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viking-raider · 4 years

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The Crimson Moon *MATURE*

Summary: Your friend drags you out to a strip club for your birthday. But, you end up with more than just a lap dance from one mustached, blue-eyed stripper.

Pairing: August Walker/You

Word Count: 8,716

Rating: MATURE - Smut, Language, Lap Dances, Strippers, Stalking (if you squint hard enough) Oral - F Receiving, Light Dom!August, Light Bondage, Expeditionism, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Cream Pie, Double life

Inspiration: This Anon @littlefreya received (x)

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @wardl0w, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @kaatelyyynn, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @bellastellaluna, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @itsreigns, @constip8merm8, @scorpionchild81, @mylifefallingupthestairs, @onlyhenrys, @luclittlepond, @ellixthea, @lebguardians, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier, @cherrybloomn, @p3nny4urth0ught5, @iloveyouyen, @hollydaisy23, @mcuimagination, @psychosupernatural, @sweetlybigdragonn, @whitewolfandthefox, @moviemonzy, @the-soot-sprite, @hell1129-blog, @trippedmetaldetector, @captaingothgirl1996, @dont8mind8me8eue, @peaky-marvel, @desperate-and-broken21, @monstersnmoney, @dancingwendigo, @redhot-mystacism, @thereisa8ella, @black-ninja-blade, @oddduckthatgirl, @rosewinx, @henrythickcavill, @tinabean37, @hnryycvll, @msblkfire84, @romangenesius, @emelinelovesjc, @strangerliaa, @lovieebby, @pinksdaydream, @fanfictionaddiction99, @seb-owns-these-tatas, @oh-for-fic-sake, @sauvage-et-libre, @mis-lil-red, @angreav, @crazyandanonymous4u, @the-mighty-jellybean @henrycavell, @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair, @iam-laiya, @worshipping-skarsgard, @thetruthandotherstories, @ruthoakenshield, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @theonetheycallhannah, @nina-skyee, @thatgirly81, @inanna999, @suueeeeeee, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8, @beckster07890, @daddys-littlewhitegirl, @magic-and-the-macabre, @stxphmxlls, @radaofrivia, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @starstruckkittyangel, @heartfelt-pen, @stuckupstucky, @dummiesshort, @la-cey, @singeramg, @queenoftheworldisdead, @brooklymw, @raspberrydreamclouds

The Crimson Moon

Flashed the sign on the front of the building your friend was dragging you into.

The building, as the sign indicated, was a Crimson-Red color, accented with Charcoal-Black, the parking lot was dimly lit, giving the whole place a secretive and hushed vibe about it. You didn't want to go into it even more, the closer you got to it, even though you knew it wasn't like the seedy, Club O on 12th street, downtown. The Crimson Moon was a high-end and classy establishment, you needed a membership to enter this strip club, or you knew someone that one.

Enter your best friend, Baeli.

Baeli had an unapologetic obsession with men, typically, Chippendales, Firefighters or Cop type males. She had a reputation for going to the Crimson Moon and tipping the strippers so well, her membership was upgraded to Gold, which was how she was allowed to kidnap you and force you into going with her.

“Bae, I don't want to spend my birthday in a strip club.” You complained, sighing as you both stopped at the door leading inside.

“Oh, come on!” Baeli huffed, flipping her blond hair at you, the powerful wall of her perfume hitting you square in the nose. “Let's see one show, then we'll go somewhere you wanna spend your birthday.”

You gave her a dubious look, you had been friends with her since Grade One, and knew when she was talking out of her bleached ass.

“Pinkie swear.” She sighed, rolling her eyes and stuck her powdered-pink, French manicure pinkie finger out towards you.

Growling and rolling your eyes back, neither of you ever broke a pinkie swear. “Fine.” You groaned, hooking your plain pinkie finger with hers. “Pinkie swear, then we're going to Nathan's pub and getting shots.”

“Fine.” Baeli groaned, she hated going to Nathan's, but like how you sucked up going to the club with her, she'll suck up going to the pub with you.

“Card.” A beefy doorman growled, thrusting out his hand towards Baeli.

Baeli opened the clutch that hung from her forearm, revealing a huge wad of cash, there wasn't a bill lower than a ten amongst them. Fishing around the thick bundle of money, Baeli removed a glittering gold card, the name Crimson Moon written on it, over the image of red thumbnail moon, with her name and membership number.

“A pleasure to have you again, Ms. Evans.” The doorman said, swiping her card in a reader and handing it back to her, his almost mafia bodyguard demeanor washing away into a surprisingly polite and gentlemanly attitude.

“This is my guest.” Baeli said, smiling at you over her shoulder. “It's her birthday.” She added, with a sly smirk.

The doorman looked you over, lifting a brow at your black, knee length and sleeveless halter top dress, hugging your body just right with your black flats. You saw the corner of his lip twitch, and knew that you passed the club's strict dress code, it worked out with Baeli helping you decide what to wear on your birthday. You didn't care, if you were going to stay home and nurse a bottle of wine on your own, while watching ridiculous tv shows, you just wanted to feel gorgeous on your big day.

“Enjoy yourselves, ladies.” The doorman said, opening the blacked out door for you both, with a slight bow of his head. “Happy birthday.” He added quietly, as you walked by him and into the club.

“Thank you.” You whispered back as the door closed behind you.

Looking around, you felt the illusion of the club, it was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. The carpeting was dark red and black abstract, with spots of steel-gray. There were in-laid, circle lights in the floor, showing the way to the bar and to the seated section, right in front of the stage and a hallway off the side. The whole place was dimly lit, with the runner lights and turned down low sconces, as well as the various lights on the stage, to light the performance of the strippers.

Baeli grabbed your hand and guided you to the bar. “One rum and coke.” She told the single bartender. “And a mojito, please.”

The bartender nodded his head at her, silently, and started moving about, grabbing the two different glasses for the drinks and started building them, impressively, at the same time, using one hand for the mojito and the other for the rum and coke.

“That's pretty cool.” You commented, nodding your hand at him as he set a napkin on the bar top, then your rum and coke on it, setting it in front of you.

“Thanks.” He whispered, quietly, then moved on to another customer.

“Come.” Baeli said, taking a sip of her mojito through the teeny black straw, then turned towards the stage. “The next show is starting.” She informed you.

A smooth and deep voice came over an intercom system wired throughout the immaculate building, it smelled like sandalwood, money and unfulfilled fantasies. You followed Baeli to the front row, shocker, you thought. It wasn't that your best friend was a slut or anything, she just had a really strong fetish for men, even though, nine and a half times out of ten, they were complete losers, that treated her badly, had a criminal history or were married.

Didn't stop Baeli though.

“Welcome to the Crimson Moon, where you'll always be driven mad by our full moons.” the silky voice said, smoothly.

“Christ, that's cliché.” You snorted, sipping your drink and sitting down at the table with Baeli.

“Ssshh.” Baeli hushed you, annoyed.

“Tonight, we have just what every woman needs in her life, The Hammer.” The voice continued, dropping his tone to a low timber at the end of his sentence.

You looked over at Baeli, rolling your eyes at how stupid that sounded, a stripper named, 'the Hammer', did they have a Screwdriver and Power Saw, as well? But, Baeli was losing her mind, grinning like mad and bouncing in her seat, if her face got any redder with her excitement, you'd mistake her for a Crimson Moon.

“Oh, we're in so much luck!” She bubbled at you, with a full and toothy grin. “He is so handsome, a total hunk of man. He could fuck me through the floor and all I'd be able to do, is thank him and ask for more.”

“You say that about every man you encounter, Bae.” You replied, shaking your head at her, not at all impressed or excited, you looked forward to him doing his routine and getting out of here to get to Nathan's.

“I mean it with this one.” Baeli replied, unstoppable. “The Hammer is a total package, just you wait! By the time he finishes his routine, your panties will be soaked.” She beamed, then got a wolfish look on her face.

“That is, if you're wearing any.”

You narrowed your eyes at her in disgust. “I'm wearing underwear, you weirdo.” You huffed at her, shifting and feeling the elegant, lace panties you had on.

The lights lining the edge of the stage turned on and moved low against the stage, illuminating the floor and the simple black curtain backdrop. A low hum of music pumped through hidden speakers, you could feel the bass in your chest and the soles of your flats, it was a pleasant beat. Baeli fidgeted with excitement as the black satin curtain opened and you saw the biggest guy you had ever seen in your life. He was well over six foot, two hundred pounds of well packaged muscle, broad shoulders and chest. You were sure he was the reason the phrase, 'thick thighs save lives' was coined, they were as big around as tree trunks, held snug in the black slacks he wore. Your eyes trailed up his long legs, licking your lips as your eyes moved over his torso, he was moving slowly, rolling his hips as his big hands moved to the button of his shirt, nimble fingers gently pushing the clear button through the hole. You didn't know how the hell he managed it, but he somehow made unbuttoning a shirt sexy; you bit your lip as his chest slowly came into view as more buttons came undone.

Half of his buttons were free by the time your eye finally met his, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. 'Fuck, he's gorgeous'. His hooded Cerulean-Blue eyes met yours and a smirk tugged up the corner of his lip, a light scruff on his cheeks and sharp jawline with a well taken care of mustache. 'Damn it, Baeli.' you thought, feeling the slick warmth start to pool in your black lace panties. The smirk on his face grew, his attentive and observant eyes noticing the slight movements of your knees as you tried to ignore the tingling feeling there and the slightly embarrassed look in your eyes.

He let his now unbuttoned shirt slip off his arms, revealing thick and strong arms underneath. Your eyes flared as he smoothed his palms over his chest, the bump of his defined abs, and to the buckle of his belt.

“Oh god.” You whimpered into your drink, eyes glued to his hands as they tugged open the buckle of his belt, then slowly pulled the clearly expensive leather from the loops of his pants. “Oh Jesus.” You whined, chewing on your lip and unable to look away.

“I told you.” Baeli chuckled into your ear. “He must like you, his eyes haven't left yours, since he came on.”

“He's just doing his job.” You mumbled into your glass, your own eyes still locked on his.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his slacks and shoved them down, kicking them off the stage, and making some girl on the other side of the stage squeal, scrambling to grab them off the floor, but he was still focused on you, still gently moving as he stood there in a silk thong, that just barely contained his overflowing package.

“Oh good god.” You gasped, mouth falling open.

“That's right, honey!” Baeli yelled out, pulling out several large bills from the wad of cash in her clutch and stuffed them in the tip jar at the end of the stage, since you weren't allowed to touch the performers.

“I need another drink.” You squeaked, as you met his eyes again, then got up and rushed over to the bar, feeling his blue orbs follow you. “Rum and coke, extra rum.” You told the bartender as he approached you, throat tight.

When the bartender set your refilled glass down in front of you, you shamelessly chugged it down, trying to get the burning feeling your mind, and pussy, to go away with the strong and chilled beverage, but it didn't seem to work, the alcohol only heated your skin up even more. There was a room full of claps and whistles behind you, signaling the end of the man's dance, and relaxed as the sizzling feeling of his eyes on you vanished as he returned to the backstage.

“I think you might have hurt his feelings.” Baeli said, coming up behind you. “Rushing off like that.”

“I'm sure all the cash you practically threw at him will buffer that burn.” You told her, dabbing at your mouth with the napkin from under your glass. “Let's go.” You told her, setting your empty glass on the bar top, and turned towards her.

“We can't.” She frowned at you, shaking her head.

“Why the hell not?” You snapped at her, narrowing your eyes at her.

“Because, I set up a private lap dance for you.” She replied with an excited grin.

“Oh no.” You shook your head at her, licking your lip. “Absolutely not!”

“Absolutely yes.” She nodded back, getting annoyed with you. “That is an expensive dance, so you have to take it.”

“No, I don't. You do it and I'll wait in the car.”

“I can't, I'm not the birthday girl, you are.” Baeli shook her head at you and held out a key to you, dangling from a black and red moon shaped key tagged. “Off you go, or I'll drag you there by your hair.”

“Christ.” You huffed at her, snagging the key from her. “You and the hair pulling.” You chided her.

“The room number is on the tag.” She told you, grinning like she was sending you off to the wolves.

You looked down at the tag as you walked towards the hallway off the side of the stage where all of the private rooms were, and found Room Six. Biting your lip and taking a deep breath, you slotted the key into the door and stepped inside, closing it behind you. The room was decorated much like the rest of the club, but with a single comfortable chair and a closed circuit camera in one of the top corners of the room, and one other door across from you. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, you had never gotten a lap dance before, this was only your second time in a strip club, so you were uncomfortable. The door across from you opened and your heart started to beat even harder, seeing the blue eyed, mustached man from the stage step into the room with you.

