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d-lissa · 10 months

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Liveblogging TMA - Season 3 - MAG 118-120

"Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean it’s a lie."

SEASON THREE FINALE

In three parts this time !

Have I mentionned just how much I hate this podcast ? Because I do. Just. Fuck this story. Can't stop pulling at my heartstrings.

At least, this time around I saw most of that coming, so it didn't panick me as much as the last two finales but WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN JONATHAN DREAMS OF THE STATEMENTS HE RECEIVED EXCUSE ME-

I just. We just can't let this man not be traumatized for five minutes, can we ? No wonder the man can't fucking sleep if he always dream of the people he received the statements of dying miserably every night. Is that what the people who gave the statements dream of too ? Or, since everyone mentions feeling better, did he, like, eat the fears they talked about ?

You know what ? I don't know how much The Institute pays its workers, but the man ain't paid enough for this bullshit.

Here's to hoping Peter will propose that therapy thing to him as well whenever he wakes up, if he isn't in on probably sacrificing Jon to the Eye for the Watcher's Crown, that is.

At this point, you know the deal.

THE MASQUERADE :

"Sorry, Elias. I can’t hear you. There’s – a door in the way."

Pfft. I have to say, I was confused for a bit, but I found that beginning extremely funny.

And so we start with Martin burning statements. Probably to make sure that Elias is occupied and can't go magically snooping around. Of course, we know it ends badly for Martin, but man was that moment cathartic. Martin should act up more often, actually.

Meanwhile, at the wax museum, Jon is a worried mess and the canddle work is sloppy. Man, the Stranger could've tried harder at least.

"When you were, um, kidnapped, did you leave a tape recorder here?"

And of course, a tape recorder appeared out of fucking nowhere. I am not even surprised at this point. Might as well, you know ? Thank you The Web, for giving us listeners an opportunity to see this mess happen in real time.

"Oh, so that’s it, isn’t it. Martin’s just acting out. I mean, Daisy’s a “rabid dog,” and Melanie’s a potential killer, Tim’s a – a rogue element, but Martin, oh Martin’s just acting out. He’ll have a cry, and a lie down, and feel much better."

Oof.

I mean, to be fair, his actions does look like more of a temper tantrum than anything else. Like, I know it's a plot and all, but also, compared to our previous resident arsonist, I can't say that Martin is being very intimidating here.

Which is fair, it's not the point, but it's not like he's lying here either, is he ? He wants to be taken seriously. I kind of feel bad for him.

And of course, the entire mom backstory only worsened that feeling. I will not quote it, because I am hurt enough as is, but Jesus fucking Christ, it explains so much about Martin's behaviour and how he interacts with others.

Sorry Martin, I know you love your mother very much, but man what a bitch.

Back at the unknowing, the wax work isn't actually wax work, and Jon is ... Strangely appreciative of the setting ?

"Yes. I suppose it is."

Like, what do you mean, you suppose it is "holy", Jon ? I mean, I guess seeing something so uncomprehensible for the first time would be quite an experience, and to be fair, I myself am quite curious about, but "holy" ?

Terrific, horrific, nauseating. Jon, I feel like you're being too admirative here. It is profane, and something that should scare you. Though, I suppose it does ?

It scares him and he finds it beautiful anyway, or maybe even because of how terrible it is ? Jon, you're still trying to sell the fact that you have some common sense left, don't go full tortured artist on the things that are actively out to get you.

My God, his head must be such a traumatized mess.

Guess he really makes a good Archivist. Always seeking knowledge and reveling in it, despite ... Everything surrounding it. God knows that outside the context, I too would be mesmerized by it all. It sounds like a fucking trip.

"And I guess you don’t need skin to sing. To join the choir."

God, this is messed up, I love it so much. The imagery in this podcast is out of this world.

Speaking of messed up, more Elias scheming his way into being number one hated character of all time and being quite succesful at it.

But before that, a well earned rant from Martin. God, nobody can catch a fucking break in this story.

"Well, I hope you’ve got something better than that pathetic dig at my feelings for Jon."

I really love how the story is so overt about this, about how Martin very much has feelings for Jon and that they very much are romantic. I wonder how they've come to pass.

Still, I'd hardly say that the way Jon treats Martin is that bad. It's not perfect, obviously, and Jon is kind of a bitch, especially in the first season, but he was also overworked taking over a job he had no qualifications in with a member of his staff that had even less qualifications.

And he was hardly needlessly cruel, just cutting with his words, but still willing to help out how he could when Martin needed help.

I just don't think me and the people in this story have the same definition of "treating someone very badly", not going to lie.

But gosh, the sobs did hurt me.

"Tim, contrary to what you think, I did not bring you here to indulge your death wish."

Except that Tim very much came to do just that. The man wanted to go out swinging, with a bang.

At least he got his wish.

But Jon must feel so hurt seeing someone he cares about so ready to give away his life like that.

STRANGER AND STRANGER :

Man, this entire episode is a fucking trip.

In the most litteral of senses.

"Of course you don’t. You can’t. Not anymore."

Jon is confused and lost and doesn't remember anything ever. The way this is all told through an audio format is so amazing, I am genuinely impressed. I feel like if this had an actual visual support, it'd be less impactful than having to use my imagination to feel how things must be like there.

Love how Nikola is passing herself as Tim and how Jon feels better thinking that he's with his friend, even if he is so confused by everything. Nikola doesn't have mind reading abilities, does she ?

Did Jon talk to her about him when he was being kidnapped ? Talked about the people close to him in some delirious moments of fear or pain ? About Sasha and how he can't remember her because of Nikola's ilk ?

"No, you’re not. Because nothing is anything. Leave."

I also love how everyone has a different way of dealing with the situation. Jon is trying to understand, and to do what he is supposed to do, even if he can't remember what it was, because that's just who he is. He always needs to understand. And he is trying to trust his friends, to trust Tim, because he said he would trust the people around him.

Meanwhile, Daisy is focusing on herself, not believing anything and not trying to understand, just pushing everything away until there is nothing but rage and violence. She can't think, she can't differenciate things, but she doesn't need to, she just needs to listen to herself and the blood guiding her. And she loses herself to it.

"I said get away!"

Tim is just as distrustful as Daisy, just as angry, but he doesn't have the blood, he is just bitter and angry and he cannot trust. He is scared and confused, and so he isolates himself because others only always hurt.

And finally, Basira is just as confused. Like Jon, she wants to understand things, but she is trying to rationalize everything because she is less emotional and attached than he is. She can think but can't understand, but she doesn't need to understand because there's no stakes for her here. She came to help, but can't remember that, so the best way is to listen to herself and not listen to anything else, because she is right and the world is wrong. All she needs to do is get away.

Of course, Jon never would've done that, because he needs to stay and understand and help.

"Don’t be obtuse, Jon. I’m here because you failed."

Oof. Man, Nikola is good at making people doubt themselves.

Anyway, after the "I'm your friend" angle stopped working, Nikola starts gaslighting Jon through Gertrude and Leitner, two people he respects very little but who's disappointment would sting like hell.

And Nikola just knows where to hit, it's impressive.

And Jon listens, Jon feels like everything she is saying is the truth, and he is so sorry about it, oh my fucking god. He just wants to make everything better, but he doesn't know how, and he isn't allowed to think for himself, forced to be overwhelmed by the situation, not understanding anything until he is reminded of what he is.

"I see you."

The Archivist.

"Shame you don’t know your own coffin. But you will."

Daisy, half feral, killed Hope, and for that she is stuck into the coffin. Wherever that leads her, I don't think she's dead, but she will suffer. For a long, long time.

And meanwhile, Basira managed to logic her way out of the Unknowing. Impressive, even if it makes me wonder what she was supposed to achieve here. Did Daisy become like that because Basira wasn't here for her ? Basira is her partner, the one grounding her, so it makes sense that if Daisy loses her, then she loses herself.

It is good that Basira managed to get away, but she didn't do anything to help the situation, did she ? I can't imagine she will feel good about herself once she realize that she's left everyone behind.

"I see the sad clown, bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into the circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name."

That little speech was kind of cathartic, even if what it means for Jon is kind of gruesome. But I also am so tired of monsters condescending the hell out of him.

"Jon. I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can… then I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this."

... I mean, really, Jon didn't do anything warranting the need for Tim's forgiveness, outside of maybe the stalking. But I don't think that's what was on Tim's mind when he said this. Sounds more like even in the end, he blames Jon for everything that happened, as if Jon himself wasn't just as much a victim.

But.

I get it.

No matter how much it hurts me to think about.

"I know."

And so, on a joke that doesn't stick its landing, the bitter existence of Timothy Stoker comes to an end in a blaze of glory, taking with him the Circus, avenging his brother.

Oh, and also Jon, who definitely got killed by the blast for this one.

... Except that it is, unfortunately for Jon, not the case.

EYE CONTACT :

Honnestly, I considered just writing "What the fuck" repeatedly for this entire episode because what the actual HELL-

But, I figure this'd be taking the easy way out.

"Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the dreams of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, currently unresponsive. Details pulled directly from subject."

Ok, but seriously, WHAT is Elias ? How does he have the powers to take the statements from others ? Like, he is worshipping The Eye as well, obviously, but I thought this power over statements and such would be the Archivist's, you know ? It just sounds like those powers would be more useful to them rather than Elias who isn't an Archivist.

But he still has all the powers of one ! And more, even. Will Jon get on his level one day then ? But how did Elias manage to get all these powers when Jon got them all through BEING The Archivist ?

Urgh.

"The Archivist does not know where he is, and in many ways that is correct, for to say that he was anywhere would be an error. He has no conception of his body, lying on that gray hospital bed, perplexing the doctors. Heart unbeating, lungs unmoving, but mind and nerves alive and firing wildly: everything but brain-dead."

God, this is fucked up. This is so fucked up, what the heeeeell.

I will not quote the dream sequence, because just thinking about it makes me ill and sorry for Jon, he's just. Stuck there. Repeating over and over again the doom of everyone that has ever confided in him. And they see him too, and they judge him, and they think him responsible, which he IS because they wouldn't even have those dreams for every remaining nights of their life and I am SAD about it, ok ?

What happens when the victims are awake ? Does Jon just not dream ? Please tell me he isn't constantly being mentally tortured with the death and suffering of other people without being able to move a finger and forced to relish in their fear and constatntly watched. I thought giving statements was supposed to feel GOOD. Why are they like this ?

Fuck.

Anyway, the people he sees in his dreams. In order, we have :

Lionel Elliot, statement giver of "Anatomy Class"

Tessa Winters, statement giver of "Binary"

This would be the place of Daisy's statement from "Hard Shoulder", were she not stuck in the coffin. (Also, the fact that he hopes to see her, it hurts me, he just wants to be reassured that the psycho murder cop is ok, I can't.)

Karolina Gorka, statement giver of "Underground". I guess sje isn't dead as I first assumed, as there are no dreams from the statements of now dead people. Honnestly, I wonder what Jon thought when Sasha's statement disappeared. Did it not and just changed to show Not-Sasha instead ? And I wonder what happened to Helen's when she was trapped in the Soiral corridors but before becoming The Distortion.

After, it should be either Helen Richardon's statement from "The New Door", or Michael Shelley's/The Distortion's statement from "Another Twist". Jon is affraid to know what is behind the door, and I have to say, so am I. It is fitting that The Distortion is the thing we understand the least here, considering what it is, the confusion it creates. I wonder if it has anything to do with how The Distorion itself works. What would happen if the door were to be opened ?

Jordan Kennedy, statement giver of "Pest Control".

At first, I thought it was Jude Perry, as this was the only person we've heard of setting herself on fire, statement giver of "Twice As Bright". I had wondered what the avatars thinks of Jon giving them those nightmares and watching them. However, after actually paying attention, I found my answer and avatars can apparently avoid having those dreams ? Which is nice ? Does this mean that even if Mike Crew were alive, he'd be able to hide his dream ? But then, who's statement is it ? Obviously, the figure burning and filled with holes is Jane Prentiss, but from what statement is she from ? Not her own, obviously. I don't think she gave a statement while her worms were eating Jon and Tim, and written statements don't COUNT. So is it from Jordan's statement, despite him barely mentionning her compared to the landlord guy that was probably of The Lightless Flame ? I am just confused on this one. Also, where the fuck is Martin's statement ? He's not dead, obviously, and the only others that can avoifd the dreams are avatars apparently, right ?

Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk, statement givers of "Nightfall". Since those dreams are here, then I guess they weren't avatars of the hunt, and simply influenced/markes by it, like Daisy is, which is not enough to avoid the Eye. Do the written statements really not count ? I'd assume not, otherwise Jon would've even worse things to see and watch, but then the line "He recognizes that look from the other hunter, whose dreams he has watched for so long." kind of implies the opposite. Also, why are THEIR nightmare not their cruel and painful death, but rather them hunting for Jon himself ? Is that their "bad end", rather than death ? Does Becoming count as worse than the end ?

Naomi Herne, statement giver of "Alone". Which, considering that this is "the oldest of the dreams", then that means that written statements definitely don't count ! Then I guess earlier was just an allusion to Daisy, he recognize their look from her, who's nightmare he did use to suffer.

Georgina Barker, statement giver of "Dead Woman Walking". Guess her lack of fear keeps her from actually feeling affected by the dream, even if she still has it ?

Ok, I am guessing that the statements from "Human Remains" didn't count, though it would've been pretty funny if Jon just found Elias in his nightmares. It would've been fitting.

Jurgen Leitner is dead, and so can't haunt Jon's dreams, and same thing for Gerry Keay and Mike Crew.

