the men assumed they just had a radio in their cars, which they thought was neat already. However, when Chrys and Zay explained to their respective soldiers how “the cloud” and Spotify work, their minds were utterly blown. This was all the twelve kids talked about as they made their way home.

~~~~~

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Taglist: @b00ks1ut , @blueberry-ovaries , @bucky32557038ww2 , @claudycod , @dontirrigateme , @emilee1421 , @executethyself35 , @hanniewinnix , @ithinkabouttzu , @jump-wings , @love--persevering , @panzershrike-pretz , @stolen94 , @xxluckystrike

As always thank you so much for reading!! Chapter 4 will drop next week 😁💕

[spaceprincessem]

fuck it friday

thank you to @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @devirnis @rogerzsteven @alyxmastershipper and @disasterbuckdiaz for the tag today 💖💖 i actually wrote buck sees ghost yesterday and although it is spooky vibes and not halloween here is some snippet (cause fuck it amirite?)

“What’s this?” Bobby asks with a small furrow of his brow. “Another missing person,” Athena says gravely, “two girls taken three days apart.” Buck carefully grabs a stack full of plates, the room going eerily quiet as they all listen in. “Melissa Stewart was last seen five days ago,” Athena says as she points to the first picture on the flier, “and Amy Richards is the most recent girl to be taken.” “You think it’s that serial killer,” Chim leans over the island, “The Mortician or whatever they call him.” “Unfortunately,” Athena sighs and suddenly she looks exhausted as she leans back in her chair. Buck catches the way everyone shares a wary glance, the tension in the room thick and heavy, like there’s a sudden weight pressing down on the back of their shoulders. Buck rounds the corner and nearly drops all of the plates in his hand, barely scrambling to keep them from hitting the floor when he sees the flier.  “Alright over there, Buckaroo?” Chimney asks, but Buck ignores him as he stares down at the picture of Melissa Stewart. In the picture she’s smiling, dressed in a UCLA hoodie wearing glasses with her hair tucked behind her ears. In Buck’s apartment last night she was silently screaming, covered in markings like someone was ready to carve her open. His stomach gives a violent twist and he stumbles back against the kitchen island, plates clutched against his chest.  Dead. Melissa Stewart is dead. 

tagging @shortsighted-owl @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy @cowboy-buddie @renecdote @wildlife4life

[windor-truffle]

Asbel nearly crashed into Richard as the prince suddenly crouched down in the grass, then straightened up with a sopheria in his hand. "For the flower crown." "O-oh, right! Well, we're going to need more than just one…" Asbel started, then caught eye of Bryce's seething glare. "...But I don't think we really have time to pick flowers right now." "I see…" said Richard disappointedly. "Then, let's make this one into a symbol of our victory, and overcoming adversity."  Before Asbel could blink, Richard had leaned in and tucked the flower behind his ear. Asbel felt his face reddening. "With this flower, I hereby declare you a future knight of Windor." Richard swept his hand into a salute, flashing a smile. "May the wind guide our blades!"  Asbel grinned back. "May the wind guide our blades!!"

--

posting my weekly promotional excerpt of Two Hearts Could Be One a little out of order (this is from chapter 4) because today is Valentine's Day 💖💖 these two are so goddamn cute 😭💜

[mrsfitzgerald]

budapest. 12.07.23 🥹❤️

[modmad]

so there's been a little bit of an excellent Mad Mod resurgence lately, and a pal of mine brought up you and wondered if your name was due to him - i'm absolutely delighted to find out what a fan you are!! 🙈💖 there's something so charming about discovering a deeply cool artist was (and is!) also engaged in fun fandom and silly characters. thanks for making me smile today 🥰

NEIL RICHARDS IS BACK AND I WASN'T TOLD who let him out. why is he breaching containment. WHAT HAPPENED

[starleska]

Ok, spill the beans about this Mad Mod blorbo of yours. Gimme the details

aaaaaaaa!!!!!! oh my gosh yes yes yes thank you for the opportunity i would love to gush about him - and hopefully get some other people interested 🙈🙈🙈 prepare for an infodump!!!

this is Mad Mod, real name Neil Richards: a brilliant, stylish villain, and an iconic enemy of the Teen Titans!! now, Mad Mod's been around for a while, first appearing in Teen Titans #7 as a fashion designer-turned-smuggler working on Carnaby Street, and later with a more hipster design in the New 52 DC comics. however, the version you'll see me yelling about most (and i think that most are familiar with) is the Mad Mod from the 2003 animated Teen Titans show (see above) 💖

Mad Mod is very much emblematic of his name: he's a crazy British bad guy whose aesthetic, interests and personality are influenced by 60's Mod culture. he speaks with a pronounced Cockney accent (voiced by Malcolm McDowell, who you may know as Alex DeLarge from A Clockwork Orange), dresses in trim, fashionable, Mod-style suits and other outfits (e.g., military parkas), and is an extreme Anglophile: believing British culture and values (ostensibly Mod culture, but also Britain and/or England as a monolith) are superior to others. his original beef with the Teen Titans is their lack of manners: Mad Mod believes them to be poorly behaved, and in need of 'teaching' and 'correcting' (please make no assumptions about me or my taste from this 🙈).