“You.” He smirked at you, licking his upper lip as he closed his door.

“Yeah.” You squeaked, trembling, he was so much bigger up close.

He chuckled, seeing your nervousness and motioned to the chair. “Sit.”

Hesitating for a moment, you slipped into the chair, feeling even smaller compared to him now, melting into the chair as he stepped closer to you. He planted a hand on each of the arm rests and leaned down over you, bringing his face so close to yours, you saw the brown fleck in the upper corner of his blue eyes. He smelled so good, like dark vanilla, leather bound books and sandalwood from his beard and mustache oil; you were unconscious of slightly leaning towards him and taking in a stronger breath, wanting to be immersed in his scent. He smirked at you and leaned down closer, your nose deliciously close to the hollow of his neck and collarbone.

“I hear, it's your birthday.” He whispered softly into your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, enchanted and almost drugged by his scent and presence.

“Well, then.” He purred, his lips brushing your ear, the soft hairs of his mustache tickling the rim of your lobe. “I'll have to give you an extra bit of attention.” He cooed at you, fingertips meeting the sensitive spot behind your opposite ear and smoothed down the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Birthday girl.” His voice was husky, his hot breath warming your chilled skin and making you shiver.

“Sweet Jesus.” You whimpered, feeling the heat of his breath rippling through your body and to your pussy, drenching your panties even more, and you were sure, as you watched his eyes darken, that he could smell it.

“Not Jesus, birthday girl.” He chucked, moving back some, his hands moving to the collar of his shirt, he had clothed himself since his performance, you couldn't remember how long ago. “Just the Hammer.” He murmured, his voice smooth like chocolate.

“Do you usually go to strip clubs on your birthday?” He asked, undoing another button.

“No.” You whispered, out of breath and hyper-focused on his rapidly appearing chest, that your hands tingled to be able to touch. “I usually stay home or go to Nathan's pub.” You mumbled, brain going on autopilot.

“Doesn't sound very fun.” He rasped, tugging one side of his now unbuttoned shirt from where it was tucked into his ridiculously tight waistband.

“I don't like celebrating.” You goggled at his exposed torso.

“Hm.” He hummed with a sly smirk, wrapping a big hand around your wrist and pulled up your hand so you pressed your palm flat against his chest.

Despite the heat in the room,—was the room hot or was it you—his skin was cool to the touch, like he has been sitting under a pleasant air conditioner before coming into the room. You whimpered softly, pressing your hand firmer to his groomed, but hairy, chest and slid down, feeling the nub on his nipple harden under the heat of your palm, before rubbing your thumb over each bump of his six-pack. Smirking, he tugged the other side of his shirt free, gently grinding against you and tossing his shirt over the back of your chair.

“Go on.” He purred, lips brushing your warm cheek. “I know you want to touch me more than that.” He whispered into your ear, before taking it between his pearly-whites.

“Is that even allowed?” You found yourself asking, without meaning too.

“It's private, we can do damn near anything in here,” he hummed low in his throat. “As long as we're both consenting.” He added, softer, sending a shiver down your back.

Your other hand reached up and gripped that etched hip peeking out from the top of his slacks and dug your nails into his skin, making him hiss and bite your neck, all the while, pressing closer to you, one hand braced on the back of the couch and the other cupping your neck. You felt the firm and long rub of something, then noticed the very visible bulge straining his slacks, inches from you, and panicked. You planted both hands on his chest and pushed him away, jumping up from the chair, all flustered and embarrassed.

“I'm sorry.” You squeaked, making for the door.

Sighing heavily, but smiling at your shy and hasty departure, he plucked his shirt from the back of the chair and exited out of the door he came in through.

“So, how was it?” Baeli asked, sitting at the bar, while she waited for you. “It wasn't very long.”

“It was long enough.” You told her, muddled. “Can we go to Nathan's now?” You asked her, almost begging, you wanted to get out of the Crimson Moon in case, the Hammer, decided to follow after you.

Baeli rolled her eyes, but nodded her head. “All right, fine.” She sighed, slapping a fifty on the bar top and headed for the door.

Relieved, you followed Baeli back out to her car and slipped into the passenger seat, you watched the Crimson Moon sink into the distance as Baeli drove you both to the pub, twenty minutes away. With a sigh, you slipped into a booth seat at Nathan's Pub, which had been your watering hole since college, the alcohol was decent, the staff was incredible and the food was spot on, what else would you want out of an establishment?

Importantly, no hot men grinding on you and making you question your morals.

You and Baeli shared a drink and the waitress, who knew you quite well, showed up at your table with a slice of cake, a single candle burning on it, then several other staff, a couple patrons and Baeli sang you a round of happy birthday, before clapping and giving you hugs after blowing the candle out. You chuckled, digging into the overly sweet cake, sharing it with Baeli, and forgetting all about the strip club.

“All right, birthday girl.” Baeli yawned, finishing off her plain, diet coke. “I'm ready to go, how about you?” She asked, making sure she had her car keys.

“You go on home, I'm going to stay a little bit longer, I'll Uber home.” You told her, still nursing the Daiquiri you ordered.

“You sure?” She frowned, she hated to leave you alone like this on your birthday.

“I'm positive.” You nodded, giving her a reassuring smile.

“All right, I'll call you in the morning.” She nodded back, giving you a quick hug and headed out.

You finished your drink, and left a tip for the staff, since Baeli paid the bill, then headed outside to find a good spot to have an Uber pick you up and take you home.

“You know, I was quite surprised by you.” A silky voice said behind you. “I wouldn't have taken you as the rude type, not allowing me to finish my work, twice.”

You yelped in surprise and dropped your phone on the asphalt, spinning around to see the tall stripper behind you, the Hammer. “Are you following me?” You squeaked, slowly bending down to pick up your phone, never taking your eyes off of him.

“I really don't like unfinished business.” He replied, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his shoulder against the brick wall at the side of Nathan's.

“Too bad.” You replied, gulping and looking around, hoping someone would come out of the pub and into the parking lot.

“I'm not going to hurt you.” He told you, lifting a brow as your uneasiness.

“Yeah, sure.” You huffed at him, trying to fake confidence. “You only follow me twenty minutes from your work and wait for me to come out, to confront me, alone, in a parking lot, in the middle of the night.

He chuckled at you. “When you put it that way.” He smirked, licking his lips in a way that had you feeling that heat again. “But, if I wanted to kidnap or harm you, you would already be in my car.” He told you, with such a steely confidence and an amused blankness to his face and eyes, you felt a chill join the growing heat of your body.

“W-what do you want?” You mumbled, biting your lip.

“To finish what I started.” He smirked at you, his eyes racking over you. “It is still your birthday, for another-” He looked at his watch. “Two hours.” He smirked and crossed his arms again. “Come on, I promised to give you extra attention, and intend too. Promise, I won't disappoint or do anything you don't want.”

You stared at this man and felt your morals slip, it was your birthday after all, why the hell shouldn't you make the most of it with a hot guy. “Where?” You asked him, taking a deep breath.

“I have a good neutral place.” He told you, pushing off the wall and motion to a stupidly nice car.

“Um,” You frowned at him, then activated the screen of your phone, texting Baeli.

» Met a guy at Nathan's, sharing my location.

» Is he cute?

Rolling your eyes, you shoved your phone into the little pocket in your dress and looked back at him, he had opened the passenger door for you, which surprised you, a guy had never done that for you before.

“Thanks.” You muttered, slipping into the seat.

“Of course.” He chuckled, then closed your door and went around to the driver's side.

“What's your name?” You asked, looking over at him.

“Why?” He frowned at the road.

“I don't want to call you 'the Hammer' for the next two hours.” You retorted, lifting a brow at him.

“Hm.” He huffed, amused. “Most people call me, Walker.” He replied.

“What do your friends call you?”

“Walker.” He answered, his tone plain and guarded.

��What did your mother call you?”

Walker looked over at you as the car rolled to a stop at a red light. “Nothing that a child should be called.” He replied, tightly.

“Walker, it is then.” You gulped, after a momentary pause.

“And yours?” Walker asked, turning a corner as the light changed back to green.

You told him your name.

“It's a lovely name.” He complimented you.

“Thanks.” You smiled, shyly brushing your hair behind your ear. “That's your neutral ground?” You asked, seeing the highest end hotel the city had come into view.

“It is.” Walker nodded with a sly smirk.

“How does a stripper afford a super expensive car and an even more expensive hotel?” You asked him, following him into the lobby.

Walker smiled at you, stopping at the reception counter. “Pent suite.” He told the clerk, holding out a gold American Express card to him.

“Of course, Mr. Walker.” the Clerk replied, setting it up.

Your mouth was hanging open as you watched him swipe the card and hand it back to Walker, surprised that the man knew his name and the price on the screen for the room. But, Walker was unphased by all of it, taking back his card and motioning you in front of him, towards the lifts.

“That's a lot of money for two hours.” You choked, stepping into the lift with him.

“Not for the Birthday girl.” Walker replied, smiling smugly at you, and hit the top floor button.

“Are you always like this, when someone doesn't let you finish?” You asked, following him down the hall at the very top floor and to a set of double doors.

“No, you're the first woman that's never let me finish a performance.” He replied, swiping the room key in the door reader and pushed it open, politely letting you enter the elegant suite first.

“First for everything, I suppose.” You answered, looking around the room, mouth hanging open.

“True.” Walker nodded, looking you over as you walked around, licking his lips, like he was thirsty and you were a refreshing drink. “Here, sit down.” He said softly, grabbing a chair and setting in the middle of the room.

Sighing, you did as he said and sat down in the chair, then watched him loosen the clearly expensive silk tie he was wearing, and stepped around behind you, pulling your arms back and using the tie to bind your wrists together. You started to panic and breathe hard, feeling the soft fabric tighten, securely.

“Calm down.” Walker purred at you, soothingly. “I can't have you running off for a third time, can I?” He asked, coming around the chair to face you. “That's just so incredibly rude.” He told you, shaking his head at you.

“Is it too tight?” He asked, watching you try and calm yourself with deep breaths.

“No.” You gasped, biting your lip.

“Good.” He nodded, with a sweet smile. “All settled?” He asked, stroking your cheek in an oddly soothing way.

“Ye-yeah.” You nodded, finally getting your heart rate under control.

“Very good.” He smiled a bit more, the back of his fingers trailing from your cheek to your neck, then down the swell of your breasts, liking the way your bra pushed them up. “Hm.” He hummed, watching the rise and fall of your chest quicken again, but for a completely different reason.

“If I do anything you don't like, or if you want to stop,” He explained, rubbing his thumb over your lips. “All I want you to say is one word.”

“What word?” You asked, pressing your thighs together to stop the slick heat from raising again, and failing.

“Cake.”

“Okay.” You nodded, feeling that cliché.

“Say it.” Walker pressed you, sternly.

“Cake.” You repeated the word with a gulp.

“Very good.” He smiled and gently pat you on the head with, what you supposed was his attempt at, a wink. “Now, where was I before you interrupted me?” He hummed, pressing his lips together and tapping his middle finger against his stubbly chin.

“That's right.”

Turning on his heels, August pulled his phone out of his pocket and over to a Bluetooth speaker that came with the room. Pairing the two up, he scrolled through his vast and diverse music playlists, until he found a song he wanted and pressed play, setting his phone down next to the speaker, he turned back to you. Smiling, he rested his foot on the seat of a chair that was identical to the one he had you tied to, removed the laces of his dress shoes and neatly tucked them under the foot of the huge bed in the room, then took off his socks and rolled them up, neatly stuffing them into his shoes. Satisfied with that, Walker moved closer to you, your knees brushing his shins.

“You're quite beautiful, you know that.” He complimented you, resting his hand on the back of your chair, his lips brushing your ear, cheek and then your lips.

“Thank you.” You sighed, eyes rolling shut at the soft feel of his supple lips and the intoxicating scent of his body.

“You're welcome.” He purred, before giving you a chasten kiss on the lips.

You moaned against his mouth, he tasted sweet and minty. Chuckling, Walker moved slightly away, his hands unbutton his shirt before your eyes, for the third time that night. You almost pouted at the fact your arms were tied behind you, wanting to touch his body again, and Walker saw that look in your eyes.

“Patience, love.” He cooed at you, letting his shirt slip off his arms and to the floor. “If you behave, I'll untie you, and you can touch me all you want.” He promised, cupping your cheek in his hand, thumb rubbing your lips, before pressing inside your mouth for a moment, letting you suck on the tip of his digit for a second, before pulling his hand away, teasing you.