As for Melanie, Martin and Basira's, I just remembered that anyone affiliated to the Institute is free from those dreams ! Stupid memory, I legit totally forgot about that one, despite Basira and Daisy mentionning it before. Which explains why the ones from "Human Remains" can't count, because all the subjects were of the Institue, except for Not-Sasha.

I wonder how many of those does Elias have.

"The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger the tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all, and everything, and forever."

At this point, you could've just titled the episode "The Ominous Episode" and it would've done the job, honnestly. Jesus fucking Christ. Why FOREVER anyway ? Surely it can get new puppets ! Leave Jon aloooooone, damn it !

(I mean, I am actually kind of freaking out about the relationship between an avatar and their Fear, and the "love" they have for one another, but that morbidity is also battling against my hard earned instincts of wanting Jon to be ALRIGHT AND HAPPY, DAMN IT !)

Anyway, heartbraking statement over, I am getting a little treat in hearing Elias get beat up for a bit, which is nice.

You will not be missed, you beautiful bastard.

I know that he's going to come back later, because he literally has dirt on every one of the people who will guard him, and that he'll probably have a very cosy stay in prison all things considered up until he decides he just don't feel like playing along anymore as he has done, but a nice little break from him.

Maybe being away will stop him from ruining Jon's life ?

That'd be nice.

"You didn’t tell her. Worried she might create too much of a scene? I understand. I just hope she… doesn’t hold it against you."

I uh ... Wouldn't hold my breath for that. Especially considering that objectively, killing Elias would be for the best, even if it doomed everyone at the institute to die a painful death.

Not that Melanie has been very considering of other factors that aren't immediate satisfaction at watching that bastard suffocate with his neck in her hands. Which is fair, but also, she really should do something about that. Tunnel vision is understandable, but do try to think of others outside yourself, please.

All of that being said ?

Good on Martin, honnestly. He did something, outsmarted the mastermind, kept his cool and managed to trick him. He's probably feeling absolutely awful about Jon's situation, and Tim's too, even with their strained relationship by the end, but I guess a win is a win.

Even if it probably feels hollow when compared to all the losses.

He did good. He should have some rest.

"To be honest with you, Martin, I didn’t expect to be taking over the place so soon, or in quite such a state of disarray. But I’ll do my best to keep the place afloat."

... Though it doesn't look like Peter will let that happen.

We just never can have nice things, can we ?

But hey, this time around there will be less murders ! And also ... Therapy ? Damn that's nice, definitely need that here. For literally everyone.

"I think we’re going to great things, Martin. Great. Things."

... You don't say.

Oh, it is going to be a fucking mess next season, huh ?

OVERALL :

Amazing season, definitely my favourite so far, it was SO good. I am HERE for the character driven story and the overarching plot, as you may have noticed through all of my ramblings.

I can't wait to see what's next to come !

You know, other than pain and misery and wretchedness and torment and grief and heartache and sorrow and-

Well. You get the idea, right ?

Is it too much to ask for Jon to be ok ? I just don't want him in pain, that's all. Maybe that now that Elias is in jail it could happen ?

... Yes, I am in denial, shush. I am emulating my inner Jon, ok ?

I feel like I have made the point all throughout the season, so I don't really have anything to clear up at the end, do I ? Or maybe I do but just can't think of one.

That being said, I do want to think of what kind of avatars the cast would be !

Honnestly, for Jon, I legitimately can't accept anything other than The Eye. The guys isn't a good enough liar or interested into manipulating others or anything of the sort to belong to The Web, he's just a curious little guy ! He wants to know stuff, ALL the stuff, all the time and frankly ? I relate man. That being said, considering just how many times he has been the victim of another fear already, and I am assuming that they feed more strongly on the people they've marked, I like to think that he is also feeding them a little, from time to time. And that they'd like him, maybe ? I mean, as much as they can "like" anything, I guess. A little snack !

Martin, I say, got big The Web vibes, in the pathetic sad little guy kind of way. This guy could probably stage an entire murder and let proofs that it was him all over the place and he'd still manage to cute his way out of it. That being said, I don't want him filled with spiders, thank you very much, so if not The Web, then The Lonely ! That guy just cannot be the priority of anyone ever, can he ? RIP.

Tim would absolutely despise having anything to do with The Stranger, obviously, and would probably have a really fun burning them to the ground. Honnestly, while I know he isn't exactly horny for the fire and the pain and stuff, I do think he'd make an interesting avatar of The Desolation. If not, then senseless rage aiming to destroy everything around him also suits, so at least a Slaughter one.

Sasha was really curious too, though I do feel like it was in a different way than Jon, and she was a researcher. I think she'd have made an adequate servant of The Eye ? But I just don't know enough about her to give more thought to it, and what we got is very basic. Honnestly, if I had only season 1 Tim or Martin I would've said they were good for The Eye too, even though in retrospect they very much weren't, just because of their job ! And Sasha wasn't really exactly here just for the knowledge. Headcanon time, I think The End would've worked ? She was pragmatic and (very much) not scared of death, considering her ... Everything, she seems to be the kind to look it dead in the eyes as it comes to take her.

Melanie, considering her whole anger and murderous urges of the season, I'd say an avatar of The Slaughter. Maybe even Desolation ? But, no, she's not in the business of destroying lives, and dance on the ashes, more blind rage and anger with no filter. If not The Slaughter, then maybe The Stranger ? She sometimes speaks as if she can't recognize herself anymore, as if she was a stranger in her own skin. I think it fits, somewhat ? Or that could also be The Flesh, now that I think about it.

Basira, honnestly, The Spiral. Just. Straight up. Just how crazy do you gotta be to make sense of what doesn't have any ? She wouldn't fall victim to it, as she is always so sure of herself and her decisions, a total rock in the midst of chaos, being the one to know and leave others to their doubts. Plus, I think she'd be able to make someone doubt themselves, to be honnest. So, either The Spiral or The Web. She's got a controlling streak, I feel.

Daisy, well, obviously it's The Hunt. She has already been affected by it the entire time we've known her, there's nothing to her character that isn't tailored for The Hunt. That being said, this is the boring answer, and considering how she is, I'd say she'd make good work serving The Lonely. No violence there, obviously, only that insidious knowledge that you are alone and always will be and that, maybe, it'd be better for you. For everyone else. Were she to suddenly gain awareness of who she is, I think she'd feel pretty lonely in general. i think she already does somewhat, considering just how much she and Basira clings to each other.

Georgie is marked by The End, of course, but that's not something she'd end up serving, is it ? Real talk here, I feel like she'd be pretty suited for The Vast. Of course, she's not affraid of heights or anything, since she can't feel fear at all, and actually that would definitely keep her from even being an avatar, but that's not the point. Just, that feeling of insignificance, of powerlessness, that no matter what you do, you can't ever matter, you can't ever change anything, I think that this is something she might be able to relate to, considering her past eperiences. And honnestly, I feel like she is the type of person who would make you confront that feeling heads on, whether you wanted it or not.

Elias is obviously serving The Eye, and I don't see him ever even consider any of the others, but if he had to, then The Spiral would fit, I think. You just know that this gaslighting king looooves drive others crazy for his own entertainment. That would also be the results I would give to Jonah Magnus, to be honnest.

Gertrude was, obviously, never really Beholding material considering her everything. However, she was a seasoned arsonist with no scrupules to making others suffer, so The Desolation it is ! Not even because of Agnes, she'd just have got it on her own. If not that, then The Hunt, maybe ?

The Admiral would, obviously, serve The End, I mean, it's a CAT. Of course it is planning your doom while hiding behind a harmless exterior. But it wouldn't chase you, nooooo, it'd just act cute and you'd just follow it towards your end. Fool.

Hm. Did I miss anyone important ? I feel like I missed some important people. Boo.

Oh well, if I did, just tell me, I'll add them ! It was fun to do !

The quote of the post will be :

"There is nowhere in this universe that it would not blot out the sky."

End Liveblogging.

#tma #the magnus archive #liveblogging #liveblog-tma

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phantom-of-the-ruckus · 1 year

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Random headcannon (NOT A SHIP)

I'm currently sick, so I'm resting on my bed while I'm studying for my test this Sunday. I don't feel like working on the cult theory today. I'll do more research next week since I'll be away with my mom for thanksgiving.

Nothing like reading Harry Potter, playing "Tandem Tale of Shadows" and hopefully getting another switch game can help me recover better from my flu

As for now, I got a headcannon for Hello Puppets: The midnight show involving my favorite duo of puppets (Mortimer and Riley)

I'll link one of my cult theory updates here as a context, my POV, for this headcannon as I do believe this two are very close to each other, and have some sort of non-romantic bond (still unhealthy and abusive)

-----

HEADCANNON #1

This is not meant to be cute or fluffy. TW: for mentions of abuse, and implications of manipulation.

Sometimes Mortimer and Riley get into pretty heated up arguments about their plans and what both think it is best to do. Mortimer insults her, and Riley defends herself and blaming the outside forces.

They often reach the point of screaming so loud and seemingly to get aggressive. Sometimes Mortimer punches or hits something near their office as he sees kinda unable to physically harm her himself, he still screams at her and threatens her from time to time, but he reserves his hits for Nick. After he breaks something in anger. He threatens Riley to take away one of her privileges and storms in anger. I am not sure how he vents, but he threatens anyone who gets into his way.

Riley having a moment of frustration and screaming because sometimes dealing with Mortimer is dear impossible. She locks herself in her lab and vents he anger through aggressively experimenting until she calms down. This is about some hours.

Riley then starts working on some tasks she has, refusing to come down for dinner. Mortimer does let her get away from this because he usually ends up bringing his and her dinner to their office, so both could sit down and eat in silence.

This is kinda where their unhealthy relationship shines the best. They apologize, and casually chat about their progress while also having some tea together. Then they'll sorta bring their fact back and discuss what they said made them react that way (showing the small genuine care both have with the other) Mortimer (not feeling sorry, but being too proud to admit he may have gone overboard) decides to teach her something new or lets her visit the host world for getting new supply.

Sometimes they sit around and stare at the microscope trying to figure out how the well does thing work before Mortimer pats her head as he needs to do work and reminds her she's his best Handemeen.

Riley sits down and wonders how her relationship with her mentor is this turbulent

#hello pupepts #tw: mentions of abuse #tw: implied abuse #headcannon #Mortimer Handee #Riley Ruckus #Hello Puppets midnight show #THIS IS NOT A SHIP #Mentioned mentoring

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un-necessarycontext · 1 month

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The Feeble Evidence That This Inadvisable Crush May Not Be One Sided

Part of what makes a crush so fun is the push and pull of living out your own will-they-or-won’t-they scenario.

Of course it’s appealing—how many sitcoms have explored the same territory? From The Office to Moonlighting, generations have been raised on the generally accepted truth that half the fun of going to bed is the trip up the stairs.

But as much fun as it can all be, wondering whether or not the object of your affections returns them, at some point you need a sign. Are you alone out on your branch or are they out there with you?

If you’re single, that sign is more or less a starting pistol. Both parties are interested? Great! Time to go on that first date, enjoy that first kiss and start working your way toward falling into bed together.

But if you’re married, not much may change. You could very well be doing this dance until you finally pass out of each other’s orbits. Too much is on the line and for many, as much as they’d like to heed that starting gun, their race will never officially start.

But even if you never make that jump from friends and co-workers to lovers, there’s something about receiving that confirmation, even if it comes embedded in code.

Podcasts Are the New Mix Tapes

I received what I believe to be my sign several months ago. But first, some context.

Declan is a man who loves himself a podcast. He has a long commute and spends at least part of it every day listening to podcasts.

He’s loyal to some and simply dabbles in others. If he’s interested in a new topic, he’s going to listen to a few different podcasts on the subject.

One of the first things we bonded over was the fact that we both listened to a certain now-defunct podcast about tech. He said he’d never met another person who listened. He still brings it up, his eyes crinkling each time as he recalls how he knew then and there that we were kindred spirits.

Declan also enjoys recommending podcasts. Whole series or individual episodes, he attempts to assign audio homework once every few weeks. Sometimes I listen, sometimes I don’t.

A few months ago, he recommended a short series podcast that explored the relationship between a journalist and a poet. I listened and fell in love with the series, particularly with the poet and the way she expressed herself.

Declan and I were getting lunch together a couple of weeks later and I told him I had finished the series. He dove in, excited to discuss the podcast, its characters and the themes it explored.

We went back and forth, sharing our experiences with the show—the things we liked, the things we disagreed with.

After a brief pause, he cocked his head and asked, “What did you think of the river simile?”

I knew what he was talking about. When asked about her 40+ year marriage and whether she had any advice about matters of the heart, the poet had shared that her love was like the Colorado river. The river itself was sure and strong, but there were also branches and tributaries and switchbacks.

Her love for her husband was the river itself, she explained. Everything flows back to that unyielding force. But the branches and offshoots? Those were the people she’s also fallen in love (or lust) with along the way.

Those branches didn’t take love away from the main river, they simply existed for a period of time, but inevitably ended, unlike the Colorado river.

“What did you think of the river simile?” Declan asked.

“I thought it was perfect,” I told him. “It made perfect sense to me and honestly, I think it explained in a way I never could how I feel about love and relationships.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes on me. “Same,” he said simply. “It made so much sense. I almost recommended the series to my wife, because I wanted her to hear that part, but…” he drifted off and shrugged.

I nodded. “I don’t know if I’d share that with my husband, either,” I confessed.

We held each other’s eyes for a moment, then he spoke, keeping his weighted gaze fixed on me. “But you get it, right?” He raised his brows.

I did. Declan viewed love and desire similary, if not the same as I did. We loved our spouses. We had no intention of leaving them or changing our respective situations.

But that didn’t mean we weren’t capable of feeling strongly about other people, including, just maybe, each other.