i think Mad Mod is fascinating for a lot of reasons, with the first being his incredible technological capabilities. you see, Mad Mod is not technically the young man you see in the image above: he's actually well past middle-age, but is capable of constructing high-tech illusions using gadgets, robots and screens (shown to be controlled using his ruby-topped cane, which he is quite proficient with!). in Teen Titans, Mad Mod is first shown projecting this younger version of himself as a hologram in a constructed, confusing labyrinth which mimics a school. behind the scenes, Mad Mod - physically an old man - is using this younger version as an avatar to torment the Teen Titans. however, later on Mad Mod devises a technology which allows him to steal youth from other people. in the episode Revolution, Mad Mod steals Robin's youth, reverting his own physical form to a younger version - confirming that the Mad Mod we see in his debut episode is how he looked when he was younger: the skinny, suited redhead with the pretty smile 😉

a lot of people will remember Mad Mod for one thing: the hypnosis. a big gimmick of Mad Mod's is his use of custom-built hypnoscreens: large screens which play repetitive spirals intended to hypnotise and/or brainwash the observer. his goals expand beyond just trying to hypnotise the Teen Titans into being more well-behaved; he later attempts to brainwash them and the entirety of Jump City into believing the American Revolution never happened, and that he is actually their English king. with regards to his love of Britain and England, Mad Mod is...not particularly well-adjusted, and i'm saying that as a Brit 🙈💖

a lot of people are very taken by the unique design of Mad Mod's episodes - specifically his chase sequences, which contain fun references to popular British culture (like Monty Python and The Beatles). taken to be an avant-garde extension of the giant illusions he builds, Mad Mod's style borrows a good deal from 60's pop art, and uses stark, black-and-white imagery with noticeably different rendering than other characters and backgrounds. it's honestly really cool!!! you may recognise a similar art style used in Across the Spider-Verse with Spider-Punk, AKA Hobie Brown 🔥

everything about Mad Mod is explicitly British (particularly English), but his view of Britishness and correct behaviour is both out-dated and extraordinarily narrow. i theorise this is because he never quite reconciled with growing older and the Mod subculture going out of style...he's obsessed with regaining his youth, and despite being The Most British Thing Since Austin Powers, he continues to live in America and push a very odd, caricatured idea of Britishness onto other people that is unique to his worldview. as Cyborg sums up neatly, "Man, I bet even real British people don't like you!"

but, all of that lore aside - you came to know why Mad Mod is my latest blorbo!!! well...just look at him 🥴 he's capital e 'Evil' with a penchant for tying people up and absolutely no respect for other people's personal space 🥺💖 he also has that attractive combo of being abrasive and degrading, whilst also being soft and elegant. not to mention he's a total goofball;;; there's nothing i love more than a villain who's having a great time, and he is having a blast 🙈

you know this guy is Tumblr Sexyman material too: the suits, the cane-twirling, the crazy powers...who cares that he's actually a grandpa? sexualising old men is a national sport on this website 😂 on a physical level he hits a lot of beats for me...gangly, bespectacled (with tinted lenses!!!!!), ginger and crooked teeth??? man 😳😳😳 it doesn't help that i've already had a handful of f/os who are meant to represent a specific decade/style/etc, one of whom is literally Austin Powers;;; my taste is terrible, but consistent 😂😂 all in all, please visualise little cartoon hearts coming off my icon whenever you see me posting about this freak 🥰🥰🥰 if you're a lover of silly villains too, the DCAU is a great place to look!! shout out to my pal @iriso-page for sending the fateful ask that triggered my fixation in a cascade 🙈 thanks so much for sending this in - hopefully this causes a couple other people to check him out too 😉

[nenenenely]

I would like you guys to appreciate how handsome this Richard is!!!! His smile is so gorgeous!!! I'm in love with his smile!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰💖💖💖💖💖

If anyone can find the gift, i would thank you forever!!!

[rjshope]

same, i love getting updates every other day and so far its pretty vague so its hard to guess what exactly it'll be the canvas for his new project is completely blank, i do have an idea in my head for the vibes and what type of genre & lyrics might be in the album, but i also know once its out the execution will blow my mind part of me is eagerly waiting for it to release and end the suspense but the other part of me doesnt want to let go of these constant updates :'')

User rpwprpwprpwp is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get😁

One day he is a blonde, the other day he is with black hair, one day he is smol, the other day he is toll, one day he it's like Wong Kar-Wai movie, the other day it's like Richard Linklater movie (don't ask, i can't explain it) - it's so unpredictable and i love it so much!

I saw one Everything Everywhere All at Once reference theory but i can't even say anything, i need to watch the movie first x)

All i hope for is that he genuinely had fun working on this project. And looking at his brightest smile i think he had💖