His movements were slow, fluid and calculated. You were learning that was the kind of person Walker was, he took his time, and he managed that time well, like a General in the military would. He touched your face, arms and upper body as he moved around you, only occasionally brushing your thighs and knees, pushing up the edge of your dress with each touch, until he could just see the hint of your soaked panties. His hands left you, with a whine of protest, he chuckled and dropped his hands to his pants, he wasn't wearing a belt this go around, so popping open the button of his slacks was simple, but he made a painfully slow show out of unzipping them and pushing them down his tree trunk thighs.

You expected the thong he had been wearing for his on stage routine, but, unfortunately, he was wearing boxer briefs. But even that much material wasn't enough to hold back the creature Walker had living inside of them, he was large and incredibly hard inside of them, a small damp spot on them from where the tip of his cock rested.

“You see what you've done.” He asked you, following your eyes to the wet spot. “You've teased me twice tonight, leaving me hard as a block of marble.”

“I'm sorry.” You found yourself blurting out, without conscious thought, eyes glued to his confined dick, it had been months since you had sex, and that was underwhelming, at best.

“Not yet, you're not.” Walker laughed, slipping the tips of his fingers into his boxers and stroking his shaft, the wet spot growing. “You want me to take them off?” He asked, fisting himself, unashamed.

“Please.” You nodded, licking your lips, dying for the sight of it.

“Hm.” He hummed, squatting in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “Let's see just how much you want to see me naked, shall we?” He asked, lifting a brow at you and slipped a hand between your legs, sliding it home to palm the drenched fabric of your panties.

“Shit.” You gasped, hips shamefully rubbing against his palm, a mind of their own.

“Oh, how wet the Birthday Girl is.” He teased you, ghosting the pad of his middle finger against your clothed clit. “You must really want to see me naked.” He chuckled, licking his lips and rubbing harder.

“Oh god, Walker.” You begged him, squeezing your legs together to keep his hand against your pussy. “Please.”

“You want me this bad, and yet, you ran away, twice.” He tutted at you, pulling his hand free, and stood.

“I'm sorry.” You croaked, eyes wide and desperate. “I was just frightened and overwhelmed, I didn't expect this.” You explained, you still didn't expect it, and part of you was berating yourself for getting into this situation, but there was nothing for it now, you were hot, wet and horny, and you wanted Walker to finish his lap dance, and give you whatever else he had in mind.

Or, in his boxers, for that matter.

“I'm sure you didn't.” He answered, his voice rough and dripping with arousal.

The tempo of the song picked up and Walker started slowly dancing and moving, surprising you with how agile his tall and muscular body was, he was in such complete control of himself and every teeny little thing he did, you couldn't help the enthralled and turned on expression on your face and in your eyes. As the song and his dance came to a close, Walker knelt before you, resting his hands on your shaky knees, pushing your dress up and spread your legs wide, the cool air of the room wafted against the wet fabric, making you shiver in response. Walker smirked, petting your folds through your panties and you shivered even more, moaning.

“So impatient.” He cooed at you, slipping a finger into the side of your undies and caressing your slick and dripping folds.

“Fuck.” You moaned, bucking against his finger, choking down a gulp.

“Push on your toes and lift your hips.” Walker instructed you, removing his hand from between your legs.

You did as he told you and felt his strong fingers wrap around the waistband of your panties and slip them off of you, then carefully removed your flats, tucking them in beside his own. You gasped, feeling his warm lips on the cool skin at the inside of your thigh, the tickle of his mustache and stubble had you letting out a breathy giggle, only to melt into a deep moan, from Walker placing wet kisses, nibbles and love bites all over your thighs. You were starting to get impatient again, wanting his mouth on your pussy all ready, straining against the tie wrapped around your wrists, you were surprised by how well he bound and tied you.

“Ow!” You let out in a breathy yelp.

“Stop doing that.” He scolded you, feeling you fidget. “You'll cut off the circulation in your hands.”

“Well, if you stop fucking teasing me.” You retorted back.

“I'll tease you all I want.” Walker remarked with a sly smirk. “You're the one tied to the chair.” He reminded you, like you had forgotten.

You grinned back at him, cheeks warm and shaking your head.

Chuckling, Walker started all over again, and took even longer this time to reach your folds, leaving bite marks, hickies and beard burn behind. You opened your legs even wider, panting, as his warm breath tickled your wet folds, your head fell back as he gave your clit a sharp flick of his tongue, toes curling intp the short carpet under your feet. Walker pressed a lewd kiss to your pussy, suckling your clit with maddening expertise and leisure, his hands gripped your hips and pinned you to the chair, stopping your desperate wiggles to fuck his face. His licks grew more and more, until he was licking the full length of your pussy with his long and broad tongue, swirling it around your clit and delving into the weeping entrance of your core, collecting your juices on his tongue and swallowing with deep rumbles of satisfaction of how good you tasted.

“You definitely taste better than Birthday Cake.” He moaned, lapping at your pussy.

You laughed, nervously. “Th-thanks.” You whimpered, a complete mess under his skilled mouth.

“I'm still shocked.” He purred between licks. “You're so polite, yet, you're so willing to ditch someone just trying to do their job.” He laughed, then gave your pussy several long and firm lips, sending you skating over the edge.

“Fuck, Walker!” You cried out, twitching and straining against your bonds, leaving a sticky mess between your legs, his mouth and mustache, and all over the seat beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut.

“That is the best damn orgasm I have ever had.” You commented, after semi recovering yourself.

Walker chuckled, smugly proud of himself as he moved around you and tugged the knot of the tie free, your numb arms falling heavily to your sides, releasing the strain on your shoulders. Walker's broad hands rested on your shoulders and started massaging your tense muscles, working his thumbs up and down your neck and between your shoulder blades, kneading and making you feel even more like puddy under his attention. His hands moved away from you and you heard the rustle of clothing behind you and every hair on your body stood on end, seeing his boxers come flying over your head and land on the floor with his discard pants and shirt.

“Stand up.” He rasped directly into your ear.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you could stand up, your legs felt like weak water balloons, but you slowly rose to your feet and your chair was pulled farther back. You didn't turn around to face Walker, the last remnants of your shyness holding you back from seeing him fully naked. His hands suddenly appeared on your back again, grabbing the zipper to the back of your dress and pulling it down, then pushed the straps off your shoulders, the black material of your dress pooled at your feet, like a black hole; followed by your matching push up bra. You hugged your arms to your bare chest and gulped, Walker wrapped his arms around you and pressed an open mouthed kiss to your neck, hugging you back against him, allowing you to feel every square inch of his chiseled and naked body.

“You're even more beautiful naked.” He hummed against the skin of your neck and shoulder, then turned you to face him. “Don't be shy.” He chuckled, grabbing your wrists and gently pulled your arms away from your chest. “Nothing I haven't seen before.” He assured you, bending his head forward to press a kiss to each other of your breasts, reaffirming his words.

Wrapping your arms around his neck and resting his hands on your hips, Walker picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carefully turned, pressing your back against the wall beside you. Your ass rested right on top of his rock hard cock as he braced his knees against the wall and your eyes widened, 'fuck, he's huge'. You gulped, blinking at him. Walker smirked and wiggled his brows at you, his confidence was as palpable as the rest of his body, he reached beneath you and grasped his shaft and rubbed the tip against your sticky and still wet pussy, both of you moaning in unison. Chests heaving against each other, Walker slowly guided his uncut cock inside of your core, then let your body weight sink you the rest of the way on its own, wanting you to feel that slow stretch as his thick shaft opened you even wider, every long inch being molded to your core.

“You are perfectly snug around my cock.” He purred, biting into your neck and sucking hard. “Your sweet little pussy doesn't wanna let me go, does it.” He growled against your jugular, biting you even harder, you were shocked he didn't draw blood.

“No.” You moaned, shaking your head and hugging your arms tighter around his neck; you didn't want to let him go.

Walker bucked up into you, spearing into your cervix like a hot knife and had you calling out his name, not caring how loud you were and if any of the other suites on the floor heard. His thrusts were measured and rough, pulling you down as he drove himself up, the dresser along the table next to you rattled and the objects on top of it jumped with each thrust and clattered to the floor. The whole room was filled with sounds spilling out from you and Walker, slapping skin, shaking furniture and knocking over objects.

“Yes, yes.” You panted and cried, holding onto Walker and understanding why he was called the Hammer. “Fuck, Walker. Fill me, please, for fuck sake, fill me.” You begged him, racking your nails down his shoulders and sweaty back, drawing spots of blood.

Grunting and hammering you harder, Walker obliged your request and sent both of you spiraling into a tandem orgasm and miraculously not through the wall. His flushed face and sweaty forehead fell heavily to your shoulder, his huffing breath washing over the skin of your collarbone and breast. You rested your head back against the wall, trying to catch your own breath and settling your pounding and screaming heart rate, with a throb between your legs from Walker's furious thrusting. Breath caught, Walker pulled both of you off the wall and carried you, like a limp koala, into the huge bathroom suite, setting you down on the heated toilet seat, then turned to the deep soaking tub and spinning on the hot tap.

“If this is how you treat women that run out on your performances, then I might turn into a regular dance and dash customer of yours.” You chuckled, sinking into the warm and soapy water, feeling the jets massage your exhausted and drained body.

Walker chuckled, shaking his head at you and stepped out of the bathroom, picking up his discarded clothes, carefully folding them, and cleaned up the mess on the floor. He picked your dress up off the floor and felt the pocket vibrate. Frowning, he pulled the device out and the screen lit up, showing off a text from someone called Baeli and the notification of your location share.

“Smart girl.”

He chuckled, smirking, then turned the share off, before folding your dress and set it on the dresser with your ruined panties and bra, your phone on top of them. “Are you hungry?” Walker called out to you, opening the double doors of the private balcony the room had; but you didn't answer him.

Frowning, Walker stepped back into the bathroom and chuckled, shaking his head, seeing you had dozed off, while enjoying your nice, hot bath.

You hadn't realized you fell asleep, until you woke up an hour later, under a layer of blankets. But, that wasn't what had woken you, what woke you was the low murmur of a voice that sounded very angry. Walker's voice, with someone he was clearly on the phone with.

“I don't care.” Walker hissed between clenched teeth, as he stood on the balcony. “I fucking told you, Royce. I want the rest of the Apostles on this. If any, and I mean, any, of them fuck this up for me, I will kill them.” He growled, gripping the balcony railing to try and keep his voice and temper under control.

“Do you understand? I would do it myself, if the CIA didn't have me undercover.”

It seemed like the person Walker was talking to had promised to do what he expected of them, because he visibly relaxed.

“Good. Call me in the morning and tell me how it went.” Walker sighed, running a hand through his disheveled and wind swept curls.

You closed your eyes as he hung up and leaned against the railing, not wanting him to feel your eyes on him or to know you had woken up at an apparently important section of his phone call. Your stomach was in knots, who were the Apostles? Was he really an undercover CIA? Was being a stripper part of that cover, or just a side job he got a kick out of? That must have been why he had so much money. Your brain screamed for you to jump up right there, yank on your clothing and run like hell from this apparently more dangerous man than you thought he was, but your body was still heavy as a rock from all the drinks you consumed over the night of your birthday and the mind blowing sex, so you only ended up falling back to sleep, as Walker turned around and entered the room again, unaware of your being awake or knowing what you now knew.

Waking again a few hours later, it was early morning, but still dark outside, an arm slung over your waist, hugging you against the solid, breathing wall of Walker's chest. Biting your lip, you carefully wiggled out of Walker's arms and to the edge of the bed, before you risked sitting up and stood, turning around to face him. He was relaxed and softly snoring on his side, his handsome face so soft you finally noticed the dark circles under his long lashes, the thick muscles of his arms and chest slack, he didn't seem as dangerous as you thought as you fell back to sleep after his phone call on the balcony.

Maybe, you had just dreamt it.

He gave you no indication of wanting to hurt you, and he had plenty of opportunities to do so throughout the night. Walker had done quite the opposite, he had been gentle, careful and mindful of you. He could have forced himself on you in the private room at the Crimson Moon, he could have done anything to you when he showed up at Nathan's, obviously annoyed by you running off before your lap dance was done, and he could have seriously hurt you once he got you into this hotel room, but again did nothing you didn't want and was quite sweet by drawing you a bath and putting you to bed after you fell asleep.

Sighing, you moved to the dresser, where he had folded your clothes and slipped your bra and panties on, then stepped out onto the balcony, the doors still open and letting in the cool night air. Resting your forearms against the railing and leaning forward, you looked down the dizzying thirty floors to the street below, a trickle of cars slowly thickening as people got up and started their days, rushing off to work or wherever else, which reminded you, you had to get home and get ready for your shift in four hours. Huffing, you shook your head, 'fuck that', you'd just call in sick and take the day off.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Walker's voice rasped behind you.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, finding him standing, butt naked, at the threshold of the balcony. “Just thinking that I have work in four hours, and how I want to call in sick.” You replied, looking back over the skyline.