We were people capable of falling for more than one person at a time.

We didn’t come right out and say it, but something had shifted between us.

I considered him one of my branches.

And now I had reason to believe he might consider me one of his.

#work crush #work husband #married crush #emotional affair #workplace affairs

1 note · View note

mercy-burning · 3 years

Text

She’s An Angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer discovers that Reader has a rather promiscuous personality behind closed doors, and he can’t help but give into her. Category: SMUT (18+), (there’s a lil fluff at the end, but it’s mostly filth lol) Warnings: Language, heavy flirting and sexual tension, female/male-receiving oral sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, innocence kink (kinda?), breeding kink, dirty talk Word Count: 10.8k

***EDITED: 7/23/2021***

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Hi, guys! This is my entry for @willowrose99 ‘s 1-Year Writing Challenge Celebration! My prompts were: Only Angel by Harry Styles (fun fact, this is my favorite Harry song! And the notes/texts that Reader sends to Spencer are lines from the song), stealing clothes, and the dialogue “You know, I kinda like it when you call me -pet name-” I hope you all enjoy it! I had SO MUCH FUN writing this!!!

Also! Little fun fact: sex and metaphors/references to religion is like... my favorite thing in the whole world, so I made a tiny playlist for you to give a listen if you’re interested! If you have song recs so I can add them, please let me know! I’m always on the lookout for new stuff :) Enjoy!!

***

He didn't think much of it the first day she started working at the BAU. If anything, Spencer was glad that they had an intern— someone who could share some of their responsibilities without completely changing the dynamic of the work. She even became part of their family, going out with them after cases, attending every workplace gathering, whether it be a wedding for a co-worker they didn't see often, one of Rossi's dinner parties, or Henry's birthday party.

It wasn't until they were setting up for the BAU office Halloween party that he noticed something was... different.

Y/N and Spencer were put on decorating duty while everyone else brought food and music, and whatever else. They stopped by extra early to set up, meaning they would be there together, alone, for at least two hours before anyone showed up.

Normally that wouldn't have been anything to worry about, but Y/N showed up in costume, and it completely threw him for a loop.

Now, he wasn't one to really care whether or not people used Halloween as an outlet to dress like sexy nurses or cheerleaders or whatever else. Sure, he'd rather go with something on the scary side, something with a creepy mask or intricate makeup, but in the end the holiday was everyone's to enjoy how they wanted to. And one way or the other, he never saw anyone in a sexy Halloween costume and found himself tempted by them in the slightest. In fact, it was rare that he ever saw anyone in one at all.

So, when Y/N slowed up to the office wearing a very skin-tight, tiny schoolgirl costume, and his heart leapt out of his chest, mouth going dry and blood running hot at the sight of her?

He was a goner.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, dropping the large bag she was carrying to run over and give him a hug, which he shakily returned, trying to snap out of his daze. Suddenly he felt a little underdressed, not wearing his costume yet, and truthfully, he wasn't sure if he wanted to wear one at all now, fearful that she'd think it was too immature.

Even more frightening than the holiday itself was the fact that Spencer found himself caring about what Y/N would think of his costume when a minute ago it hadn't even crossed his mind.

He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly before she released him from her hug, hoping to expel his fear and remember that she was his friend and she'd never actually say anything bad about his costume. Not that that'd even mattered in the first place. It shouldn't have mattered, right?

God, pull yourself together! She's just a pretty girl dressed in a suggestive costume, it's nothing you haven't seen before...

Though, he wasn't even sure he could call her a pretty girl right then.

Because when she pulled away from him, talking about some of the decorations she brought, he had ample opportunity to get a good look at her costume up close. And she wasn't pretty. She was downright sexy, all legs protruding underneath a short plaid skirt and adorning shiny black heels, curly hair tumbling down her shoulders in pigtails. Her shirt was so low, most of the buttons undone to reveal a black lacy bra underneath. She wore a pair of glasses that sat cutely on the tip of her nose and minimal makeup, the only noticeable thing being bright red lip color.

That wasn't what was different, though.

Sure, she'd never worn anything that scandalous around work or even on nights out, but it wasn't the fact that she'd done so now that felt strange. No, it was the way she looked up at him, her head hung low and her eyes looking up through eyelashes. When she got excited to tell him something, she pitched her voice higher. And often times, she'd put herself in compromising positions, and it seemed like it was on purpose.

At one point she stood right in front of him trying to hang a streamer on a beam she was most certainly not tall enough to reach. Her arms stretched high, all fabric on her body rising up and exposing more skin. Spencer quickly tried to avoid any problems, offering to help so she wouldn't hurt herself, first of all, but also so that he wouldn't find himself staring too long when he shouldn't have been staring at all.

The whole time they were decorating, she found excuses to drop things and pick them up, to stumble and hold onto his arm for steadiness, to accidentally brush past him... And that's what was so different about her.

He didn't want to assume she'd been drinking before coming to the office, and if he'd known any better he wouldn't have assumed it in the first place. But that was the one and only thing that crossed his mind that could have been the answer to her strange behavior, despite the lack of alcohol on her breath. (The only reason he knew her breath didn't smell of alcohol was because at one point, she hugged him again and pulled back to look in his eyes, brushing stray curls from his face and telling him they did a good job finishing up the room they'd been working on.)

Now they were in the conference room, and Spencer was hanging streamers as Y/N sat in one of the chairs, wheeled back to the middle of the room so she could observe everything. Well... observe Spencer was more correct. At least that's what he figured, anyway. It was like he could feel her eyes burning into the back of him. Or maybe he was just still unable to get over the fact that she and her stupidly hot costume had had that big of an effect on him.

He stood down from the chair and asked Y/N to hand him more tape, refusing to look at her.

"Spence, are you alright?" she asked sweetly, rolling her chair over to the table so she could reach the tape. The innocent concern in her voice had that same suspicious tone to it that wouldn't leave him alone, like it was nagging him and calling to him... begging to confront her.

He flicked his gaze down to meet hers for the briefest of seconds before looking back at the table. "N—Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" She picked up the tape and toyed with it between her fingers, which were manicured a light pink color. He couldn't help but stare at them. "You seem a little... on edge."

With a swallow, an attempt to bring moisture back to his throat, Spencer shook his head. "I'm... No, I'm sure. Everything's fine."

Y/N sighed. "Well, I've been working with you profilers for some time now, and... I think I can tell when you're lying. Was it... something I did?"

There she went again, her voice high and soft. Innocent. Like she was in character.

Spencer looked at her face again, and then immediately he regretted it. She was half pouting at him, doe-eyed and head tilted to expose her neck. He swallowed again, trying to figure her out while also figuring out what to say.

"No," is what he settled on, audibly nervous.

She could tell, too, because he thought he saw her smirk for just a split second. But then it was gone, replaced once again by her pout. "Oh... Good. Because I thought for a second that you didn't like my costume."

She obviously had to be up to something, right? Was she... flirting with him? And more importantly, did he want her to flirt with him? He'd never really thought about Y/N in that context before, but she was single, beautiful, and... well, truthfully that's all he really knew about her. They'd been friends for about a year now, and he couldn't put together one single thought about her other than the stuttering, muddled confusion over the fact that she was in a sexy Halloween costume and most likely openly flirting with him.

What was that Emily said once about his IQ dropping in the presence of a pretty woman?

Y/N had rendered him utterly thoughtless.

And speechless, too, apparently, because he stood there, staring at her without saying a single word.

"Spencer," she called out softly, almost like a lullaby. Her chair rolled back, away from the table to give him a better view of her legs as she un-crossed them and very slightly opened her knees. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

As if he wasn't already practically burning inside-out since the moment she arrived at the office, now his blood ran hot, and he was suddenly very uncomfortably warm. "U—Um, y—yes, you're... You're beautiful, y—your costume... It's nice, it looks nice on you."

Her pout slowly turned into a smile as she patted her knees. "Thank you... I wore it just for you, you know."

Is this some sort of bizarre dream? he wondered, his knees almost buckling at her words, their tone, and the meaning of it all.

"Y—You did?" he whispered brokenly.

"Mnmm," she drawled as her fingers toyed with themselves. "You teach, right?"

"Sometimes."

Y/N hummed and nodded, her legs still closed enough that he couldn't see anything... extra promiscuous. "You know, I bet you have quite a few students who find you attractive... Tell me, do any of them dress like this?"

She leaned back in the chair and started to run her hands slowly up the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. "Do they ever... Sit in the front row and... spread their legs just enough for you to see the pretty panties they picked out... just for you..."

By now her hands were resting on the inside of her thighs, her legs spread in exactly the way she'd described. He couldn't help himself. There she was, offering herself to him, and in his line of vision was the faintest glimpse of baby pink fabric that matched the color of her fingernails.

He didn't even know how to verbally respond. By now he was sure his face was beet red, and his palms were sweating so badly and struggling to keep him upright as he leaned forward on the table. Ah, the table— the only thing separating him from her, a fact which he wasn't quite sure if he was thankful for or not.

The spell she had around her broke when her phone rang. And just like that, it was like she was... herself again. At least, the 'herself' Spencer had always known. She sat up and walked over to the other side of the room to grab her phone from her bag, reading the screen as he struggled to catch his breath.

"It's Penelope. She has a costume emergency I have to help with. Are you good putting the rest of these up?"

"U—Um, yeah. Yeah, go."

Y/N smiled and grabbed her bag, thanking him as she walked past and left him behind.

He heard her call back as her figure was etching itself into his brain, ready to remain there until the end of time. "Can't wait to see your costume!"

***

Luke and Tara were having a conversation that he was supposed to be paying attention to, but Spencer's mind was still occupied by Y/N and her... outward display of sensuality.

Her voice was echoing in his brain, replaying over and over how she'd dressed up for him. And the longer he tried to wrap his brain around everything, the more he wound up confused. Where had her forwardness even come from? Had she been actively interested in him this whole time and he just hadn't seen it until now? A possibility, but why had she chosen to go to that extreme rather than just tell him the truth? Maybe she'd just found being overtly sexual an easier tactic than others?

Or maybe, in the end, she was just messing with him. Even though Derek had moved away, it was entirely possible that he'd somehow concocted one of his ridiculous pranks and roped Y/N into helping him since he wasn't around to do it himself. A smart move, though it was highly unlikely.

Spencer just didn't know what to do. Depending on how the rest of the night went, he was probably just going to have to muster up the courage to ask her what her intentions were. And depending on what she says, he was going to have to figure out what he wanted from their relationship... Did she want just sex? Did he want just sex? Did she want to go out with him? Is that something he would want as well?

He was just about to mull it over when Penelope's boisterous laugh sounded from the other side of the room. Spencer looked up, eager to see if Y/N was with her, since she'd been called away on a costume emergency. Penelope was dressed as a devil, red sparkly horns on her red-streaked, curled hair. She was dressed head-to-toe in a red dress and shoes that felt very much like her, with feathers and sequins, and her makeup was also red and black and absolutely glittery.

And sure enough, behind her stood the woman who'd been occupying Spencer's mind for the past hour and a half. Though, she wasn't dressed as a schoolgirl anymore.

He found himself swearing under his breath as he took her in, shimmering where she stood, dressed in all white.

She was an angel.

An actual angel. Her hair fell loose around her, accessorized with a headband with a golden halo attached to it. Her dress was still pretty form-fitting, though nowhere near as scandalous as her previous outfit. It was long and flowed out at the bottom until it hit the floor, a ring of gold at the hem. The sleeves were also long and bell-bottomed, accented with gold at the end.

And from where Spencer stood, even that far away, he noticed the glitter that surrounded her eyes, gold to compliment the color on her dress. Her lips were still bright red, and her glasses were gone. And the wings... As small as they were—most likely to keep from taking up too much space—they stood out in any crowd, purely white and outlined in gold, just like the rest of her outfit.

Why had she changed? Did... she actually change at all? Had he truly only imagined their encounter hours ago?

"Any... specific angels crossing your mind?" Spencer heard Luke say, punctuated with a pat on the shoulder.

He blinked and looked at him. "What?"

"Y/N... She makes a pretty good angel, eh?"

"Uh, yeah, I—I guess so."

Luke and Tara laughed, obviously amused by all of this. But they hadn't seen her earlier. They hadn't been there to witness her seducing him and acting like she'd done it a million times over. They didn't know what she was doing to him, inhabiting every corner of his brain and driving him mad trying to figure it all out.

But it wasn't uncommon for his friends to tease him about the female attention he got sometimes. And when it was obvious that he was flustered, they kept the friendly teasing going. And every time, he settled on leaving it alone, because he knew it would pass and he wouldn't have to worry about it again, at least until the next woman hit on him in public.

And Y/N? She worked with them. As long as she was in his head, he was afraid he'd never stop being flustered in her presence.

So he had to know. He had to talk to her and see what was going on, no matter how awkward it might get.

For now though, it was Halloween, and he was going to spend the night with his friends while doing the very rare amount of drinking and the more frequent amount of laughter.

The night didn't come without a few looks in Y/N's direction, though. She never came up to him directly, though a few times he'd catch her looking at him. And each time, she'd wave and continue on her merry way, laughing with Emily or doing some silly dance with Penelope in their coupling costumes.

Honestly, if earlier hadn't happened, he would have thought nothing of it. She was being completely normal. Happy, friendly... Simply Y/N, as he'd known her for the past year and a half.

He just finished saying goodbye to JJ, who was leaving early to go trick-or-treating with her kids, when she finally approached him. At the sight of her getting closer, her otherworldliness making his blood go warm again, he tried to compose himself. After all, there was no way she'd do anything sensual in public like this, right?

"I didn't get a chance to compliment you on your costume yet," she said brightly, her voice not carrying that higher tone from before. "You make a very believable zombie."