“Perhaps you should.” He commented, stepping out onto the balcony with you, his hands resting on your hips and kneading them. “You deserve it.” He whispered, rubbing his soft cock against your ass.

“Do I?” You snorted, shaking your head and pushing back against him.

“I think so.” He rasped, touching the side of his foot to the inside of yours and pushed your leg out, until your chest was pressed to the railing and you leaned over it, slightly.

“Walker.” You gasped, eyes wide as you got even more dizzy from the height.

“Hush.” He cooed, then promptly ripped your underwear off of you.

“Walker!” You barked, surprised and annoyed, you were starting to rethink his threat level, when he filled you up with his cock again.

“I'll replace them.” Walker laughed, wrapping your hair around one hand and pulled your head back. “I can afford something better for you to wear, anyway.” He whispered into your ear, and started thrusting into you, your hips rubbing harshly against the railing, and his strong fingers rubbing your still sore clit.

Afterwards, You let Walker carry you back to bed and melted into his big arms and broad chest. “Is your cover really going to be blown, August?” You asked, coming off the high that had started the afternoon before.

“So, you were awake.” August laughed, brushing his fingers through your hair. “But, no, love. My cover is just fine, like it always is. Some of the Apostles are just being idiots, but I've put them back in their rightful places.”

“Under your size eleven boot.” You laughed, tilting your head back to look up at your beloved boyfriend.

“Exactly, sweetheart.” He chuckled back, kissing the tip and bridge of your nose. “Did you have a good birthday?” He asked, stroking the side of your face.”

“Mission: Crimson Moon, was bloody fantastic.” You assured him, kissing his stubbly jawline. “You make a damn good stripper, by the way.” You added, trailing your fingertips up and down his torso.

“It's no wonder why Sloane put you undercover there.”

You and August had met, while both of you were on separate missions, three years before, that ended up colliding together and you and August became nearly inseparable. Where one of you was, the other wasn't long off or far from. August worked as the CIA's best assassin. You worked a bit more free lance, bouncing between the CIA and MI-6, or sometimes for a private sector or person, if the money paid well enough. After your first year of dating August, when he finally trusted you without condition, he let you in on his 'John Lark' secret, how he was moonlighting as the top leader to the Apostles, the group that formed after the fall of the Syndicate, with Solomon Lane.

You were shocked at first, but the more you thought about it, the more it really made sense, August was calculated in everything he did, from work life to private life, he was distant and cold, almost cruel, if you didn't have the pleasure of being in his trusted inner circle. He had feared, an extremely rare trait in August Walker's vocabulary, that once you found out about his true dealings, you would leave him, he didn't worry about you outing him and blowing his cover, he knew you wouldn't, no matter how hurt and shocked you were, you had your own secrets and knew the value of keeping them that way.

A secret.

But, you didn't leave him, you loved him; even his faults.

You made him promise to never talk about the Apostles' business around you, unless you asked him about it, the less you knew about his works as the Head Apostle, the less of it could be pulled out of you and used to harm him, should anyone decide to use you as a pawn against August. Which, you weren't worried about either, people, from high governments to the cockroaches knew better than to fuck with you, even more so knowing that if they did do something to hurt or compromise you, August would be at their doorstep a moment later.

“Well, the job there is almost done, then only you will be getting a lifetime membership to my lap dances.” He told you with a smug grin, rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him.

“I better be, August Walker.” You told him, pushing yourself up to straddle his waist, hands braced on his chest. “I'm the only one, this Hammer gets to nail.” You laughed, rubbing against his flaccid cock, waking it up for another round.

#The Crimson Moon *Fic*#The Crimson Moon #August Walker/You #August Walker #August Walker/Reader #Henry Cavill #HenryCavill #Viking-Raider Fics #Henry Cavill Requests #Mature #Rating: Mature #Not Smut #Language #Dom!August #Stripper!August #Birthday Girl #John Lark

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ecto-american · 3 years

Text

The Bachelor

Phic Phight oneshot for @skellagirl: To help raise money for education, Vlad lets a date with himself be auctioned off. To his surprise, Harriet was quite a persistent bidder, and to his bigger surprise...he actually had a good time. Vlad/Harriet

On FFN and AO3

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"I don't need help getting a date, Jack," Vlad told him shortly. Why did he even come over to FentonWorks? He couldn't even remember why. At least he had some coffee to sip on. If Jack was actually good for anything, it was brewing good coffee.

"Oh come on, V-man! It's not like that! It's to raise money for education!" Jack tried to persuade as he was pouring himself his own cup. Vlad made a small face at the idea. "There's going to be lots of bachelors up there with ya, it won't be just you!"

"I don't think so." He had much better things to do than be paraded around.

"Please Vlad?" Jack nearly begged.

"You know, Vlad, you'd be quite the crowd-drawer," Maddie finally spoke up. Vlad glanced over at her. She was focused on some ectoplasmic samples that were on the counter, dangerously close to some chicken that was marinating for dinner. Mental note; do NOT stay for dinner tonight. "You're likely Amity Park's most sought after bachelor." She looked over her shoulder at him, and with a clearly fake smile, she added, "It'd be really good for you to have a nice woman who's interested in you."

Vlad frowned at her emphasis. He took another drink. It would look good if he showed up for appearances, got it over with and wowed some whatever woman into helping his media image. Election season was coming up, and he was up against the ex-mayor. Doing something for the children would definitely boost him.

"...It is for charity," he said slowly. "And after all, a man like me could fetch for a nice price."

"Of course!" Jack boomed excitedly. "You were voted sexiest billionaire by Cosmopolitan this year!" Oh god, why the hell did Jack know that? And say that? "Trust me, the crowd'll got mad for you!"

Vlad forced a smile.

"I cannot wait."

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He really could have waited. Friday night had come, and he found himself very reluctantly walking around the Casper High gym, looking at all the silent auction items up on display on cheap collapsable tables. Vlad mentally thanked himself for making sure Daniel would be too busy all night with Skulker to even have the time to come around to laugh at him.

Ugh, nothing really that good was around up for auction in here. Except for him, obviously. He could tell who was a bachelor for auction just by seeing who else was way overdressed to be standing around in a public high school on a Friday night, and Vlad already knew that he was the best option. He spied another one of these men as the individual picked his nose and wiped it on one of the tables. Vlad made a grossed out face. Easily, the best option.

He glanced around more, boredly trying to waste another twenty minutes before he had to go to the auditorium for the bachelor auctioning. This was the worst. Why did he agree to this? His eyes scanned for any familiar face.

"Harriet!" Vlad instantly recognized the journalist. She turned to face him, giving a small smile and wave when she realized who it was. He took a few steps over towards her. "What are you doing here?"

"My niece goes to Casper High," she replied. "So I decided to come around." She nodded her head at the silent auction she was seemingly considering. It was a high end camera bundle, including not just a high end camera but extra lenses, batteries, the case, the whole works honestly, donated by a local electronics store. "Check it out. Maybe even buy a date so that my mother stops asking me about when I'm getting married," she lightly joked. Vlad chuckled.

"You should consider just buying me," Vlad half-joked back. "I'm by far your best option." Harriet gave a hum as she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" she inquired. Vlad motioned to himself as if it was obvious, flashing a smile.

"Of course. Self made billionaire, tech industry pioneer, scientist, mayor of this fine city, and that's just the beginning," he bragged. She lightly shook her head with a smirk.

"Part time Dairy King worker that somehow caught the ice cream machine on fire, Skunk Punks lead singer whose voice cracked every time he sung anything and guitarist who couldn't play guitar," she listed off. Vlad rolled his eyes with a frown. "Idiot who kept sticking his head into the lab equipment machines and lost his eyebrows for six months. Skater wanna-be that broke both of his ankles trying to do tricks on the campus fountain." Vlad scowled.

"You can stop now," he complained. Harriet laughed.

"Oh, I almost need to buy you purely so that I can remind you that you're not all that and a bag of chips," she replied. "And I can finally corner you into an actual interview. You keep pushing me off." She faked a pout. "It's almost like you don't wanna be around me."

"Don't you have to be nosy somewhere else?" he asked.

"Hmm, not tonight." She glanced up at the clock on the wall. "I should go find a seat for the auction. You should probably get up on stage, make yourself look all nice and presentable."

Vlad rolled his eyes, waving her off.

"I need to use the restroom first," he replied. "You head on out."

"See up on the stage. Too bad this isn't Chippendales," she joked. Vlad felt his cheeks flush, and he glared at her. She walked off. Vlad glanced down at the camera bundle she had been eying. He glanced at the auction sheet, and he could tell by the handwriting that she had put in a bid that he knew somebody would eventually counter-offer. Vlad wrote his auctioning number down, and a bid he knew nobody would go over before he made his way to the auditorium.

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Finally, it was his turn. They put him last, which he completely understood. Always save the best for last. He nearly had dozed off in boredom in his seat while everybody else was auctioned off for barely a hundred dollars.

"We'll start the bidding, as always, at fifty dollars," the overly enthusiastic host said. Vlad mentally scoffed. He was definitely worth more than that. Ugh, this was the last time he did anything to help children. Fuck those little brats. "Fifty-five!"

A bunch of the auction fans shot up in the air. Vlad smiled in satisfaction.

"Oh wow! Okay, well how about sixty-five?" None of the hands went down. "Seventy-five." Two hands went down. "Eighty-five?" Three more hands reluctantly went down. "A hundred?" Most of the hands kept on standing. "Well!" the host chuckled, before directing his attention to Vlad. "You sure are a popular fella!"

No shit. He was a billionaire.

"Let's jump up a bit! One hundred fifty!" Finally, a good amount of the hands went down, leaving only a handful up. "One hundred seventy-five!" No hands down. "Two hundred!" A few reluctantly went down, leaving only four. "Okay, okay! How about-"

"Three hundred!" one of the women called out. The auctioneer looked surprised.

"Oh! Oh um. Okay! Does anybody wanna go higher than three hundred?" he asked.

"Three twenty-five!" Harriet's voice was instantly recognized by Vlad, and he stared in surprise.

"Three-fifty!" the first woman rebutted. Vlad studied her, only to quickly notice that this was a woman he really hadn't ever met before.

"Three seventy five!" Harriet wasted no time putting in her counter offer.

"Four hundred!"

"Four twenty five!"

"Four fifty!"

Vlad watched Harriet as the reporter's jaw clenched. She was staring at the competition with a hard stare.

"Five hundred!" she finally spoke. The other woman studied her, before giving a defeated sigh.

"No counter offer," the unfamiliar lady finally spoke. The auctioneer grinned, pointing to Harriet.

"Well! Looks like our highest prize of the night goes to bidder number seventy-four!"

Harriet met Vlad's eye, and she smiled. He smiled back.

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"So," Vlad asked, giving a coy smile. "You sure were an insistent bidder." Harriet flushed.

"I did it for the schools," she argued. "My niece goes to Casper High, remember?"

"Oh, I mean, if you did it just to help the schools," Vlad lightly teased. "Then we don't have to go out on the date." Harriet scoffed.

"No way, dude. I spent five-hundred dollars on you, and I'm going to get my money's worth." She poked him in the chest. "Which also means that you're buying me dinner, and some nice wine." Vlad rolled his eyes.

"Alright, alright," he reluctantly agreed. "What time shall I pick you up?" Harriet smiled.

"Uh, depends. When are you free? Tomorrow around seven? Ah, who am I kidding." She smirked at him. "You're probably free whenever. What else do you got going on? Be honest."

Vlad flushed red, scowling.

"Okay, I do happen to be free tomorrow night, but normally I'm not!" he insisted. Harriet snorted. "So you need to make sure you check with me before you schedule something."

"You got nothing," she teased in a sing-song voice.

"Oh? And what do you do?" Vlad challenged. She hummed.

"Well, typically on Mondays I visit my grandmother, Wednesday is girls' night with my friends, Thursdays I have my yoga class, and on the weekends I normally get friends with friends or co-workers, go hike, short trip. Whatever I feel like," she replied without missing a beat. Vlad hated Jack for convincing him to do this stupid auction. "And of course, several days a week I go to the gym."

"I go to the gym too," Vlad insisted. Harriet raised an eyebrow at him. "I do! I'm in excellent shape."

"Are you going to the gym, or do you use a home gym in your mansion?" she pressed. Vlad didn't reply. "Thought so. Guess we're on tomorrow at seven?"