He looked down at his tattered clothes, a small laugh escaping him. "Thank you... It's no high-level makeup job, but I tried my best."

When he looked back up to her, the shimmer of her makeup basked her in a glow that made it incredibly hard to breathe. She really was pretty. Still sexy, of course, but in an understated way this time.

And he couldn't help but bring up the difference. "You... changed."

Something sparkled in her eyes then, giving them a devious glint that inherently contradicted her costume, and the mere implications of that made him tremble, especially as she said, "Mhm... I figured the schoolgirl costume was a little too inappropriate for the workplace. And besides... I did say I wore it just... for you..."

So he hadn't imagined the whole thing... On the one hand he was relieved to know he wasn't freaking out over something that hadn't actually happened. But... on the other, what did that leave him with?

It left him with a woman who was standing in front of him, dressed like an angel while giving him all sorts of devilish feelings.

Once again she'd rendered him speechless, though now his thoughts were filled with images of those pretty, glimmering eyes above him, watching as he worshipped her between her legs... Of her hands twisted in his hair as he showed her just how much he wanted her, to show her how beautiful she was.

Those thoughts were interrupted when she got closer, toying with a stray curl that stuck out from his head. She twirled it around her finger and looked up at him, doe-eyed again as she purred, "Happy Halloween, Doctor Reid."

She was gone too quickly, whisked away by the throes of an office holiday party that, one way or another, served as the beginning to a long, tempestuous affair.

***

In the weeks that followed, Spencer went about his days as normally as he could, focusing on work, and getting ready for another month of teaching, where he'd be away from his friends and, therefore, also away from Y/N.

It's not that he necessarily wanted to be away from her... Yet, after constant flirting with no direction other than his dreams filling with filthy images of the two of them together and no actual outlet for it, he figured a break would do him some good. Of course, he wasn't sure what would await him when he came back—if she'd forget about all of it and give up or if she'd come at him stronger than before.

It was his final day before leave, and so naturally, Y/N had to make it hard on him. He was sure that's what she was doing.

Since it was getting colder, she strayed away from skirts, though occasionally she would show up to work in a longer dress or a shirt that hugged her in all the right places, especially on the days that he would be working with her more. She had the BAU's schedules on hand always, so she had to be using that as a way to get to him.

On those days, she often used her higher pitch when she spoke to him, and her eyes were always adventurous— they wandered over every part of his body and sometimes quickly blinked away when he caught her, accompanying an embarrassed smile. (Though, Spencer was convinced she really was absolutely not embarrassed.)

Other times she pulled the "Oops, I dropped something," trick, and "You know, it's almost Winter but it's still so warm in here, don't you think?" followed by a stretch of her body as she slowly put her hair up or dragged it over her shoulder.

His plan was to wait until he got back from leave, assess their situation from there after he'd cleared his head for a while, and then talk to her about what the hell was going on. Though the thought of confronting her scared him a little, he knew he couldn't let this go on any longer without some sort of conversation about what was next... What it all meant. It would drive him crazy otherwise.

With all the sensual, suggestive looks and actions she was throwing at him, though, it was a wonder he hadn't gotten to that point already.

As if she'd figured this out—because of course she would have found a way to get into his brain and know what he was thinking and feeling before he could even do so himself—Y/N stood by a storage closet with a clipboard. She pretended to write things down, when in reality she was looking up at him every so often, biting her lip and crossing her legs where she stood. She looked utterly desperate for something, almost like it was painful for her to be deprived of whatever it was she was looking for.

Spencer had a sneaking suspicion he knew what that was. And the thought sent a wave of electricity through his veins. All day she'd been going extra hard in attempts to catch his attention, and since it was his final day before leaving for a month, he knew that had to be the reason why.

If catching his attention was her goal, she'd definitely succeeded.

Across the room, and across a small sea of co-workers who were head-down, going through paperwork, he caught her eye and waited, his fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out to her. She tilted her head to the side and tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, staring back at him like she was in a daydream.

And sure enough, she was standing underneath a light, one singular beam that sat atop her head like a halo and bathed her in a soft glow.

Even without the costume, she was an angel... For a moment Spencer wondered if maybe she'd planed on it all from the start— making her move by dressing like an angel on Halloween for one night and then finding any way on purpose to replicate that presence without actually dressing up again. Was it a way to mess with his head, to make him believe that she was calling to him? That she would... save him somehow?

He had to know what she was doing.

So he gave in and stood up, his eyes keeping contact with hers as he got closer and closer. Before he could get to her, though, she winked and then turned around, entering the storage closet and disappearing before his eyes. Still, he followed her, desperately hoping that's what she wanted.

And with a silent prayer that felt ironic as he thought it, Spencer opened the door and entered the adventure that awaited him. Whether it would be heavenly or otherwise he wasn't sure, but either way he was ready to confront it.

Y/N had turned on a desk lamp, its orange glow the only source of light in an otherwise pitch-black space. She leaned back against a table, still standing with her legs crossed over each other, hands bracing themselves on the tabletop. "How's it going, Doctor Reid?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, almost immediately after she greeted him. Now that he was alone with her, away from unassuming eyes, he exhaled and visibly showed his confusion through pleading eyes. "Please, I need to know what you're doing..."

He barely saw the contours of her face through dim lighting as she smiled. "What do you mean?"

"Y/N... Don't do that." He took a step closer, even though the quick beating of his heart signaled that it might have been a dangerous move. "Tell me..."

"Isn't it obvious?" she cooed, her hands coming out to toy with the hem of her frilly skirt.

As he looked down at it, he had to wonder if there really was a God out there, some higher being that sent this angel down to destroy him. How else did it stand to happen that even though it was nearing the end of November, the one day it was warm enough for Y/N not to freeze while wearing a skirt was the final day he had before leaving for a whole moth?—Before it was inevitably snowy and she wouldn't have the luxury to tease him with her skin?

She must have caught his lingering gaze on her legs, because she laughed softly, spreading them to stand a bit further apart while her fingers very lightly pushed the fabric of her skirt up. "I've been trying to get your attention ever since I got here... But you never seemed to notice. So I figured... Why not be a little more... forthcoming..."

"Y—You could have... said something," he whispered, forcing himself to look at her face. But as he was learning, he couldn't look at any part of her without his whole body going up in flames.

By now she was walking closer to him, small, languid steps that perfectly showcased how her body could move. "Well... Truth is, I was scared... Every time I tried to talk to you, I got really nervous..." Her voice was demure, apologetic almost... Embarrassed. But it had to have just been part of the allure, right? Part of her show? "You're just so... intimidating."

Spencer swallowed, a small laugh coming from him as he tried not to collapse at her closeness. "I'm... I'm really not..."

But she laughed, finally close enough to reach out and grab his tie, which is what she did. She held the fabric in her hands for a few seconds before letting it drop, bringing her pointer finger to gently trace patterns on his chest. "Not in a mean way, silly... You're... incredibly smart, and you're good at your job... You're always so nice to everyone... And I bet you really know how to make a girl feel good..."

He found himself trembling under her touch again as she brought her hand down to meet his. She leaned up to nudge his chin with her nose as she moved his hand to the inside of her thigh. It was only the slightest of touches, nothing rushed or passionate about it. In fact, Y/N seemed more taken with the idea of using her touch to draw everything out— to make him pine for it, lose all semblance of sanity until he finally gave in and did whatever he wanted to her.

"Don't you wanna know what it feels like to touch me?" she whispered, her breath hot on his neck. Meanwhile her hand guided his own farther up her skirt, until he felt her skin getting warmer and warmer with each millimeter. His throat was dry, breath shaky as he fluttered his eyes closed and embraced the moment, embraced the guidance... "To feel how wet you make me?"

His heart practically leapt out of his chest once his hand was finally met with said wetness. Her panties were damp and oh so warm, and he couldn't stop the whine that left his throat as she pressed his fingers hard into her against the fabric. Her fingers covered his like a glove, guiding them in small circles over her clothed clit as she sighed into his neck.

"You feel that?" she asked, nuzzling into his skin. "That's what you do to me, Doctor. From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd ruin me..."

He breathed a laugh then, finding it utterly ironic how that's how she felt. She could have just been toying with him, but there was enough longing and desperation in her voice to let him know she really meant it. She'd been waiting for him to come along and whisk her away...

So that's what he was going to do.

Spencer removed his hand from her then, walking them over to the table and pulling her right to him by gripping the waistband of her panties and keeping her still. The gasp she let out fueled him in a way that would have wrecked him if the job hadn't already been done. As he looked down at her, her body was basked in the soft orange luminescence of the desk lamp, a sight that aesthetically added to his desire and farther fueled the heat that had been accumulating in his veins, waiting to be released.

"Is that what you want, angel?" he breathed, the words even taking him by surprise. His sexual experience was far from non-existent, but it was limited enough that he'd never acted this feral before. Never had a partner ever had this strong of a hold on him, so tight that he found it a struggle to breathe. Add on the fact that he wanted to embrace that struggle if it meant being this way with her, and you had a man who was completely unraveling under the allure of one single woman until she ultimately brought forth his demise. "You want me to ruin you?"

Though he was giving in, like he assumed she wanted in the first place, Y/N hummed, tilting her head again and blinking up at him. "You know, I kinda like it when you call me angel..."

Spencer gripped the fabric tighter, and she whined. "Is it what you want?" In other words, Do you want this?

Y/N nodded, and then he crashed his lips with hers as he tugged at her panties and let them drop to the floor in a pool around her feet. She flung her arms around his shoulders and pressed herself into him more, allowing his tongue to part her lips and explore her with liveliness. She was more than welcome to embracing it, verbally giving him praises in the form of whimpers and physical ones in the form of her hips rolling forward to get more friction.

As one of his hands found purchase under one of her thighs, he thought back to Halloween night, and how he'd imagined his head between her legs. The memory had his entire body tensing with pleasure, and without a second thought, he pulled away and dropped to his knees, looking up at her with what he hoped was the purest form of desire.

He looked up at her, admiring the way her face looked in the dim light, as he lifted one of her legs and placed it on his shoulder. Still keeping eye contact, he tilted his head and kissed the inside of her leg. But eventually he let his focus lean to immersing himself in her pleasure, tearing his eyes away from hers and completely shifting his head to face her leg. His lips trailed upwards, taking his time to remember the taste and the feel of her soft skin.

The higher he got, the heavier her breathing became, and it wasn't long before he fully had his head under her skirt. She tried to move the fabric so she could see him, but he gripped her wrists and pinned them at her sides, eliciting a laugh from her that quickly turned into a whimper once he brushed his nose over where she ached for him.

Without being able to stop himself, Spencer inhaled, breathing her in and letting out a shaky breath as he inched closer and involuntarily closed his eyes, completely wrapped up in her like he'd never felt before. He was intoxicated by her, even more so when his mouth finally made contact with her dripping cunt.

Feeling her shudder above him was almost as heavenly as the way she tasted, sweet and bitter and oh so delectable. He'd never craved anything more than her in that moment, his tongue lapping her up and making a point to taste all of her. He explored and worshipped and praised her just how he'd imagined he would, though now that it was actually happening and he'd really had a taste of her, he wasn't sure he could ever go back.

Not that he wanted to. Especially as she whined and rolled her hips against his face, seeking more pleasure as she tried to be quiet in the closet.

Spencer, though he knew the importance of keeping it quiet right then, couldn't say he was the same way. Since his head was hiked up her skirt, and his sounds were muffled by her skin, he was as loud as he wanted to be, groaning into her and mumbling praises in between while catching his breath. He reveled in the feeling of her wetness coating the lower half of his face and the sounds that both pairs of her lips were providing. It truly was better than any symphony or choir he'd ever heard, and if he could spend the rest of his life down there, worshipping at her altar and giving her everything she desired, he would have.

But they were at work, and if they were gone too long, it would get suspicious.

So, as much as he wanted to draw out her pleasure—and by association, his own—he focused on getting her to her peak, flicking his tongue out over her clit and letting her hips rock forward to get her exactly where she wanted to be.

He knew she was about to come when she stopped whining and whimpering altogether, the leg she had draped over his shoulder curling and tightening around him to keep herself steady.

His tongue was relentless, keeping at what it was doing while Spencer imagined what her face must have looked like. Were her eyes rolling to the back of her head or were they squeezed tight? And her mouth— was it hanging open? Was her bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she attempted to keep herself from yelling out? And as her hands struggled in his grasp, trying to escape most likely in favor of gripping his hair, he imagined them tied up above her head, attached to his bedframe as he took his time, drawing out every little sound she could have possibly made until she was just as unraveled as he was.

And then her grip loosened all around him, a whiny sigh escaping from her mouth, and Spencer reluctantly drew himself away from her. He dropped her leg from his shoulder and licked at his lips, tasting as much of her as he could before he had to return to work. And then, when he was moving to remove his head from under her skirt, he caught sight of her panties on the ground, picking them up and sliding the garment lightly up along her leg as he stood.

The only thing was, he wasn't putting them back on her.

No, they hung loose between his fingers as they tickled the inside of her legs, and when he finally stood tall enough to tower over her again, he got as close as he could to her, bringing the fabric up between her legs, right where he'd just been, and pressed them firmly to her sensitive pussy.

"Time to clean you up, angel," he whispered, swiping his hand forward and doing exactly that. Y/N whined against his mouth, faintly tasting herself on his lips as he cleaned her.

He kissed her then, gently, removing his hand from under her skirt and depositing the damp fabric right into his pocket.

If Spencer hadn't known already that he was done for, he would have figured it out right then, when he pulled back far enough to see the high, blissed out look in her pretty eyes. She blinked at him and sighed, telling him one final thing before she pushed past him and walked out into the office with no underwear and half-wobbly legs.