"...Tomorrow at seven."

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Vlad had opted to simply drive himself in one of his flashy, yet more modest cars. It was honestly kind of hard to go to many places in a limo anyway, and not very intimate when there was an unintentional third party hanging out in the car. Harriet had texted him her address earlier, and he showed up right on time, pulling his car up to the curb of her house. A gentleman was never late, after all.

He parked, not bothering to lock his doors as he stepped up to her house. It was a typical small home in a decent little neighborhood. Not one that Vlad could ever imagine himself living in however, but it was cute. He stood at her front door. He exhaled harshly, mentally preparing himself.

He'd be lying to himself if he said that he wasn't nervous. It was one thing to date a new woman he had just met, but this was Harriet. She knew him when he was still a broke college student that worked part time at Dairy King and was in that terrible punk band with Jack.

Vlad rang her doorbell. He absentmindedly wondered if he'd have to wait on her for long, but thankfully, Harriet answered the door fairly quickly.

"Hey! Look at you!" she greeted cheerfully. Vlad knew he flushed a bit at the compliment, which made him...feel weird. That never happened before. "You really cleaned up for me." Okay now he had to roll his eyes a little. Vlad was in a nicer suit compared to normal, with a darker shirt collar and cufflinks, more polished shoes and the like.

"Ah, I'm nothing compared to how lovely you look this evening," he returned the compliment, and he could see Harriet's cheeks brighten a bit under her porch's poor lighting. They had texted each other about their plans, and so she had dressed appropriately for the five star restaurant; a black dress with dark green detailing that came to her knees, matching shoes and her hair done up. She had a formal black jacket over her arm, as well as a clutch handbag. "Are you ready?"

"Uh, one second!" Harriet turned to her door, checking to ensure it was locked. Once she did so, she turned, slipping her arm into his. "Now I am."

"Well, off we go," he smiled. "I think you'll like where we're going. It has the most divine sushi in Amity Park."

"I can't wait," Harriet replied. "I love sushi. Remember that campus sushi bar?"

"Absolutely," he replied. He walked her down the porch to his car. "Maddie worked there. She used to sneak us huge takeout boxes of leftovers."

"Oh I nearly forgot about that," Harriet laughed. "I'd help her smuggle out the boxes in my backpack."

"And you got soy sauce all over your bag four times," he chuckled. Harriet grumbled.

"Yeah, I had to re-print my final paper," she complained. "And eventually get a new bag that didn't smell like sushi all the time."

Vlad opened the car door for her. She slipped her arm out, giving him a thanks as she slipped inside.

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Naturally, he had made a reservation for the best seat in the house; a table in a more private area of the place, indoors but near a large window that had a good view of the beautiful landscaping in their limited yard-area.

After giving his car to the valet and getting seated, Vlad glanced at the menu, immediately spying his favorite, rock shrimp tempura. However he looked around to see what else was available. Hmm, he was somewhat in the mood for BBQ Unagi…

"What do you normally get?" Harriet questioned as she looked over her options.

"...Know what? Since this is your first time, maybe we should just get morimoto omakase," Vlad suggested. He gently pushed her menu down so that he could look at it, and he pointed to the option. Harriet scanned the description. Essentially a dish with a little bit of everything.

"Ooo, that sounds good," Harriet mused.

"It's delicious, and it pairs well with white wine," Vlad told her. She smiled.

"Let's get that then," she agreed.

When the waiter came by, they ordered just that. Quickly, the waiter had come back to bring them the bottle of white wine, pouring them their first glass for them before leaving the bottle at Vlad's request. They each took a sip.

"Mmm, this is pretty good," Harriet spoke first. "I typically just get a red wine."

"I do too," Vlad replied. "But white wine goes well with fish." Harriet gave a surprised hum before taking another drink. "You probably know too much about me though. Tell me about your work. Amity News." She nodded.

"Yeah, I'm one of the main news anchors," she replied.

"Oh trust me, I know. I get to watch you tell me the news every day, it's a highlight of the day," Vlad complimented. Harriet rolled her eyes with a flush.

"Alright, cheesehead," she teased. "But yeah, I really love it. When I was younger I really enjoyed investigative journalism, since it let me go all over, but I'm really liking being in one place. Though I occasionally go out on the scene, but it's kinda dangerous to cover ghost fights here. And what we have Lance for."

Vlad snorted. He knew the news man too well. He was, as the kids called it, a meme at this point. He knew Daniel and his friends constantly posted these memes of Lance Thunder on social media, making fun of his on the scene appearances.

"What do you make of all these ghosts?" Vlad questioned. Harriet shrugged.

"Well, they certainly exist. Honestly thought Jack was stupid to try and build that one ghost portal in college. Even though. Ugh, Jack is such a buffoon sometimes," Harriet grumbled. "I still haven't forgiven him for costing me my job in Milwaukee, especially since I used him as a reliable source. Ugh!" She stopped herself to finish off her glass of wine. She exhaled deeply as she put the glass down, half-smiling apologetically. "Sorry. I know he's your friend."

"No, no no," Vlad replied eagerly. "I understand. After all, it was my home he destroyed, remember?" Harriet nodded.

"He had to have done thousands in damage," she said sympathetically. "Especially to your library. Oh, and it was a beautiful library too."

"It was one of my favorite rooms in that house," Vlad sighed. "I rebuilt the room, but it just wasn't ever quite the same. My new library, however, it's simply gorgeous."

"Oh?" Harriet questioned. Vlad took it as a sign to continue.

"It's a two story library, for once, like a true two story library. The lighting is fantastic, but also on a dimmer so the mood can be truly set," he began to describe. "I managed to slowly rebuild my collection of the classics, and there's a wood burning fireplace. Oh and of course, my favorite, the small reading nook with the most comfortable chair you will ever sit in next to a huge window. It's simply perfect."

"Oh, I would probably sit in that nook and read forever," Harriet sighed dreamily. Vlad smiled, picking up the bottle of wine with a raised eyebrow. Harriet picked her glass up, holding it for him to pour her some more. He did so, before refilling his own glass. She took another long sip of her drink.

"I would more often, but unfortunately, it's also the cat's favorite spot, and I can never bring myself to move her," he confessed. Harriet beamed.

"Vlad! You never told me you had a cat!" she exclaimed. "What's his name?" Vlad felt a cold sweat hit him. Wait.

"Maggie," he lied. "When I adopted her, that was what they called her, and it didn't feel right to change it." Harriet nodded understandingly. She set her glass of wine down to dig through her clutch, and she pulled her phone out.

"I have the most handsome little guy, his name's Taggy. Short for Maytag," she said. She showed Vlad her phone, exposing a picture of a grey and white cat stretched out in a cat hammock near a window. But that name...

"...Maytag? As in the company?"

Harriet flushed a bit.

"When I moved into my first apartment, his previous owners had left him, and so my old roommate and I began calling him Maytag after the refrigerator, since he came with the apartment, and we put food in him," she explained. "Then my roommate got married, and her husband's cats didn't get along with Taggy, so I just kept him, and he's moved six times with me since then." Vlad cracked a smile.

"Mad-ggie's name has kind of devolved into me just calling her Princess," he admitted. "I've bought so many luxury cat things for her and beds, the drinking fountain water bowl, wet food, the best vet in all of Illinois. Only the finest."

"I do the same for Taggy, much as I can afford. He's my special guy."

The waiter shyly interrupted them, bringing them each a huge plate of food. Harriet eyed hers hungrily, thanking him cheerfully.

"Oh, this does delicious," Harriet beamed. She took her chopsticks, and grabbed a bite. Vlad took another sip of wine before he did the same. "It tastes great too!"

"You think I'd steer you wrong?" Vlad lightly bragged.

"Who knows," Harriet shrugged. She gave a sly smirk. "You're the one who steered us all so wrong that you got the van stuck in a snowbank." Vlad glared at her, making her burst into snickers.

They ate in silence for a few moments, savoring their meal. Harriet took another long drink of her wine, and Vlad refilled it for her. She gave a smile.

"Thank you," she said. "Do you like your food?"

"Very much so, it's delicious," he replied. "How's yours?"

"Great, I never had such delicious food!" She ate another chopstick full of food. "I guess this is how five star dining is, huh? I made a good date investment. But next time I gotta take you to a diner."

"Oh?" Vlad raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I get the feeling that you eat too fancy," she explained. "Sometimes you just need the greasiest burger and saltiest fries that you wash down with cheap soda."

"Hmm, wouldn't you prefer I take you to a five star steakhouse?" he questioned.

"You can take me there on our third date," Harriet replied. Vlad raised his eyebrow again. "But for date too, I think you need a greasy burger."

"Third date?" he echoed. He took a drink of his wine, finishing it off.

"Yeah, I think you'll wanna take me out again," Harriet hummed. She reached for the wine to refill his glass for him.

"Thank you, dear. But really?"

"Absolutely, I'm a catch," she replied. "I've travelled the world, I'm very educated, financially stable, have my own house, am very pretty." She jokingly flipped her hair.

"Ah, I'd say you're more of a beauty than just very pretty," Vlad mused. Harriet smiled.

"Aww, thank you cheesehead," she replied. "But yes. So naturally, I think you're not going to be able to resist asking me to accompany you out again. I did you a favor by bidding on you, actually."

"We'll see how the night ends, and who's wanting a second date more," Vlad said. "I mean, yes you are quite a catch, but I think you're forgetting who was voted as sexiest billionaire by Cosmopolitan magazine." Harriet nearly choked on her wine from laughter.

"Oh my god, you read Cosmo?" she giggled. Vlad flushed red.

"N-no, I was told this," he insisted. "When I got voted as such." Harriet had to put her chopsticks down, covering her mouth as she tried to contain her laughter. Vlad slammed back the rest of his wine, refilling his own cup.

"Oh man, you really haven't changed all that much." She took a deep breath to get her laughter under control. "Same ol' cute Vlad." This peaked his interest.

"You thought I was cute?" he asked. Harriet flushed, picking her chopsticks back up to continue eating.

"Eh, kinda. In that nerdy sorta way," she confessed. "I tried getting your attention a few times, but you never seemed too interested. You were always really distracted by that portal project."

More like distracted by Maddie, as she was a huge reason why he was so interested in helping with the proto portal project. Remembering the woman of his dreams made him pause. He suddenly felt guilty that he was out on a date. And Maddie's college best friend of all people!

Of course, he had dated here and there. Maddie was, unfortunately, married, so he knew that rationally he had to somewhat try and move on. But nobody had ever truly clicked with him, or made him feel like she had. His mind was often distracted by her the entire time but...until now he had actually forgotten about Maddie.

"Ah yeah, I was...really focused on school," he half-lied, taking another bite of food.

"I could tell. Nerd," she jibbed. "Even now I can tell you're super busy with all your business stuff."

"Not as busy as you'd think, but also yes," Vlad corrected. "I have a lot of meetings to attend and business decisions to make, but I at least get a lot of help and feedback."

"That's true," Harriet said. "But I'm glad we're able to do something now. Even if we just never got around to it back then." She poked at one of her foods with her chopstick before taking the bite. "I mean, I've been kind of all over too. I don't think anything would have even worked out had we even tried something."

"Ah, yes. I remember Maddie mentioning that you were never in one place for more than two months for a long time," Vlad said.

"Yup!" she confirmed. "That's investigative journalism for ya. Takes you all over. But I really liked it. I'm glad I had that opportunity, and that I did it. Don't regret a bit of it."

"Business too," he agreed. "Especially when you're starting an empire. I don't think I was truly home for months at a time, I was going from place to place to oversee offices being built and products being made. Seeing how progress is being made on research. It was a busy first fifteen years or so. I don't think I was truly relaxing and enjoying what I'd made until the past six years or so."

"Yeah, I remember reading about your progress," she said. "Fascinating story. You had such amazing charisma to get all these companies to go with your plans." Vlad felt a bit of a nervous wave hit him, but he didn't show it, or really even have to reply. Harriet had already moved on. "Ugh, this was so good. I can't believe I was able to eat all of this."

Her plate was empty, and he had just taken his last bite.

"Would you like dessert?" he asked. She shook her head no.

"Nah, I'm good. I've eaten enough," she replied. Vlad just nodded, and he called their water over.

Instead of waiting to get a receipt book from the waiter, he simply handed him his credit card. Vlad never checked the bill when he went out to eat. The price tag never bothered him.

The waiter accepted it, soon coming back for Vlad to sign. Vlad quickly did, and for his trouble, he also handed the young man five hundred dollar bills as a tip. It made him nearly tear up and stutter as he thanked him, but quite honestly, it was more to show off to Harriet his generosity more than any genuine kindness, which, judging by her expression, absolutely worked.