"I miss you already, Doctor..."

***

He missed her, too.

The month-long leave was supposed to assist in letting him clear his head, but the longer he was away from her, the more it drove him mad. Occasionally he'd still taste the sweet tanginess of her on his tongue, and no amount of coffee could rinse it out. Sometimes he'd be grading papers and daydream about hearing her whimper out his name as he took care of her.

It didn't help that she also sent him texts, little things that would have sounded innocent to anyone else but had a way more promiscuous meaning to the both of them. They mostly involved the discussion of angels, of course, as she left him with a quote or a song lyric, and other days with a fact about a specific angel.

Today, the morning before classes started, she sent him, She's gonna be an angel, just you wait and see... Spencer didn't know what it meant, what it was referencing, but it was innocent enough that he didn't think anything of it until lunch rolled around and he checked his phone to see another text.

...When it turns out she's a devil in between the sheets.

He couldn't stop thinking about it. All day, even as he was trying to distract himself by lecturing, all he could see in his mind was Y/N. Sometimes with her angel costume on, but mostly with nothing on, her body fitting into his like a puzzle piece as she sighed out his name like a prayer.

And to think, he had one more week until he would see her again.

But then he was looking through his students' quizzes, small sheets of paper with some terminology and matching definitions they needed to pair together. Since there were only about five minutes left until the class was over, he let his students spend the rest of the time how they chose, not really in the mood to burn himself out speaking when he knew it was only a matter of time before he slipped and said something about Y/N that he shouldn't.

The next quiz he grabbed was folded in half, unusual, but he opened it and was looking to go about his merry way regardless. But then he saw a post-it note right in the middle of the paper, reading She's an angel, my only angel, and punctuated with a pair of red lips.

The first thing he did was drop the pen that was in his hand. Not like he did it on purpose, though, he was pretty sure all joint and muscle function was lost upon reading the handwriting he knew so well, and a reference that only she could make.

And then he looked up, eyes scanning the sea of students to find her. She had to have been there, right? A few of the students found it odd that he was just looking through all of them, but all he was worried about was finding her.

And there she was.

Y/N had tucked herself all the way in the back, her eyes locked directly onto him. She winked then, when she knew she had his attention, and all Spencer could think about was how it must have been another dream. Her texts from earlier had gotten to him more than usual, and because of it, he was seeing her everywhere, seeing what he wanted to see.

Even though he wanted to keep looking at her, to try and figure out if she was really there or if she was just a figment of his devilish mind, he didn't want anyone to catch him. To anyone else it would look like he might have been staring at another student, and with the lust he knew was definitely swimming in them, the last thing he wanted to do was get in trouble like that.

So, to his dismay and reluctance, he slipped the note into the drawer beside him and quietly finished grading, even though he was longing to see how else he could let Y/N destroy him.

Even as the bell rang and everyone filtered out, Spencer kept his head low, refusing to look up until everyone was gone and only one person remained.

The quieter it got, the harder he could feel his heart beating. And then the only thing that cut through the silence was that unmistakable, angelic high pitch that would surely never fail to bring him to his knees.

"Did you get my note, Doctor?"

Only then did he allow himself to look up, and when he did, seeing her closer to him than she'd been in almost a month now, it was like the stars aligned. "Yes," he whispered, getting out of his seat and walking around the desk to be as close to her as possible.

She laughed and met him in the middle, nearly trapping him between herself and the desk. Her hands reached out to grab at his suit jacket and he wished that she'd touch him somewhere else. Anywhere else, just to feel the soft warmth of her skin.

"And my texts?" she cooed, taking another step and actually trapping him between her body and his desk.

"Y—Yeah, I got them."

"Oh, good. I've been thinking a lot about how you left me..." She slid her hands then, under his jacket and across his stomach until they reached his waist. "The second I got in my car to go home, you were already on your way here... And I couldn't help but wonder what you were doing with my panties..."

They were currently back in his hotel room, in the drawer and laying atop of his own clothes, a vision that had him reeling, wondering if she was wearing any now. So he asked. "Are... Um..."

Well, he tried to ask, anyway.

Y/N caught on, though, beaming at him as her hands removed herself from him and slipped up her skirt. "You wanna see the pair I'm wearing now?"

"Y/N... There's... Someone could come in, I..."

She clucked her tongue. "Oh, I wouldn't want to get you in trouble, don't worry. I'll just... Give you a quick peek."

She didn't wait for him to respond, lifting the hem of the skirt and stepping back so he could see the front of her underwear, which were white and printed with black cursive lettering.

Angel.

As soon as he exhaled, loud and obviously very turned on at the sight in front of him, she dropped the skirt and smiled. "You like them? I needed to buy a new pair since you felt the need to steal my others..."

Spencer really didn't know what to say. All he knew was that his body was on fire, and the tightening of his pants was extremely dangerous since he had another class in a half hour and there wasn't enough time to take care of it unless they did something right now. And even then, they were in a public area with hardly anywhere to go. His best bet would be to go to the bathroom and be as inconspicuous as possible to take care of it himself. Or, Y/N needed to leave immediately so he could settle down and just let it go away on its own.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have a hard time denying her of anything.

Which was why he didn't stop her when she sunk to her knees.

As she undid his belt, looking up at him with sparkling eyes, she spoke to him. "Honestly, I had every intention to just make out with you a little, just enough to satiate myself until I can see you again next week, but... Well, I'm wearing lipstick, and I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

He'd made out with a woman before, who'd worn lipstick, and surprisingly it was pretty easy to remove, so he knew she had to have been lying as some part of a bigger scheme, but... he couldn't quite figure out what that was. Obviously she had plans to take care of his erection for him, so why make up the story?

But then she kept talking, only slightly pulling down his pants and palming him through his underwear. "And then I thought about how pretty you'd look covered in lipstick kisses, and, well... It's always good to start somewhere, don't you think?"

Oh...

His stomach did flips when she traced his dick through the fabric covering it, gently with her middle finger. And then, looking into his eyes from below, she pulled it out and slowly stroked it with her hand, a low hum coming from her throat. "Mmm, I can't wait to mark up this pretty cock..."

That's when he lost all semblance of control, a strained groan falling from his lips, coming from the great depths of his chest, just from her words alone. And she took that moment to lean forward and press the gentlest of kisses to the base of his dick. She held her lips there for a second or wo before removing them and moving just a little higher, her eyes never leaving his face.

Her kisses trailed higher and higher, centimeter by centimeter until she reached his tip, where she ever so slightly flicked her tongue over the slit at the top, tasting his precum. And then gave him one final kiss—one final red mark.

The temptation to grab her hair and hold her there while he fucked her throat was strong, but as he looked down at her, she was examining her handiwork with a seductive hunger that made him realize that no matter how strong his urges got, she would always be the one in charge. Even if she acted all innocent and submissive, she was the one who held the key to his sexual desires, and therefore she was the only one who had the ability to unlock them.

So, he contained himself as she looked up at him, winked, and quickly tucked his hard dick back into the confines of his pants.

And when she stood up, she leaned up to his cheek and pressed another kiss there, leaving behind a red mark and all all his sanity with it, quickly turning away before he could catch her.

"See you later, Doctor," she called over her shoulder before she disappeared out the door.

Spencer let out a long, unsteady breath, debating on whether or not he should take care of his situation in the bathroom or right there in the classroom, behind his desk and into the trash can underneath it while he still had ample time to do so.

He sat in the chair about a minute later, his hand moving furiously under the desk as he breathed out hushed whispers of her name.

***

No matter how badly he wanted more alcohol in his system, he wasn't going to allow it. After one drink he was already starting to feel the affects, veins buzzing right along with the low hum of the music from inside. The single streetlight above him provided only the dimmest of lights as he took deep breaths in and out, focusing on the bitter cold from the December air and the soft pelting of snowflakes upon the skin of his cheeks.

Y/N's touch still burned him, right along his inner thigh where her hand had firmly rested while they and the rest of their friends ate dinner at the bar. All night so far, she'd been teasing him to no end, whether it was a brush of her hand against his crotch or a tiny kiss on the shoulder when no one was looking.

How no one had figured them out yet was a mystery.

Spencer rubbed his hands together, trying to keep them warm when he felt it. She was behind him.

"You've been out here for a while, Spence, is everything okay?" Even when she wasn't speaking to him in her angelic higher pitch, he still felt like succumbing to the sound her voice regardless.

He turned around to face her, and sighed. It figured that even surrounded by a street that was covered in brown-tainted snow, she wouldn't have let it taint her beauty. He was convinced that no matter where she was or what she looked like, she'd always be perfect— capable of knocking the breath out of him every time he looked at her. "Honestly, you've been driving me crazy."

"Oh," she said, her eyes slightly shifting to the ground. "Maybe I... did take it too far, I... I'm sorry." The slight tinge of embarrassment and maybe regret that filtered through her voice nearly ran him to the ground— How could she ever believe that he would feel overwhelmed by her? Sure, to some extent, he was extremely overwhelmed by her, but it was never a negative thing.

"Oh, angel, that's not what I meant," he explained softly, taking a few steps towards her.

She lifted her head, eyes doe-eyed and sparkling, though not as they usually were. This time they were swimming in a softness that made him yearn for her even more. "What?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm absolutely mesmerized by you... Y/N..." Spencer brought a hand to lightly caress her face, and when she leaned into his touch it made him so warm he thought it would melt all of the snow. "I can't get you out of my head, and I... I don't know if I ever want to. I mean that."

"Y—You're not... weirded out or anything?" she asked softly. "That I just... sprung all my feelings and my lust out onto you all at once? B—Because I know it was sudden, and I came on really strong so fast, I just... I thought you liked it, and so I just kept going, but really I should have stopped and... I don't know, asked if you were okay with it..."

He'd seen this softness in her before— When she watched over JJ's kids in the office sometimes, and when she helped Penelope set the table for their 'family dinners'. Every time, on the rare occasion that she actually went on cases with them, when she helped JJ comfort the families who'd lost their loved ones, he saw it. And even through all the lust, that sweetness in her soul was what truly made her an angel. Even though the lust is all he'd been swimming in since Halloween, deep down he really knew that it was only a small part of who she really was.

So, he said to her, "Y/N, I'm enchanted by all of you. I don't... I don't know what happened to make you want to come on strong to me, but... I'm glad you did. Believe me when I say, there is nothing about you that would scare me away."

He didn't know how she was feeling, but she practically visibly melted at his words, right in front of him. "You really mean that?"

With a smile, Spencer stepped even closer and brushed a thumb over her bottom lip. "Of course I mean it, my angel."

She laughed then, her hands wrapping themselves over his waist. "Your angel, huh?"

"Mhm... If you'd like to be..."

Y/N leaned up and pressed her lips to his in answer, firmly and with all the sweetness she had nestled inside her soul.

But the longer they stood there outside the bar, kisses growing warmer and hungrier with each passing second, Spencer realized that he didn't want her sweetness any longer, not tonight anyway. He cradled her face in his hands, feeling the fire in his veins come alive when she whined into his mouth and willed herself closer.

Before he could say fuck it and decide to take her right there outside, he pulled away, still needing her but not entirely willing to get themselves caught for public indecency.

Y/N spoke before he got a chance to, her higher pitch coming back and almost bringing him to his knees.

"What do you say you take your angel home and show her a good time?"

***

She didn't even get a chance to close the door to his apartment before he was on her, his hands tugging at her coat to get it off.

It was a frenzy, at least while they were stripping. Jackets and boots and scarves were strewn across the entryway and leading into the living room, until each of them only had two layers: their regular clothes and what they wore underneath. And that's when they finally allowed themselves the luxury of wrapping their limbs around each other.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he grabbed ahold of her ass to keep her steady. For added support, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him the whole way to his bedroom, but not without a few stumbles. Either way, they were so quite literally wrapped up in each other that the imperfections didn't matter.

Like she could ever come with imperfections... Spencer thought as he set her down, immediately bringing his hands to the back of her dress.

Meanwhile she unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling around so much that he thought she might choose to rip it open, and selfishly he wished she would have. But she got it open without tearing any buttons, and the fabric slid easily off his shoulders at the same time her dress slid off her own.

He was going to kiss her again, but once he caught a glimpse of what she'd been hiding under her dress, there was nothing he could physically do but rake his eyes over her figure and pray for forgiveness for all the devilish things he wanted to do to her.

It was a white set, all lace that was detailed to look like feathers as it hugged every curve of her body perfectly. She wore a set of garters that attached to the panties, which he was pretty sure were crotch-less and outlined in a pretty gold shimmer.

"I knew you'd like it," Y/N drawled sweetly. The pure innocence that dripped from her tongue would have thoroughly wrecked him had her appearance already not taken care of that. And she seemed to understand how immobile he'd become at the sight of her, because she moved of her own accord, gliding over to him and reaching her hand out to undo his belt. "I'm gonna take your silence as a good sign..."

"You're stunning," he breathed, just barely, and she gave him a smile through softly biting her bottom lip.

"You're too good to me..." Her hands pushed down his loosened slacks and waited until they fell to the floor. And then she hooked her fingers under the waistband of his underwear and leaned into his neck. "And I think your kindness deserves a reward..."

Her lips gently pressed to his neck before she dropped to her knees once again, and as she descended, her hands and his underwear did the same, leaving him completely bare and open for her to do whatever she wanted. No matter how badly he longed to throw her on the bed and get to showing her just how much she'd inhabited his every fiber of being, he didn't dare stop her as her tongue darted out and licked a featherlight line along the length of his hard cock.

He let out a sigh and twitched at her touch, a feat that must have pleased her, because she smiled and hummed happily as she repeated her action. Only, this time her tongue was more firm on him— not teasing anymore, but it brought him to damnation all the same.

And then she fully wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, slowly gliding herself down until he hit the back of her throat.

The sound he made was inhuman.

She wasted no time then, bobbing her head at a steady rhythm and moaning around him as she did so. It didn't take long for saliva to start gathering above her chin and dripping down onto the exposed area of her breasts, just above her bra. Occasionally she would hold him at the back of her throat and choke as she looked up at him with tears in her eyes, and the sight of his little angel happily crying with his dick in her mouth sent Spencer into a tailspin.

But as tempting as it was to paint the back of her throat white, he knew he'd prefer to take that action to a more interesting place. So he pulled away from her and breathed out, "Please, not yet..."

He looked down at her as she smiled, wetness coating her skin in the form of tears on cheeks and saliva on breasts. Her hands rested at the tops of her thighs, even as she stood up and blinked a final stream of tears down her left cheek. "Why, is there somewhere else you'd rather fill me up?"

"Please," was all he said, his breathing labored as he imagined what she would feel like.

Thankfully she seemed to take mercy on him— Y/N grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bed, where she laid him down at the headboard and straddled his thighs. "As much as I love spreading my legs for you, I think I'd much rather take a ride..."

"Anything you want," he told her, his eyes traveling up the length of her body as she got comfortable. She was, in fact, wearing crotch-less panties, and the feeling that coursed through him at the sight of her glistening pussy in decent lighting (AKA when he wasn't under her skirt in a storage closet) sent him straight to Hell all over again.

He sighed out as she played with herself, gliding her fingers delicately along the planes of her body, from her thighs to her clit, and eventually she gripped his dick to line it up, lifting her hips above him.

"Are you ready?" she asked gently, rolling her hips to slick him up with her arousal.

"Always ready for you, angel..."

The pet name sprung her into action. She sunk down slowly onto him, and he willed his eyes to stay open so he could watch as her mouth dropped open, eyes rolling back into her head as she moaned out deliciously. He let out a groan himself, the feeling of her tightly wrapping around him like velvet almost too much to handle.

"Ohhh, you fill me up so good," Y/N sighed, gently grinding her hips in slow circles as she finally had all of him inside her. "Just like I knew you would..."

Everything she was doing, between the gradual increase of the speed at which her hips rolled and the way she looked down at him with pure desire, had Spencer wondering what he'd ever done without her. What had he known before knowing the feeling of her nails gently digging into the skin of his stomach as she rode him, before knowing the sound of his name falling from her lips in a whisper? It couldn't have been anything good, because as far as he was concerned, she was as good as it would ever get.

But at some point it felt like he needed to take more. She was giving him her body, offering it to him like the most precious gift she had to offer, and yet he wanted to tear into it and leave nothing behind except her voice, calling out his name into the heavens above. He longed to give her something in return, something that would leave her just as ruined as she'd left him.

And, as always, she could tell.

Y/N laughed seductively as she leaned down, her hips still rocking into his. Her lips pressed a gentle kiss to his before she spoke. "Everything alright, baby?"

All he could do was let out a broken moan as she clenched around him on every upstroke.

"Aww... You want more? Huh, you wanna lay me down and give it to me good? Show your little angel what it feels like to be fucked so good she can't even speak?"

"Don't... tempt me," he was finally able to choke out, and she laughed.

"Aww, come on... Show me what you got..."

Spencer wasn't sure when he actually did it, but one second she was nipping at his bottom lip, challenging him to take control, and the next he was on top of her, her legs spread as wide as they could possibly get as he rocked his hips into her at a deep, bruising force.

She laughed amusedly through whimpers of pleasure, her hands spreading out at her sides like wings as he gave her everything he had. Looking down at her, head thrown back and hair fanned around her head like some sort of angelic crown, he soaked it all in and wondered if this was what Heaven was— the feeling of her succumbing to his lust, the sight of her lost in the throes of weeks of pent-up sexual tension that never entirely got released, the sound of her near-incoherently whining at how good he was...

If it wasn't Heaven, it was surely something pretty damn close.

He was almost there, tension stretching out inside the pit of his stomach, when Y/N grabbed one of his hands and brought it to her lower belly. He felt himself slamming into her at full force every time, the small bump against his hand bringing him further along the road of release.

"You feel that?" she whined, keeping his hand there. "You know what that means, don't you?"

It could have meant a lot of things, but his brain was too far gone, lost in in the fog of pleasure to even begin to think about what it was. But then she answered for him, and it was just about the hottest thing he'd ever heard come from her mouth.

"It means I'm all yours... to do whatever you want with... to fill me up with your cum as much as you want... maybe turn your little angel into a mommy..."

With a loud, guttural groan, Spencer held himself still, deep inside her, and gave her every last drop, his hand remained pressed firmly to her stomach. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel his cum spilling out and filling her to the brim through the barrier. She pulsed and came around him at the same time, warmth spreading between the two of them like a drop of water would soak through fabric, until it completely enveloped them like a heavy blanket.

And then they'd given everything, their bodies clinging to each other for dear life as they settled into the gentle aftermath of such a heavy feeling of ardor. Their breaths slowed and their lips explored each other tenderly, hands doing the same until, finally, they felt themselves drifting off.

***

Spencer dreamt of Heaven that night, glimpses of a future he'd always longed for with other people, but that he would get to spend with her.

A wedding dress, white, but haloed by a gold fog as the woman wearing it glided along the aisle and made her way to him.

A house, small, but fenced in and just perfect enough for the two of them and the baby that was on the way.

A picnic table, damp, but drying out in the sun as it gradually became littered with plates of birthday cake and a little candle that was shaped into the number 3.

A woman, old, but beaming as she showed a photo album to her multitudes of grandchildren, telling them stories about the wonderful life she lived with her husband who always called her Angel.

And when he woke up, seeing that old woman as she was now, sleeping in his bed as the sun beamed through the curtains and basked her in a heavenly light, he knew what Heaven really was.

It was her.

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bamf-jaskier · 2 years

Note

Of lot of blogs are saying book fans wouldn’t like the show, what do you think about that?

Well, when I like to think of show vs books in any context I'm always reminded of my copy of Good Omens. It's held together by tape, sticky notes, and a whole lot of hope. At this point, the annotations have annotations. That book has traveled with me no matter where I live, no matter what country I'm in and it's gotten me through some very difficult times. The book feels personal to me in a very concrete way and despite the literal ink I've spilled on its pages I would never give it up. I viewed the book as the ultimate form of the story of Good Omens.

So when the Amazon series came out, I saw every divergence from the book, every slight change or adjustment as some sort of perversion of a book I loved.

But that's exactly the problem. I saw the book to tv show transition as a process that should be a direct copy. But it's always going to be about adaptation.

The definition of adaptation is as follows:

a composition rewritten into a new form

And that's what I really had to keep in mind when I watched Good Omens. That this is an adaptation. It is meant to be taking the original composition and putting it into a new form. When creating Good Omens, Neil Gaiman even said he changed the ending on purpose so book fans wouldn't get cocky. Adaptations change things but they also bring new things into the universe that can be wonderful benefits. For example, the whole scene with hellfire and holy water in Good Omens was really great to me and it was never in the original book.

And it's the same way with The Witcher.

The Witcher is adapting a series of books. Each episode is not equivalent to a chapter and there's going to be a lot of changes. Some of them I have thought was certainly for the better, Triss and Geralt don't get together in the show like they do in the books. Other changes I was not a fan of, like Tissaia and Vilgefortz together. But overall, I really enjoy the show, changes and all. Because it's adapting a book series I love, and of course, the book series isn't perfectly going to fit whatever the show puts out but the show is adding more to the rich world of The Witcher.

I especially love those moments in the show when I can sort of point at the TV and go "wait! I know this from the books" and get excited about that. And to go back to Neil Gaimen, he specifically changed a big plot point in the books just so fans would have something fresh to chew on and I love that mentality.

When the Witcher changes large plot points such as having Yennefer be the secret hero of Sodden and Vilgefortz stealing the credit instead of Vilgefortz simply being the hero it gives me a sense of excitement like reading all the things that might have happened but never did. If the show was exactly like the books, I would get bored. Because the books still exist and won't be changed by the show. If I want to read them, they are right there. If I want to watch the show, along with all the changes it has made, it's also right there.

Because at the end of the day, you can read the books and enjoy those alone. You can watch the show and just the show. You can join me in my camp of loving both the books and show.

I see problems in the books.

I see problems in the show.

But I also get a lot of enjoyment out of both of them. I appreciate the adaptation for what it brings to the table that is new and unique and I love the original books for creating the very world the show is playing around in.

I think that many book fans do enjoy the show, I'm certainly one of them. I also think a lot of people, like I once did, see the changes the show makes as some sort of personal attack on a book series they love. But like me with my battered copy of Good Omens learning to appreciate the show for all the things it gave us, maybe we can all learn to appreciate some of the great things The Witcher on Netflix has brought us too!

Ask me things

#the fandom grew so big because of the show and a lot of people read the books after the show too #asks #anon #the witcher #twn #the witcher books #books vs show

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plush-rabbit · 3 years

Text

Secret Admirer

Request: Do you think Shigaraki would play the part of ‘secret admirer’ with his crush for a while before confessing? Like just leaving little gifts in their room from time to time, with small notes saying it’s from their secret admirer?

I like to imagine he enjoys seeing how giddy they get

A/N: I had a fic where he met a new recruit and was like oh?? What's this feeling?? Sickness?? But it was just him having a crush and thinking they were cute. And i really enjoyed that one, never got around to a part two tho

Being locked in a room and forced to comply with the principles of his mentor led to Tomura being unsure of what to do with his feelings that aren’t destruction and chaos. He’s never had a crush, was never allowed to grow as a child and instead was kept with a foggy understanding of the feelings that bubble inside of him when he sees you. He isn’t sure what to do with these new types of feelings that he has for you. At first, he thought it was just his friendship with you but then he felt his face start to get hot, he felt himself become excited to see you and now he doesn’t know where he sits when he thinks of you. He isn’t sure why it’s you. Maybe it’s the way that you’re nice to him and always make sure to tell him good morning and save him a piece of toast. Maybe it’s how you listen to him ramble about everything and how when he looks at you, he doesn’t ever want to stop.

His feelings are too much and he doesn’t know who to go to with these feelings. Kurogiri isn’t around, Dabi isn’t exactly the romantic type, Twice and Toga would both run to you the minute they knew- accidently and purposefully- and Spinner is similar to him in the lack of understanding on what to do with these types of emotions. He ends up going to Mister Compress, nervous and feeling too much like a child and it’s awful, but he’s the only logical option. He’s given all sorts of advice that leaves him irritated in the way that a child does when they’re teased for having a crush, but he eventually settles on the secret admirer path. He doesn’t know how you feel about him and he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship that he has with you, so he rather be secretive about it.

Luckily, he knows you, so it isn’t hard to figure out what your interests are in order to get you nice gifts- or at least gifts that you would like. He’ll stockpile all the gifts and even bribe Mister Compress to marble some away so it isn’t too suspicious on why he has loads of items that are obviously not for him. It’s annoying and he has to find small containers to label in order to make sure that he knows what he’s going to give you. It’s annoying and tedious work that makes his hand ache and in turn writing sloppy, but it’s for you and he wants to make sure that you enjoy your gifts.

The gifts are well thought out- things that you mentioned liking, items that you’ve favorited on a shopping site for some reason, and even just things he knows you’d like by context clues- however, the wrapping is where he struggles at. Even with the gloves, it’s hard to break out of habit, and the tape sticks together and the paper crinkles too much and he’s just frustrated. He’s already asked Mister Compress for too much help and he doesn’t want to bother him any more than he already does, but the thought of just having all that done by a professional grows more and more tempting with every crooked line that he makes. You’re lucky that he has strong emotions for you or else he wouldn’t be putting this much effort into making the gifts look nice.

It’s an increase in the complexity of the gifts. First it’s flowers that he can see are in a vase when he walks by your room, then it’s chocolates that you hide in order to not share with others, and then it’s stuffed animals that he sees laid out in your bed. He’s glad that you like the gifts and he can’t help but feel a bit prideful at how you start to smile more and more everyday, how you wear the things he gets you no matter how small the accessory is. He wants to approach you and comment on your items but he’s unsure how. He doesn’t want to make it obvious that it’s him and while he can keep a secret, he also just wants you to know that it is him. But the fear of rejection from you is stronger than the curiosity that dwells in him.

Tired of the longing stares and the scratching that has started to make the pining boy’s neck raw, it’s Mister Compress who comments on a necklace that you wear. He asks where you got it from, leaning close to you and unsuccessfully trying to pull the pining boy towards the conversation. You, on the other hand, can only shrug, twirling the silver chain between your fingers as you say that it was a gift from someone special. It’s easy to tell that you really enjoyed this gift from how you smile, the corners of your lips stretched and unbreaking.

Perhaps he’s a bit jealous with how you pull Mister Compress to a closed corridor with shifting eyes to make sure that no one else is around to listen, but he can’t blame you. Maybe if he were to have commented on your necklace, then it would have been you pulling him close, your lips over the shell of his ear as you tell him- he doesn’t know, but he knows that you’d tell him something and then maybe he could confess to you. But even then, it’s not certain that you would return his feelings. He knows that rejection would hurt. He’s supposed to be some powerful leader in order to destroy hero society and everything that comes along with it, but he still has feelings, he still mulls over the decisions he’s made when he’s around you, he still tries to stare discreetly at you and sit behind you in order to just hear you talk to him. But he can’t have that, not with rejection so clear in sight.