Vlad gave him a half smile and waved him off, and the pair collected their things to leave, heading towards the front of the restaurant arm in arm.

"You know, the night's still young," Vlad mused. He opened the door for her, and Harriet slipped through.

"Thank you," she replied. "But oh? You don't have work?"

"Nothing that can't be rearranged," he replied. "Do you?" Harriet smiled.

"Nope, I have tomorrow off. So what are you thinking?" she asked. Vlad glanced at his watch. Hell, it was only ten-thirty.

"Have you ever been to the Amity Park Country Club?" he questioned. She nodded.

"Oh yeah. I've been there as a guest twice, for interviews," she explained. She glanced at her phone. "Doesn't it close soon though?" Vlad chuckled.

"On midnights on the weekends," he replied.

"Hmm, okay," Harriet agreed. "But we won't stay too long."

Vlad went up to the valet, informing him of his car make and model, and the young man nodded, jogging off to fetch it.

"My dear, I'm a high priority member. They'll stay open for me," he insisted. Harriet rolled her eyes.

"The workers wanna go home too, Vlad," she reminded him. "We should be respectful of their time and leave when it closes."

Vlad resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was above having to follow those kinds of petty rules. When you had billions in the bank, you could easily just toss a few thousand out to make workers let you stay past the closing time with no issues. He had never heard a single complaint after he flashed a few thousand, a drop in the bucket for him. But what Harriet wanted, she would get. He supposed, anyway. After a few dates, she'd likely just begin agreeing with him and allow him to bend the rules for her.

After a few dates? Vlad thought on it. Yeah...after a few dates.

"Whatever you wish," he replied.

His car pulled up, and Vlad immediately opened the car door for her.

------------------------------------------------------------

"And it just kind turned into a semi-permanent offer until I got kinda homesick," Harriet finished her story off as she hit another ball with the golf club. Vlad hummed lightly as her ball went off towards somewhere in the dark. "But it was amazing. I'd love to return to China sometime. Kinda unfortunately, Amity Park doesn't really cover international news like that. It's very local only."

"Maybe you should just come with me next time I go," Vlad offered. He grabbed another golf ball from their large bucket of them, setting it on the tee before lining himself up. With an experienced swing, he hit the ball, and it flew off. "To China, I mean. I go there about twice a year or so for business. Sometimes more."

"Ugh, that'd be awesome," Harriet agreed. She leaned over to pick up her drink, a pink margarita, that was resting on the tables that were set up near the driving range. Her jacket and clutch were on the table too, her heels tucked under the table. Vlad had also folded his suit jacket neatly to rest next to hers, allowing himself to also unbutton and roll his sleeves up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt. He also had his own drink, a rum and coke, that sat near hers. "I can show you all the local spots from my time there."

"Hm, that would be very nice," Vlad mused. He hit another ball. He was somewhat glad that Harriet had talked him out of doing the full course. While he didn't care (and Harriet very much did) that it would have taken far past closing time to finish a game, it was much more relaxing to just do this. Especially with nobody else being around. "I typically do only business."

"Oh boo, that's boring," Harriet said. She already had another ball on her tee, and she wacked it again. The ball went soaring. "What's the point of all your money if you're not enjoying yourself and your life?"

Vlad didn't reply. He focused on another swing. The ball stayed close to the ground, quickly rolling on and on and on before he couldn't see where it went anymore.

"You were married before, weren't you?" Vlad questioned. Harriet snorted.

"Oh, we're already at the 'let's talk about our exes' part of the relationship?" she teased. Vlad chuckled, grabbing another ball. "Eh, for about seven years. Nothing bad happened, we just realized that we weren't really as compatible as we thought. I enjoyed traveling the world and being out, and he was a big homebody that hated planes and trains. Started to realize that I wanted a family one day, he preferred it to be just us. We didn't see each other that much cause I would go cover stories all over, and it just felt like we'd be happier. So we just kind of had a mutual divorce."

"I can understand that," Vlad replied. He lightly tapped his ball twice before swinging the club as hard as he could. The ball straight up disappeared in a blink of an eye.

"So what's your excuse for never having a girlfriend before?" Harriet questioned. Vlad was grateful about the lighting, as he knew that his face was dark red. "Too busy with work, too nerdy, what?"

"I've had a girlfriend before!" he argued. "I've dated women plenty before. Don't you remember Stacy?"

"Nope," Harriet replied. She hit another ball.

"Yes you do!" he insisted. He took a break from swinging, leaning on his club. "I was with her for four years! Out of all the women I dated she was the one the papers and articles talked about the most. Don't you remember all the rumors swirling around about why we hadn't gotten married already?"

"Hmm, must have been a figment of your imagination," Harriet replied, and he exhaled dramatically. He finally noticed the shit-eatting grin, and that she was just pulling his leg. She giggled, grabbing another golf ball. She tossed it up into the air, catching it before putting it on the tee. "Okay, okay. So why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?" Vlad questioned. He took a step towards their table, grabbing his drink. He needed it right about now.

"Marry Stacy," Harriet clarified.

"Eh, it just wasn't really meant to be," he dismissed simply. He took a long gulp of his drink, sighing softly when he finished.

"Oh?" Harriet pressed. He frowned. He should have known that she was going to be nosy about it. Typical journalist.

"...I could tell that we didn't really like each other all that much," he confessed. "We were just both lonely. We would go places together but never actually be together. We lived together but never saw each other outside of bedtime, though towards the end, she began to just sleep in a separate room since our schedules would be so different. We talked about getting married on and off, but...I don't know when it clicked for me that this just wasn't what I truly wanted. I wanted a wife and children that I spent time with and that I loved being with. So we just kind of broke up, and she moved out."

Harriet nodded understandingly.

"At least you realized it before children potentially got involved," she said. "I'm glad I divorced with no children. I'd hate to put them through something like that."

"Agreed," Vlad replied. He picked up another golf ball. Instead of bending over to put it on the ground, he lazily dropped it and hit the ball on the bounce. "How many would you want?"

"Hm? What? Kids?" Harriet questioned. Vlad gave a 'mhm' noise to confirm. "At least two. A boy and a girl. What about you?"

"As many as possible," he said. He got another ball. "I always wanted a big family."

"Hmm, well I'm not a clown car," Harriet replied. "Regardless of how often I'd let a clown like you in." Vlad rolled his eyes. "Besides, you have Jasmine and Danny right? Maddie and Jack's kids?"

"Yeah, they're my godchildren," Vlad confirmed. He reached over for another quick sip of his drink. "I bought Jasmine her car. When Daniel gets his license I'll be getting him one too. And of course, paying for college. I have a few other godchildren too, same deal. I've gotten them all a car and paid for college. Can't let them have any of that dreadful student loan debt."

"Aw, you're just a big ol' softie," Harriet teased. "I'm not a billionaire, so I can't really do the same, but I'm pitching in to help my sister get my niece a decent used car next year. By the time her little brother's getting a car, I'll likely be doing the same."

"You're looking for cars for her?" Vlad mused. "I can get her one." Harriet shook her head.

"No, that's not necessary," she replied. "It's a lot to ask."

"Nonsense, I have the money to spare," he persisted. "A decent used car. Children don't need brand new ones, they're still learning." Harriet bit her lower lip as she pondered the offer.

"We'll discuss it another time with my sister," she said. Vlad nodded in agreement. He grabbed a ball. Their bucket was nearly empty now.

"I understand," he replied. Harriet picked up one of the last balls. She tossed it up in the air and swung her bat. She missed, but she quickly was able to redeem herself by hitting it on the third bounce. "I just hate to see children go without. That's why I was auctioned off, afterall. For the sake of the kids." Harriet gave a skeptical hum, getting another ball. "...Well, you know, if we're going to go out again, I need to make a good first impression on your family."

"That's better," Harriet replied. "If we're going to hang out more like this, we need to be open and honest with each other."

Vlad picked up the last ball. He stared at it for a moment, and he put it on Harriet's tee for her. She shot him a thankful smile, and she wacked the ball into the night.

"There'll be more, right?" Vlad asked.

"Well, if you're free next Friday, we can go see a show," Harriet suggested. She went back to the table, slipping into her heels again. She downed the last bit of her drink. "Local theater's opening weekend is soon."

Next weekend was terrible. Vlad had so much to do that following week that he'd have to spend all weekend preparing for. Many meetings, lots of documents to read and write and revise. Moving anything around would be an absolute headache.

But it could be moved around.

"Sounds lovely," he agreed. He finished off his drink before rolling his sleeves down again. He slipped his jacket back on. "Ready to head home?"

"We have to take the cups and clubs back up to the office," she said, nodding at the country club. Vlad made a face, and he began to protest, but a Look from Harriet made him shut up.

"Alright, alright," he sighed. Harriet grabbed their cups, and he took their clubs.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Next Friday, right?" Harriet asked as they took the final step up onto her porch.

"Yes, I'll call you tomorrow to organize a proper time," Vlad told her. He paused as he suddenly remembered. "One second."

He did a half-jog back to his car, opening the backseat and pulling out a basket. As he returned to the door, it became clear as to what it was. It was the camera bundle she had been bid on at the auction, and she stared at it.

"Here, I had noticed you bid on it. I wanted to make sure you got it," he explained, handing it out to her.

"You bought that?" she questioned.

"Yes, I knew that you'd be outbid. So I just made sure that you could get it," he replied. Harriet smiled warmly, accepting it.

"Thank you," she said. She set it on one of the porch chairs for now. "This was honestly such a great night. Gotta admit, I was kinda skeptical, but you really impressed me."

"Of course, didn't you say yourself that you made a good investment," he joked. Harriet snickered.

"Yeah, but I think even I surprised myself," she said. "I thought I was just going to buy a nice, fancy one dinner, but I'm pretty sure I actually did buy somebody that I'm going to be introducing to my mom." She gestured to her front door. "Did you wanna come inside for a bit? Pretty sure you're too tired to make the long drive home."

"I don't live too far," Vlad replied. "It's about twenty minutes, I can easily get home."

"Oh?" Harriet lightly pressed. "You sure you're not too tired though? Don't need a coffee or anything? Or want to take a nap before you go?"

It finally clicked.

"Ah, you know, I think I would like to rest a bit before I go," he agreed. Harriet smiled, turning to unlock her door. Vlad grabbed the camera basket for her, and they went inside.

#phic phight 2021 #harriet chin #vlad masters #the bachelor #my phics #phics

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davidmann95 · 3 years

Note

So... Morrison’s 10 part interview on All-Star Superman, along with all other older Newsarama articles, just seem to have ceased to exist. One does not simply live without having those interviews available to reread... Can I find them anywhere else?

Rejoice! I finally borrowed a computer I could put my flash drive into, and emailed myself my copy of the Morrison interview. Here it is below the cut, copied and pasted direct from the source way back when, available again at last:

Three years, 12 issues, Eisners and countless accolades later, All Star Superman is finally finished. The out-of-continuity look at Superman’s struggle with his inevitable death was widely embraced by fans and pros as one of the best stories to feature the Man of Steel, and was a showcase for the talents of the creative team of Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely and Jamie Grant.

Now, Newsarama is proud to present an exclusive look back with Morrison at the series that took Superman to, pun intended, new heights. We had a lot of questions about the series...and Morrison delivered with an in-depth look into the themes, characters and ideas throughout the 12 issues. In fact, there was so much that we’re running this as an unprecedented 10-part series over the next two weeks – sort of an unofficial All Star Superman companion. It’s everything about All Star Superman you ever wanted to know, but were afraid to ask.

And of course there’s plenty of SPOILERS, so back away if you haven’t read the entire series.

Newsarama: Grant, tell us a little about the origin of the project.

Grant Morrison: Some of it has its roots in the DC One Million project from 1999. So much so, that some readers have come to consider this a prequel to DC One Million, which is fine if it shifts a few more copies! I’ve tried to give my own DC books an overarching continuity intended to make them all read as a more coherent body of work when I’m done.

Luthor’s “enlightenment” – when he peaks on super–senses and sees the world as it appears through Superman’s eyes – was an element I’d included in the Superman Now pitch I prepared along with Mark Millar, Tom Peyer and Mark Waid back in 1999. There were one or two of ideas of mine that I wanted to preserve from Superman Now and Luthor’s heart–stopping moment of understanding was a favorite part of the original ending for that story, so I decided to use it again here.

My specific take on Superman’s physicality was inspired by the “shamanic” meeting my JLA editor Dan Raspler and I had in the wee hours of the morning outside the San Diego comic book convention in whenever it was, ‘98 or ‘99.