Whatever Mister Compress said to you, it has you talking more and more to him. You’ve always been friendly towards him, but now, it feels so much more. He wonders- No, he knows that Mister Compress led you to his direction and he doesn’t know whether to be angry at the thought that his secret was possibly spilled or if he’s glad that he doesn’t have to do a reveal. No matter, you’re talking to him. You’re pulling him to your room and showing him all the things you received, and when he reaches out to touch a cheap gift he had bought you- a squishy animal- you stop him. You smile at him and pull the animal close to you, commenting how someone gave it to you and that you’re weirdly territorial on gifts you've received. He nods and in his chest, his heart beats rapidly. When he’s about to leave, he notices that the flowers he’s got you are gone. He doesn’t even realize his mistake when he asks you what happened to the flowers. You only stare at him, shaking your head and telling him that they dried out and that the petals are inside a jar.

A part of him wants to confess to you. He wants to tell you his feelings just to get the rejection over, but even so, a part of him still holds out hope that you like him the same way that he does. Even then, he still likes giving you gifts, he likes to see you wear i and pull Mister Compress aside and talk about your new gift, or when you go to him and tell him how you got a new gift- a soft, strawberry scented sloth that you can’t stop holding when he’s around you. He wants to tell you, but he’s unsure how.

Tomura confesses to you the way that it all started. He stands at your door, waiting for you to open and when you do, he bites on his tongue as he pushes the gift towards you. It’s different when he enters your room now, it feels much more private, like he’s invading a space that he shouldn’t as if he isn’t there, but watching through a window. He doesn't know what to say except that he is your secret admirer. He likes you and he didn’t know what to do but to give you gifts to smile and when you would think of the secret admirer you would smile and in turn, you’d be smiling at him, because of him. You make him feel all sorts of new things- freedom, happiness, content, the inevitable feeling of something warm that bubbles inside of him, and it terrifies him enough. He keeps his eyes on the jar full of dried petals from his flowers and he can understand that if you don’t feel the same, he won’t blame you, but he just needed to tell you. When he feels your hand above his, he tenses, his head turning to you and in a blink of an eye, your lips are pressed against his cheek, smooshing the little fat there is and he nods, a smile forming and he’s left with your arms around his shoulders.

#bnha #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki imagine #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #mha shigaraki #tomura headcanons #tomura shiragaki #bnha shigaraki tomura #i love him so much #i just wanna kiss him #and give him head #please #why can't he be real #im geniunely upset #like i lve in texas #im not getting a lanky boi anything soon #ahhhh

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warnings/ Ratings:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now you want to fuck him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like salt kept on the lips,

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

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

With keen, slick hinges.”

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

“A ruined peach

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

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

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

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

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

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

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

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

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

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

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

“Or else I rust.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

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

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

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

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

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

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

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That really does sound nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

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

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

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #oscar isaac #richard alonso muñoz x reader

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feralnumberfive · 3 years

Text

The Rewatch Academy: Episode 4 of Season 1

“Man on the Moon”

I am in no way a good analyst so my little analysis and speculations probably sound a bit goofy or pretty wild and probably mean nothing at all. Everything I put into this post about each episode is purely what I noticed or thought, whether it’s funny or serious. I will be making jokes, so please just leave it at that (in no way am I trying to make fun of an actor and or character!) I am also in no way saying I noticed this stuff first. This is just what I noticed while rewatching these episodes

☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂

1x01 | 1x02 | 1x03 |

☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂

☂ So at that point Luther had already been alone for about five years (due to his siblings leaving when they were 18 or even 17 according to Diego), and by alone I mean he did’t have his siblings with him. I’m not counting Reginald, Grace, or Pogo because I’d imagine they weren’t the best company. There was a two year gap between Luther getting the serum and then being sent to the moon. He had already been “alone” for five years before he was sent away to be completely alone for four years. He hasn’t had really any social/outside interaction besides going on missions for almost ten years, which means Luther is an awkward dude and he hasn’t been a true leader because he hasn’t had anyone to lead. I don’t think people really realize this and I think that’s where some of the hate towards him comes from

☂ We see that Luther looks into Allison’s and Klaus’s bedrooms as he makes his way down the hall, and I’m willing to bet he did that for all of his siblings. Makes me wonder how many times the siblings went to Five’s room to visit it or to even check with hope that he had come back

☂ I wish I could ride my bike around my house and chug a gallon of milk :[

☂ I can’t believe that Reginald still made him wear that leather battle suit 💀

☂ Why are there posters of animal anatomy in the infirmary?

☂ Apparently it takes between two to four months to grow a full beard, so that’s about how long Luther had been lying there

☂ *suffers through the Allison and Luther scene*

☂ “HoPe I wAsN’t BeInG tOo LoUd”

☂ Vanya and Leonard were really sweet in the beginning. Screw you Leonard

☂ It’s really sad that not one his siblings notice that Klaus is gone. Not. One.

☂ Are you telling me that Klaus and Five are certified freaks? At least I’m sure that’s who Cha Cha is referring to, or maybe it’s Luther

☂ I tried looking up tortures in Trinidad to see if Cha Cha was referring to any specific event, but I think it’s just a random thing in the show

☂ It’s only when Diego mutters “The boy” that it reminds him either of Five’s superhero name “The Boy” or his new appearance as a teen again so it finally clicks in his head that that’s who the mystery kid is

☂ Diego admitting that he doesn’t really know how to process his feelings!

☂ He’s very protective of his family and that’s something that I love about Diego. He doesn’t know who Hazel and Cha Cha are but all he knows is that they are searching for Five for some reason and that his siblings almost got killed last night

☂ Five doesn't realize the suffering that he’s putting his family through at this point since he’s only focused on finding who’s responsible for the end of the world. It’s ironic that he’s doing all of this to keep them alive and safe and yet him not being with them almost got them killed. Five buddy, you should have included all of your siblings from the start no matter how much they annoy you

☂ Also where has Five been this entire time? He left the van at night and now it’s the next morning. He’s been following the guy but why did it take him so long to corner him?

☂ Ope, and there’s a continuation error! When Luther takes his arm out of Five’s dresser, he takes part of the wood panel with him. When it cuts back to Diego talking there’s just a fist size hole

☂ “We barely got out with our lives.” Okay but where were you, Pogo?

☂ It’s funny how quickly they revert to child-like shame when Pogo scolds them. At least they still respect him I guess

☂ Is Hazel eating potato chips with ketchup?

☂ I think one reason why nobody notices that Klaus is gone is because none of them saw him that night during the attack. They possibly assumed he already had left the Academy??

☂ Looooove the “Shingaling” scene. They are straight up vibing

☂ I don’t know why Luther was frustrated with the van door being locked. It’s not like he could rip the door off or anything.......

☂ I have a two questions here:

Why did Diego know where to find Five based off of the book? Sure he saw that it came from the library, but that doesn’t mean that he’ll be there

Wouldn’t Luther and Diego have seen the smoke coming from the Meritech building? Unless they left immediately and weren’t able to see the smoke even though they probably were still in the vicinity when it began to burn

☂ Five is holding the man’s arm to make sure that he doesn’t get away (hard to tell in the pic below though). He needs that sense of security that this lead isn’t going to escape his grasp, but I’m sure that if he were to run he wouldn’t get far when you can just teleport after him

☂ I got a nice pic of Five (also the dude on the bike that was riding behind Five as he runs up in this shot just does not care that this building is on fire)

☂ When it shows Five on the ground, it at first starts off with light and slightly comedic music before it quickly switches over to something dramatic. I always thought it was funny that they play the light stuff as we see Five just laying there 💀

☂ You can see just how quickly Five’s face changes from shock to disbelief and disappointment as his only lead is literally blown away from him look, you can pinpoint the exact moment his heart breaks. Also Five definitely would have had hearing issues since we can see that the windows on the building behind him were shattered. He’s staring into your soul....

☂ There’s nothing really significant about this at all, but Whippets are racing dogs and in the comics Five goes to watch a dog race at one point

☂ “I hate sprinkles.” Hey, me too!

☂ I love that Griddy’s is still open despite the damage that was done to it

☂ Diego left home at 17 (which is illegal so I wonder if he was emancipated or maybe Diego ran away and Reginald didn’t care to look for him) so I wonder if the others left when they were 17 too or if they waited until they were 18

☂ Luther I don’t really think you’re one to talk about being “grown up” my guy. In fairness none of the Umbrellas know how to be fully functioning adults, not even Five who’s about twice the age of his siblings and is almost a senior citizen

☂ “I stayed because the world needed me.” Hey that was basically Five’s reason too, but more so for getting to see his family again. Anyways, like brother, like, uh, brother!

☂ "And things are never gonna go back to the way they used to be.” You sir just predicted the next week(s) (and technically years in the 60s) of your life and the lives of your siblings! This also applies for what happens after those weeks/years, but we haven’t gotten there yet but it’s certainly not the way things used to be!

☂ How was Luther upset enough that he wanted Diego to stop talking after he said something genuine and a bit sad?

☂ This whole relationship talk isn’t exactly relatable......

☂ He’s just chillin’

☂ Reginald can ✨perish✨ Oh wait, he already did

☂ Here I am taking any little scrap and running with it, but when Five says he’s going through puberty twice does that mean that he didn’t get his aging altered by The Commission? In the comics, Temps Aeternalis/Commission stopped Five’s aging but here it sounds like that didn’t happen. Since we haven’t heard anything about Five’s DNA in the tv show we don’t really know much about his aging alteration either. I think that they really do have to leave that part out due to Aidan himself, who is a growing teen, and for the fact that they would need to come up with an excuse for Five’s aging (Aidan already looks different in S2 and he’s taller too). I wish they would bring this stuff up in the show!

☂ Five deflects answering the question of what he’s the best at most likely just because he’s just distracted but also possibly because he doesn’t want his brothers to know at this point

☂ First the feral chimp smile and now this

☂ Five actually sounded serious when he was talking about how many people he has killed and how he’s the ”Four frickin’ Horsemen” which is more so an exaggeration but it still shows us that he views himself as dangerous and powerful. He revealed this to them while he was drunk, even though they don’t really understand, but I wonder if Five ever actually planned on telling his siblings what he did and how much blood he has on his hands. I feel like he would have told them after he had saved the world from the apocalypse, but yet again I could also see him brushing off questions in relation to what he just said to Luther and Diego to hide his past from his family

☂ ✨”Little Psycho”✨

☂ As eerie as all of those ghosts are, it’s a really neat scene

☂ It’s not really meant to be funny, but Klaus denying the duct tape just reminds me of a little kid refusing to go into timeout

☂ I guess Cha Cha got out through the door next to the bathroom when Klaus was banging his head on the table?

☂ It’s a shame that Patch died right away, I really liked her

☂ Klaus, where you’re going really isn’t any better

☂ It’s sweet that Diego puts Delores down gently and doesn’t just toss her somewhere. Even though she’s a mannequin, Diego knows that she means something to Five

☂ Well Luther I think it’s pretty self-explanatory what he meant. You just need more context

☂ Diego: *signaling that someone, possibly a threat, is approaching and to be alert*

Luther: 🕴👁`👄’👁

☂ Even if they did think that Klaus had left the Academy before Hazel and Cha Cha attacked it, it’s sad that it took them this long to think about him

☂ Luther patting Delores is so cute

☂ Say it with me kids, “Patch deserved so much better!”

☂ My heart breaks to see Diego so heartbroken and upset, especially when he says “I gotta go, okay? I can’t be here when they come, okay?” Ugh, that gets me

☂☂☂☂☂☂☂

Feel free to comment or reblog with things you have noticed too!

#tra #the rewatch academy #tua #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #number five #five hargreeves #ben hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #hazel and cha cha #eudora patch #reginald hargreeves #man on the moon

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im-pok · 3 years

Text

Just for fun (and to make these easier to find) I have made a compilation of JSRF quotes!

I did find the quotes from this video by RisingSonic17 on YouTube. I do suggest watching it as it gives more context to the lines:

youtube

Keep in mind that some interactions may be missing, as I have never played JSRF and may be unaware of some interactions. Characters and their quotes appear in chronological order according to the video.

Corn:

"This is the GG's Garage. Hey, where's our pizza? Huh? You're not the pizza guy? Oh, you're here to join the GG's, eh? Heh... Tell you what. Find Gum. She's the one you wanna talk to. Just get close to her and pull the 'Right Trigger'. Got it?"

"Why don't you talk to her now?"

"Now, just 'cause you're new don't mean you can act like a big baby. The police are tightening up here, especially since the Rokkaku took over the police force. I know we look crazy 'n all, but even we know to pick our fights. So don't mess things up for the rest of us, got it?"

"Roboy's training changes as your skill level changes, so be on the lookout."

"I had a feeling Poison Jam would have their hideout in the sewers beneath Rokkaku-dai Heights. This is it... looks like the time to throw down has finally come."

"Man, those Poison Jam freaks are out of control. I say we start on Chuo Street and cover everything to Rokkaku-dai Heights and 99th Street in our graffiti. Chuo Street is probably the best place to start."

"Roboy told you, right? If you find a Mystery Tape, you gotta check the GG-notebook. It'll tell you where to find the Graffiti Souls in the area."

"Where the hell is Yoyo? Maybe he freaked out and skipped town? I'm sure he's alright. But we gotta take care of those Immortals. They've been walkin' around like they own the place. We gotta go and cover up all their graffiti."

"I'll send those Immortals back to the grave as many times as I need to!"

"We'll stop those Noise Tanks!"

Gum:

"Poison Jam knows something about Yoyo. I know they do."

"Damn! Punk, I'll get you for that!"

"The fortified residential zone... that's deep in the ghetto. And it could be the fake one again..."

"Here they come. The crazies from the Golden Rhinos. Concentrate, and watch your back. These guys ain't no joke."