I’ve told this story in more detail elsewhere but basically, we were trying to figure out how to “reboot” Superman without splitting up his marriage to Lois, which seemed like a cop–out. It was the beginning of the conversations which ultimately led to Superman Now, with Dan and I restlessly pacing around trying to figure out a new way into the character of Superman and coming up short...

Until we looked up to see a guy dressed as Superman crossing the train tracks. Not just any skinny convention guy in an ill–fitting suit, this guy actually looked like Superman. It was too good a moment to let pass, so I ran over to him, told him what we’d been trying to do and asked if he wouldn’t mind indulging us by answering some questions about Superman, which he did...in the persona and voice of Superman!

We talked for an hour and a half and he walked off into the night with his friend (no, it wasn’t Jimmy Olsen, sadly). I sat up the rest of the night, scribbling page after page of Superman notes as the sun came up over the naval yards.

My entire approach to Superman had come from the way that guy had been sitting; so easy, so confident, as if, invulnerable to all physical harm, he could relax completely and be spontaneous and warm. That pose, sitting hunched on the bollard, with one knee up, the cape just hanging there, talking to us seemed to me to be the opposite of the clenched, muscle-bound look the character sometimes sports and that was the key to Superman for me.

I met the same Superman a couple of times afterwards but he wasn’t Superman, just a nice guy dressed as Superman, whose name I didn’t save but who has entered into my own personal mythology (a picture has from that time has survived showing me and Mark Waid posing alongside this guy and a couple of young readers dressed as Superboy and Supergirl – it’s in the “Gallery” section at my website for anybody who can be bothered looking. This is the guy who lit the fuse that led to All Star Superman).

After the 1999 pitch was rejected, I didn’t expect to be doing any further work on Superman but sometime in 2002, while I was going into my last year on New X–Men, Dan DiDio called and asked if I wanted to come back to DC to work on a Superman book with Jim Lee.

Jim was flexing his artistic muscles again to great effect, and he wanted to do 12 issues on Superman to complement the work he was doing with Jeph Loeb on “Batman: Hush.” At the time, I wasn’t able to make my own commitments dovetail with Jim’s availability, but by then I’d become obsessed with the idea of doing a big Superman story and I’d already started working out the details.

Jim, of course, went on to do his 12 Superman issues as “For Tomorrow” with Brian Azzarello, so I found myself looking for an artist for what was rapidly turning into my own Man of Steel magnum opus, and I already knew the book had to be drawn by my friend and collaborator, Frank Quitely.

We were already talking about We3 and Superman seemed like a good meaty project to get our teeth into when that was done. I completely scaled up my expectations of what might be possible once Frank was on board and decided to make this thing as ambitious as possible.

Usually, I prefer to write poppy, throwaway “live performance” type superhero books, but this time, I felt compelled to make something for the ages – a big definitive statement about superheroes and life and all that, not only drawn by my favorite artist but starring the first and greatest superhero of them all.

The fact that it could be a non–continuity recreation made the idea even more attractive and more achievable. I also felt ready for it, in a way I don’t think I would have been in 1999; I finally felt “grown–up” enough to do Superman justice.

I plotted the whole story in 2002 and drew tiny colored sketches for all 12 covers. The entire book was very tightly constructed before we started – except that I’d left the ending open for the inevitable better and more focused ideas I knew would arise as the project grew into its own shape...and I left an empty space for issue 10. That one was intended from the start to be the single issue of the 12–issue run that would condense and amplify the themes of all the others. #10 was set aside to be the one–off story that would sum up anything anyone needed to know about Superman in 22 pages.

Not quite as concise an origin as Superman’s, but that’s how we got started.

NRAMA: When you were devising the series, what challenges did you have in building up this version of the Superman universe?

GM: I couldn’t say there were any particular challenges. It was fun. Nobody was telling me what I could or couldn’t do with the characters. I didn’t have to worry about upsetting continuity or annoying people who care about stuff like that.

I don’t have a lot of old comics, so my knowledge of Superman was based on memory, some tattered “70s books from the remains of my teenage collection, a bunch of DC “Best Of...” reprint editions and two brilliant little handbooks – “Superman in Action Comics” Volumes 1 and 2 – which reprint every single Action Comics cover from 1938 to 1988.

I read various accounts of Superman’s creation and development as a brand. I read every Superman story and watched every Superman movie I could lay my hands on, from the Golden Age to the present day. From the Socialist scrapper Superman of the Depression years, through the Super–Cop of the 40s, the mythic Hyper–Dad of the 50s and 60s, the questioning, liberal Superman of the early 70s, the bland “superhero” of the late 70s, the confident yuppie of the 80s, the over–compensating Chippendale Superman of the 90s etc. I read takes on Superman by Mark Waid, Mark Millar, Geoff Johns, Denny O’Neil, Jeph Loeb, Alan Moore, Paul Dini and Alex Ross, Joe Casey, Steve Seagle, Garth Ennis, Jim Steranko and many others.

I looked at the Fleischer cartoons, the Chris Reeve movies and the animated series, and read Alvin Schwartz’s (he wrote the first ever Bizarro story among many others) fascinating book – “An Unlikely Prophet” – where he talks about his notion of Superman as a tulpa, (a Tibetan word for a living thought form which has an independent existence beyond its creator) and claims he actually met the Man of Steel in the back of a taxi.

I immersed myself in Superman and I tried to find in all of these very diverse approaches the essential “Superman–ness” that powered the engine. I then extracted, purified and refined that essence and drained it into All Star’s tank, recreating characters as my own dream versions, without the baggage of strict continuity.

In the end, I saw Superman not as a superhero or even a science fiction character, but as a story of Everyman. We’re all Superman in our own adventures. We have our own Fortresses of Solitude we retreat to, with our own special collections of valued stuff, our own super–pets, our own “Bottle Cities” that we feel guilty for neglecting. We have our own peers and rivals and bizarre emotional or moral tangles to deal with.

I felt I’d really grasped the concept when I saw him as Everyman, or rather as the dreamself of Everyman. That “S” is the radiant emblem of divinity we reveal when we rip off our stuffy shirts, our social masks, our neuroses, our constructed selves, and become who we truly are.

Batman is obviously much cooler, but that’s because he’s a very energetic and adolescent fantasy character: a handsome billionaire playboy in black leather with a butler at this beck and call, better cars and gadgetry than James Bond, a horde of fetish femme fatales baying around his heels and no boss. That guy’s Superman day and night.

Superman grew up baling hay on a farm. He goes to work, for a boss, in an office. He pines after a hard–working gal. Only when he tears off his shirt does that heroic, ideal inner self come to life. That’s actually a much more adult fantasy than the one Batman’s peddling but it also makes Superman a little harder to sell. He’s much more of a working class superhero, which is why we ended the whole book with the image of a laboring Superman.

He’s Everyman operating on a sci–fi Paul Bunyan scale. His worries and emotional problems are the same as ours... except that when he falls out with his girlfriend, the world trembles.

Newsarama: Grant, what are some of your favorite moments from the 12 issues?

Grant Morrison: The first shot of Superman flying over the sun. The Cosmic Anvil. Samson and Atlas. The kiss on the moon. The first three pages of the Olsen story which, I think, add up to the best character intro I’ve ever written.

Everything Lex Luthor says in issue #5. Everything Clark does. The whole says/does Luthor/Superman dynamic as played out through Frank Quitely’s absolute mastery and understanding of how space, movement and expression combine to tell a story.

Superboy and his dog on the moon – that perfect teenage moment of infinite possibility, introspection and hope for the future. He’s every young man on the verge of adulthood, Krypto is every dog with his boy (it seemed a shame to us that Krypto’s most memorable moment prior to this was his death scene in “Whatever Happened To The Man of Tomorrow.” Quitely’s scampering, leaping, eager and alive little creature is how I’d prefer to imagine Krypto the Superdog and conjures finer and more subtle emotions).

Bizarro–Home, with all of Earth’s continental and ocean shapes but reversed. The page with the first appearance of Zibarro that Frank has designed so the eye is pulled down in a swirling motion into the drain at the heart of the image, to make us feel that we’re being flushed in a cloacal spiral down into a nihilistic, existential sink. Frank gave me that page as a gift, and it became weirdly emblematic of a strange, dark time in both our lives.

The story with Bar–El and Lilo has a genuine chill off ammonia and antiseptic off it, which makes it my least favorite issue of the series, although I know a lot of people who love it. It’s about dying relatives, obligations, the overlit overheated corridors between terminal wards, the thin metallic odors of chemicals, bad food and fear. Preparation for the Phantom Zone.

Superman hugging the poor, hopeless girl on the roof and telling us all we’re stronger than we think we are.

Joe Shuster drawing us all into the story forever and never–ending.

Nasthalthia Luthor. Frank and Jamie’s final tour of the Fortress, referencing every previous issue on the way, in two pages.

All of issue #10 (there’s a single typo in there where the time on the last page was screwed up – but when we fix that detail for the trade I’ll be able to regard this as the most perfectly composed superhero story I’ve ever written).

I don’t think I’ve ever had a smoother, more seamless collaborative process.

NRAMA: The story is very complete unto itself, but are there any new or classic characters you’d like to explore further? If so, which ones and why?

GM: I’d happily write more Atlas and Samson. I really like Krull, the Dino–Czar’s wayward son, and his Stalinist underground empire of “Subterranosauri.” I could write a Superman Squad comic forever. I’d love to write the “Son of Superman” sequel about Lois and Clark’s super test tube baby.

But...I think All Star is already complete, without sequels. You read that last issue and it works because you know you’re never going to see All Star Superman again. You’ll be able to pick up Superman books, but they won’t be about this guy and they won’t feel the same. He really is going away. Our Superman is actually “dying” in that sense, and that adds the whole series a deeper poignancy.

NRAMA: Aside from the Bizarro League, you never really introduce other DC superheroes into the story. Why did you make this choice?

GM: I wanted the story to be about the mythic Superman at the end of his time. It’s clear from the references that he has or more likely has had a few super–powered allies, but that they’re no longer around or relevant any more.

For the context of this story I wanted the super–friends to be peripheral, like they were in the old comics. The Flash? Green Lantern? They represent Superman’s “old army buddies,” or your dad’s school friends. Guys you’ve sort of heard of, who used to be more important in the old man’s life than they are now.

NRAMA: Some readers were confused as to how the “Twelve Labors” broke down, though others have pointed out that Superman’s actions are more reflective of the Stations of the Cross (I note there’s a “Station Café” in the background of issue #12). Could you break down the Twelve Labors, or, if the cross theory is true, how the storyline reflects the Stations?

GM: The 12 Labors of Superman were never intended as an isomorphic mapping onto the 12 Labors of Hercules, or for that matter, the specific Stations of the Cross, of which there are 14, I believe. I didn’t even want to do one Labor per issue, so it deliberately breaks down quite erratically through the series for reasons I’ll go into (later).

Yes, there are correspondences, but that’s mostly because we tried to create for our Superman the contemporary “superhero” version of an archetypal solar hero journey, which naturally echoes numerous myths, legends and religious parables.

At the same time, we didn’t want to do an update or a direct copy of any myth you’d seen before, so it won’t work if you try to find one specific mythological or religious “plan” to hang the series on; James Joyce’s honorable and heroic refutation of the rule aside, there’s nothing more dead and dull than an attempt to retell the Odyssey or the Norse sagas scene by scene, but in a modern and/or superhero setting.

For future historians and mythologizers, however, the 12 Labors of Superman may be enumerated as follows:

1. Superman saves the first manned mission to the sun. 2. Superman brews the Super–Elixir. 3. Superman answers the Unanswerable Question. 4. Superman chains the Chronovore.  5. Superman saves Earth from Bizarro–Home. 6. Superman returns from the Underverse. 7. Superman creates Life. 8. Superman liberates Kandor/cures cancer. 9. Superman defeats Solaris. 10. Superman conquers Death. 11. Superman builds an artificial Heart for the Sun. 12.Superman leaves the recipe/formula to make Superman 2.

And one final feat, which typically no–one really notices, is that Lex Luthor delivers his own version of the unified field haiku – explaining the underlying principles of the universe in fourteen syllables – which the P.R.O.J.E.C.T. G–Type philosopher from issue 4 had dedicated his entire life to composing!

You may notice also that the Labors take place over a year – with the solar hero’s descent into the darkness and cold of the Underverse occurring at midwinter/Christmas time (that’s also the only point in the story where we ever see Metropolis at night).