"We gotta protect the streets. That's not a choice. We can't let these fools just waltz in and take over."

"The real enemy is your own fear. Remember that."

"So you're the cat that wants to join us, huh? I don't know where you're from, but the streets are tough. Real tough. Let's see what you're made of. We'll start you off nice and slow. Let's see how much air you can grab. Press the "A Button" to jump."

"Dogenzaka Hill is GG territory. I heard there's some headphone wearin' freak creepin' up here. If I could just find him, I'd show him what's up...."

"You can do it, can't you?"

"There are a couple of places in Shibuya Terminal where you can get on the roof of some buildings. You can get there by jumping from a Grind. You should check it out. Who knows what you'll find up there? When you're looking for something, the best place to start is the Map. You can see it by pressing the START button."

"The area of 99th Street is built around a tower that has a bunch of places to Grind. Definitely check that place out. There are also telephone poles to Grind and billboards to Wallride... the most important thing is to just try everything out. Oh, and don't forget to check the map by pressing the START button. That should give you some helpful hints"

"We actually found Roboy in a dumpster. Corn fixed him up real nice."

"I've been lost in the severs before. Its kinda crazy in there, but as long as you keep moving up, you'll be ok."

"Yoyo just can't chill and stay out, can he? He'll be back soon, I'm sure. I heard the Immortals hang out in the skyscraper district or something..."

"Actually, they say Roboy is actually a Noise Tank prototype. Don't tell him that though, ok? We don't wanna make him cry or nothin'. In any case, we're gonna get those damn Noise Tanks."

Yoyo:

"Those tracks should connect Sky Dinosaurian Square to the edge of the skyscraper district..."

"I hear that Poison Jam's woman leader has been showin' her face in town."

"Man, the Rhinos gotta be pissed off!"

"Shibuya Terminal is in a state of panic. I really wanna stay out of this, but we gotta go over there and take care of business."

"Don't use your eyes. Just try to feel it, ya know?"

"Graffiti has the power to wake up the energy that's asleep in the streets of Tokyo. The Rokkaku Group... the police... they don't know what's up. So let's just cover this whole place in art, yo."

"Yo, you know that dude Hayashi from the Rokkaku police force? That guy is one messed up dude. He's a complete psycho. Watch out for him."

"I heard through the grapevine that some weird-lookin' girl's been hangin' out at Rokkaku-dai Heights."

"So you think Poison Jam is after us?"

"We gotta get the Doganzaka Hill goddess statue that Poison Jam took. We better hurry, or things are gonna get real ugly."

Beat:

"Anything go down while I was gone?"

"I've always thought that thing in Shibuya Terminal was nasty lookin' anyway! Let's do a little redecoration."

"Sometimes, you just gotta get moving or else nothin's gonna get done, yo.

"Hey, I've heard of you. You're one of the GG's, huh? Tell you what... I'll race you. If I can beat you in a race around Doganzaka Hill, then this place belongs to me. Got it?"

"Hope you won't regret that."

"Shibuya Terminal? Now that you mention it, there was this huge guy wandering around there... And fishy graffiti? That sounds familiar, but I didn't really look close enough to see if the graffiti that the fool was paintin' actually looked like a fish or nothin'."

"Hey. Is it true Poison Jam used to cause trouble in Chuo Street under a different name?"

"Rapid 99 of 99th Street. They don't show their faces in public very often. Some say Rapid 99 and Poison Jam are sworn enemies because something big went down a while back. I don't know the details, though. A friend of mine told me that the girls in Rapid 99 are real lookers. I just think he was too scared of 'em to say otherwise. In any case, it ain't gonna be easy to find 'em."

"You meet Rapid 99 yet?"

"Noise Tanks? Never heard of 'em. But we gotta find Yoyo. I'll go through the sewers and check out Kiboganoka Hill."

"Those Immortals really get on my nerves..."

"Crazy stuff is going down all over town! Looks like it's time for a little clean up... GG's style!"

Combo:

"Time to get serious."

"This kid's kinda funny."

"This time we should be able to tell if it's the real one or the fake Yoyo just by talkin' to him, right?"

"That crazy guy?! What're you talkin' about? He looks nothing like me. Besides, we don't got time to deal with that fool. Remember? The Golden Rhinos??"

"Well, they told us to come. Don't look like we got any choice."

"There are some things that you can only feel when you're out in the streets, you know?"

"What's this?! Who's been sprayin' these ugly tags on my turf?! Hmph. I'm guessin' it was you... Its on! If you loose, you're gonna be answerin' to me from now on, punk!"

"You think you can do this too? Let's see it!"

"Man, you're not all that. Here, I'll show you one more time."

"The deep end of the sewers is closed off because it's contaminated. At least, that's what I heard..."

"Hey, why you gotta go out and get a dog?! There's only one thing I hate more than dogs, and that's goldfish."

"I heard Rapid 99 used to run under a leader named Cube..."

"Thing that ticks me off most is, the Immortals ain't worth all this talk and trouble. I wonder if they got somethin' to do with Yoyo's disappearance?"

"There's a bunch of real big guys with real big attitudes causin' a big scene over on Highway Zero. Maybe they might know something about the Noise Tanks. Man, where the hell is Yoyo?!"

Rynth:

"What is UP with Yoyo, anyway?!"

"Hey, Graffiti Souls are a big commodity, right?"

"I don't care if it's a golden rhino or a blue hippo, I'll send 'em right back to the zoo where they belong."

"What's their master plan? I mean, the Golden Rhinos don't seem like their just out here to run the streets, you know what I'm sayin'?" (This quote was spelled like this in game. From my knowledge it should be "they're just out here...")

"Here comes Gouji. Let's end this."

"Did you get all the Graffiti Souls? We still got a full laundry list of things to take care of, you know."

"Hehehe... So this is your hideout."

"Poison Jam are... kinda cute!"

"Is it just me, or does Captain Hayashi not look like he eats his breakfast?"

Poison Jam:

"I don't think Yoyo's that kind of a person."

"I think hes hiding something."

"This feels like a trap. Be careful."

"Someone's after DJ-K?! You sure about that?!"

"Gouji Rokkaku is kinda interesting. But, I think he went a little too far this time..."

"I love everything about Tokyo... even the things I hate."

"Hur hur hur. You want to get rid of us, don't you? Nothing in life is free. You gotta work for it. Beat us in this race and we won't mess with you anymore."

"Har har har!! I told ya'll you were a bunch of wussies!"

Rapid 99:

"ghahah! Next thing you know, you will be all crying like a baby."

"If you can win a flag battle against us, I'll tell you where Poison Jam' s hideout is."

"Suit yourself."

Garam:

"I won't hold back."

"Hey. Keep it real."

"There's this lightning-quick girl over at Kiboganoka Hill. Dunno if she's still there. But man, I gotta say, I'm really trippin' out over Yoyo missin' and all."

"When it comes down to it, the Immortals are just dried up mummies, man. I bet they all nasty under those bandages."

Boogie:

"The Noise Tanks might look strong, but they're like cheap action figures! Just run into them and they fall apart! Oh yeah, that girl from the stadium... I heard she's been lookin' for us. You seen her yet?"

"Aww man..."

"The fortified residential zone... it's directly attached to the underground sewers. Man. I don't like that place at all."

"Is that dude in black even human? My heart's pounding... I don't know why."

"You're never as good as you can be! Don't slack off!"

"Y'all are crazy!"

Jazz:

"This doesn't look good."

"Alright. Stay cool."

"Yeah.... we were a little too laid back this time, I think."

"The fortified residential zone... hey, why don't we pick numbers to decide who goes?"

"It's about time the Rhinos brought things up a notch. We better be ready to get real serious too."

"What the hell IS that big thing, anyway? But, you better watch out for that fool in black..."

"If you get a "Jet" in the Trials, you can even use people who aren't here to take out into the streets."

"You're one of the GG's, right? Then tell this fool that they got the wrong girl! They think I'm one of you guys! So, they dragged me out here and looked what's happened to me!!"

"Hurry up! Tell him that I'm not a GG!!"

Noise Tanks:

"Hey, you're that GG that helped me out! Thanks for that man. Say... there's something that I've been wondering since then. You wanna find out who's the fastest? I KNOW I can beat you. Let's give it a shot!"

"Alright. Fine. See ya."

"I'll get 'em good no matter what!"

"The more worked up we get about this, the harder it'll be to find what we're lookin' for."

"There's somethin' not right about the way the Golden Rhino's are actin'."

"Why are those Golden Rhinos going after the Radio station? Well, make sure to be on the lookout for Captain Psychopath."

"We gotta save DJ-K! I can't stand listening to this music anymore!"

"If this town could talk, what poetry it would speak..."

"Ready?"

"Practice all you want, it will not make a difference."

"It is not over yet. Prepare yourselves."

"Heh... Go on. Fight!"

"Are you ready?"

Special interactions:

"Sometimes it just doesn't matter how much you practice."

Slate:

"Dude. I'm bored. Entertain me."

"Hmph. What a bore."

"My sources tell me that the Noise Tanks and the Rokkaku Group are in this together. Be careful."

"So is that Clutch guy in with Rokkaku too? Or is he just a little punk?"

"I'm about ready."

"The Golden Rhinos are really startin' to get on my nerves..."

"I got better things to do than play house with Gouji Rokkaku, but man, that big ugly thing has GOT to go."

"Graffiti Souls' sole purpose is to be sought out."

Clutch:

"You're looking for that kid, Yoyo, right? Tell ya what, if you go out and get some Graffiti Soul points... Hey! Wait a sec, you've already got quite a few. Lemme see those... Sucka! Thanks for the Graffiti Souls! See ya around!"

"Hah, hah! I look forward to it!"

"I dunno, but I just don't get what's going on here. Heh..."

"This Gouji Rokkaku dude is pretty funny!"

"Haaaahaha! Tokyo ain't half bad!"

Cube:

"If you can beat me at my own game, I'll leave you alone."

"Suit yourself."

"The fortified residential zone... Unless you're absolutely sure of your skills, you should stay away from that place."

"I've dealt with the Golden Rhinos once before. If you don't take them seriously, you're as good as dead."

"I can't stand even looking at that thing. Its just so... so... damn ugly!"

"Yeah. You just have to try everything with an open mind."

Beat to Corn:

"So you're the leader of the GG's? Heh... How's this sound? If I beat you in a race around Doganzaka Hill, you and your buddies have to answer to me from now on. If you beat me... well, we'll just see when it happens."

"Huuuh? You're so boooring..."

Talking to Beat in the garage before fighting the police:

"Anyway, I'm ready to rock. But what's up with that pooch, eh? Where did ya pick him up? You sure that's not the leader in disguise? Heh heh. Its only a matter of time before I become the leader of the GG's anyway."

Combo to Gum:

"What's this?! Who's been sprayin' these ugly tags on my turf?! Hmph. Was it you, princess? You've been a bad, bad girl. You've better hit me with everything you've got, 'cause I ain't gonna hold back just because you're a girl!!"

"The cue tone get you all jumpy?"

"You liked that, eh? I'll do it again for you."

Yoyo to Rynth:

"You're... like... you know... yo."

"Where'd you come from?"

Gum to Rynth:

Rynth to Beat:

"Cool. Welcome aboard."

"You kinda... smell weird."

Garam to Boogie:

"Hey. I'm next in command around here, little lady. The name's Garam,"

Combo to Boogie:

"This group is growing bigger every day. Fool just dig me, I guess."

Gum to Boogie:

"So you're the one from Kiboganoka Hill, huh? Well, this is the GG's. What you see is what you get. Just be yourself, you'll be cool."

Garam to Jazz:

"Well, um... I... uh... be cool."

"That freak who's been making all those weird tags... you think he's connected with the Golden Rhinos somehow?"

Boogie to Garam:

"Alright. Stay cool."

Jazz to Garam:

"I feel ya, but I think you should try to chill a bit. Keep it together."

Corn to Clutch:

"What a fool. But the fortified residential zone... that's deep in the ghetto. And it could be the fake one again..."

Jazz to Clutch:

"Don't push your luck."

Beat to Clutch:

"You just wanted some attention from us, right? Aww..."

Combo to Clutch:

"Man, you're such a jerk I almost like you."

Garam to Clutch:

"One of these days, I'll get you one-on-one! Just you and me, fool!"

Boogie to Clutch:

"Fine. I'll let you off just this once."

Slate to Clutch:

"Heh... Stay outta trouble."

Corn to Yoyo:

"Long time no see, bro."

Clutch to Yoyo:

"So you're that Yoyo guy, huh? Heh..."

Jazz to Yoyo:

"So, you're the real deal, huh? 'Sup. I'm Jazz."

Combo to Yoyo:

"You gonna go and try to get back into shape, huh?'

Garam to Yoyo:

"Heh... I caused enough havoc for the both of us while you were gone, bro."

Rynth to Yoyo:

"The most unbelievable stuff was happening while you were gone! Hehehe..."

Yoyo to Slate:

"Hey, sorry about all that, yo. My bad. But thanks to those fools, I'm all out of shape now. Maybe I'll go out and cause a little havoc to warm up, yo."

Yoyo to Jazz:

"Man, things have sure gotten busier sice I was last here?"

Gum to Beat:

"That fool dressed in black who's been hanging around Chuo Street... now that I think about it, you guys kinda look alike."

Clutch to Beat:

"In times like this, you won't fall as long as you look where you're going. Heh heh."

Garam to Beat:

"Hey, you know that guy everyone's been saying looks like you? Well, is it you?"

There is some cutscene dialogue missing from these lines. If I can find all the cutscenes, then I'll be sure to add them.

#jsrf #long post #jsrf beat #jsrf yoyo #jsrf corn #jsrf gum #Youtube

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