It can also be seen as the sun’s journey over the course of a day – we open in blazing sunshine but halfway through the book, at the end of issue #5, in fact, the solar hero dips below the horizon and begins the night–journey through the hours of darkness and death, before his triumphant resurrection at dawn. That’s why issue 5 ends with the boat to the Underworld and 6 begins with the moon. Clark Kent is crossing the threshold into the subconscious world of memory, shadows, death and deep emotions.

Although they can often have bizarre resonances, specific elements, like the Station Café, are usually put there by Frank Quitely, and are not necessarily secret Dan Brown–style keys to unlocking the mysteries. I think there might be a Station Café opposite the studio where Frank Quitely works and the “SAPIEN” sign on another storefront is a reference to Frank’s studio mate, Dave Sapien. At least he’s not filling the background with dirty words like he used to, given any opportunity

NRAMA: For that matter, do the Twelve Labors matter at all? They seem so purposely ill–defined. They seem more like misdirection or a MacGuffin than anything that needs to be clearly delineated.

GM: They matter, of course, but the 12 Labors idea is there to show that, as with all myth, the systematic ordering of current events into stories, tales, or legends occurs after the fact.

I’m trying to suggest that only in the future will these particular 12 feats, out of all the others ever, be mythologized as 12 Labors. I suppose I was trying to say something about how people impose meaning upon events in retrospect, and that’s how myth is born. It’s hindsight that provides narrative, structure, meaning and significance to the simple unfolding of events. It’s the backward glance that adds all the capital letters to the list above.

Even Superman isn”t sure how many Labors he’s performed when we see him mulling it over in issue 10.  When you watched it happening, it seemed to be Superman just doing his thing. In the future it’s become THE 12 LABORS OF SUPERMAN!

NRAMA: And on a completely ridiculous note: All–Star Superman is perhaps the most difficult–to–abbreviate comic title since Preacher: Tall in the Saddle. Did you realize this going in?

GM: Going into what? Going into ASS itself? In the sense of how did I feel as I slowly entered ASS for the first time?

It never crossed my mind...

Newsarama: I’d like to know a little more about Leo Quintum and his role in the story. He seems like a bit of an outgrowth of the likes of Project Cadmus and Emil Hamilton, but in a more fantastical, Willy Wonka sense.

Grant Morrison: Yeah, he was exactly as you say, my attempt to create an updated take on the character of “Superman’s scientist friend” – in the vein of Emil Hamilton from the animated show and the ‘90s stories. Science so often goes wrong in Superman stories, and I thought it was important to show the potential for science to go right or to be elevated by contact with Superman’s shining positive spirit.

I was thinking of Quintum as a kind of “Man Who Fell To Earth” character with a mysterious unearthly background. For a while I toyed with the notion that he was some kind of avatar of Lightray of the New Gods, but as All Star developed, that didn’t fit the tone, and he was allowed to simply be himself.

Eventually it just came down to simplicity. Leo Quintum represents the “good” scientific spirit – the rational, enlightened, progressive, utopian kind of scientist I figured Superman might inspire to greatness. It was interesting to me how so many people expected Quintum to turn out bad at the end. It shows how conditioned we are in our miserable, self–loathing, suspicious society to expect the worst of everyone, rather than hope for the best. Or maybe it’s just what we expect from stories.

Having said that, there is indeed a necessary whiff of Lucifer about Quintum. His name, Leo Quintum, conjures images of solar force, lions and lightbringers and he has elements of the classic Trickster figure about him. He even refers to himself as “The Devil Himself” in issue #10.

What he’s doing at the end of the story should, for all its gee–whiz futurity, feel slightly ambiguous, slightly fake, slightly “Hollywood.” Yes, he’s fulfilling Superman’s wishes by cloning an heir to Superman and Lois and inaugurating a Superman dynasty that will last until the end of time – but he’s also commodifying Superman, figuring out how it’s done, turning him into a brand, a franchise, a bigger–and–better “revamp,” the ultimate coming attraction, fresher than fresh, newer than new but familiar too. Quintum has figured out the “formula” for Superman and improved upon it.

And then you can go back to the start of All Star Superman issue #1 and read the “formula” for yourself, condensed into eight words on the first page and then expanded upon throughout the story! The solar journey is an endless circle naturally. A perfect puzzle that is its own solution.

In one way, Quintum could be seen to represent the creative team, simultaneously re–empowering a pure myth with the honest fire of Art...while at the same time shooting a jolt of juice through a concept that sells more “S” logo underpants and towels than it does comic books. All tastes catered!

I have to say that the Willy Wonka thing never crossed my mind until I saw people online make the comparison, which seems quite obvious now. Quintum dresses how I would dress if I was the world’s coolest super–scientist. What’s up with that?

NRAMA: Was Zibarro inspired by the Bizarro World story where the Bizarro–Neanderthal becomes this unappreciated Casanova–type?

GM: Don’t know that one, but it sounds like a scenario I could definitely endorse!

Zibarro started out as a daft name sicked–up by my subconscious mind, which flowered within moments into the must–write idea of an Imperfect Bizarro. What would an imperfect version of an already imperfect being be like?

Zibarro.

NRAMA: I’d like to know more about Zibarro – what’s the significance of his chronicling Bizarro World through poetry?

GM: It’s up to you. I see Zibarro partly as the sensitive teenager inside us all. He’s moody, horribly self–aware and uncomfortable, yet filled with thoughts of omnipotence and agency. He’s the absolute center of his tiny, disorganized universe. He’s playing the role of sensitive, empathic poet but at the same time, he’s completely self–absorbed.

When he says to Superman “Can you even imagine what it’s like to be so different. So unique. So unlike everyone else?” he doesn’t even wait for Superman’s reply. He doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but his own, ultimately.

NRAMA: The character is very close to Superman, so what does it say that a nonpowered version on a savage world would focus his energy through that medium? Also, does Zibarro’s existence show how Superman is able to elevate even the backwards Bizarros through his very nature?

GM: All of the above. And maybe he writes his totally subjective poetry as a reflection of Clark Kent’s objective reporter role. The suppressed, lyrical, wounded side of Superman perhaps? The Super–Morrissey? Bizarro With The Thorn In His Side?

But he’s also Bizarro–Home’s “mistake” (or so it seems to him, even though he’s as natural an expression of the place as any of the other Bizarro creatures who grow like mold across the surface of their living planet). He feels excluded, a despised outsider, and yet that position is what defines his cherished self–image. He expresses himself through poetry because to him the regular Bizarro language is barbaric, barely articulate and guttural. And they all think he’s talking crap anyway.

It seemed to make sense that an interesting opposite of Bizarro speech might be flowery “woe is me” school Poetry Society odes to the sunset in a misunderstood heart. He’s still a Bizarro though, which makes him ineffectual. His tragedy is that he knows he’s fated to be useless and pointless but craves so much more.

NRAMA: Zibarro also represents a recurrent theme in the story, of Superman constantly facing alternate versions of himself – Bar–El, Samson and Atlas, the Superman Squad, even Luthor by the end. Notably, Hercules is absent, though Superman’s doing his Twelve Labors. With the mythological adventurers in particular, was this designed to equate Superman with their legend, to show how his character is greater than theirs, or both?

GM: In a way, I suppose. He did arm–wrestle them both, proving once and for all Superman’s stronger than anybody! And remember, these characters, along with Hercules, used to appear regularly in Superman books as his rivals. I thought they made better rivals than, say, Majestic or Ultraman because people who don’t read comics have heard of Hercules, Samson and Atlas and understand what they represent.

For that particular story, I wanted to see Superman doing tough guy shit again, like he did in the early days and then again in the 70s, when he was written as a supremely cocky macho bastard for a while. I thought a little bit of that would be an antidote to the slightly soppy, Super–Christ portrayal that was starting to gain ground.

Hence Samson’s broken arm, twisted in two directions beyond all repair. And Atlas in the hospital. And then Superman’s got his hot girlfriend dressed like a girl from Krypton and they’re making out on the moon (the original panel description was of something more like the famous shot of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kissing in the surf from “From Here To Eternity.” Frank’s final choice of composition is much more classically pulp–romantic and iconic than my down and dirty rumble in the moondirt would have been, I’m glad to say).

Newsarama: Tell us about some of the thinking behind the new antagonists you created for this series (at least the ones you want to talk about...): First up: Krull and the Subterranosaurs...

Grant Morrison: We wanted to create some throwaway new characters which would be designed to look as if they were convincing long–term elements of the Superman legend.

We were trying to create a few foes who had a classic feel and a solid backstory that could be explored again or in depth. Even if we never went back to these characters, we wanted them to seem rich enough to carry their own stories.

With Krull, we figured a superhuman character like Superman can always use a powerful “sub–human” opponent: a beast, a monster, a savage with the power to destroy civilization. For years I’ve had the idea that the familiar “gray aliens” might “actually” be evolved biped dinosaur descendants, the offspring of smart–thinking lizards which made their way to the warm regions at the Earth’s core.

I imagined these brutes developing their own technology, their own civilization, and then finally coming to the surface to declare bloody war on the mammalian usurpers! It seemed like we could develop this idea into the Krull backstory and suggest a whole epic conflict in a few panels.

Dom Regan, the Glasgow artist and DC colorist, saw the original green skin Jamie Grant had done for Krull, and suggested we make him red instead. Jamie reset his color filters and that was the moment Krull suddenly looked like a real Superman foe.

The red skin marked him out as unique, different and dangerous, even among his own species. It had echoes of Jack Kirby’s Devil Dinosaur that played right into the heart of the concept. A good design became a great design and the whole story of who Krull was – his twisted relationship with his father the Dino–Czar, his monstrous ambitions – came together in that first picture.

The society was fleshed out in the script even though we see only one panel of it – a gloomy, heavy, “Soviet” underworld of walled iron cities, cold blood and deadly intrigue. War–Barges that could sail on the oceans of heated steam at the center of the Earth. A Stalinist authoritarian lizard world where missing person cases were being taken to work and die as slaves in hellish underworld conditions.

NRAMA: Mechano–Man?

GM: An attempt to pre–imagine a classic, archetypal Superman foe, which started with another simple premise – how about a giant robot villain? But not just any giant robot – this is a rampaging machine with a raging little man inside.

Giving him a bitter, angry, scrawny loser as a pilot turned Mechano–Man into a much more extreme and pathological expression of the Man of Steel/Mild–Mannered Reporter dynamic, and added a few interesting layers onto an 8–panel appearance.

NRAMA: The Chronovore – a very disturbing creation, that one.

GM: The Chronovore was mentioned in passing in DC 1,000,000 and would have been the monster in my aborted Hypercrisis series idea. It took a long time to get the right design for the beast because it’s meant to be a 5–D being that we only ever see in 4–D sections. It had to work as a convincing representation of something much bigger that we’re seeing only where it interpenetrates our 4–D space-time continuum.

Imagine you’re walking along with a song in your teenage heart, then suddenly the Chronovore appears, takes bite out of your life, and you arrive at your girlfriend’s house aged 76, clutching a cell phone and a wilted bouquet.

NRAMA: One more obscure run that I was happy to see referenced in this was the use of Nasty from the old Mike Sekowsky Supergirl stories. What made you want to use this character?

GM: I remembered her from the old comics, and felt her fashion–y look could be updated very easily into the kind of fetish club thing I’ve always been partial to.

She seemed a cool and sexy addition to the Luthor plot. The set–up, where Lex has a fairly normal sister who hates how her wayward brother is such a bad influence on her brilliant daughter, is explosive with character potential.

They need to bring Nasty back to mainstream continuity. Geoff! They all want it and you know you never let them down!

NRAMA: Speaking of Mike Sekowsky, I’m curious about his influence on your work. I have an odd fascination with all the ideas and stories he was tossing around in the late 1960s and early 1970s – Jason’s Quest, Manhunter 2070, the I–Ching tales – and many of the characters he worked on, from the B”Wana Beast to the Inferior Five to Yankee Doodle (in Doom Patrol), have shown up in your work. The Bizarro Zoo in issue #10 is even slightly reminiscent of the Beast’s merged animals.

GM: Those were all comics that were around when I was a normal kid, prior to the obsessive collecting fan phase of my isolated teenage years. They clearly inspired me in some way, as you say, but certainly not consciously. I’d never have considered myself a particular fan of Mike Sekowsky’s work, but as you say, I’ve incorporated a lot of his ideas into the DC Universe work I’ve done. Hmm. Interesting.

While I’m at it, I should also say something about Samson and Atlas, halfway between old characters and new.

Samson, Atlas and Hercules were classical mainstays of old Superman covers, tangling with Superman in all those Silver Age stories that happened before he learned from his friends at Marvel that it was possible to fight other superheroes for fun and profit, so I decided to completely “re–vamp” the characters in the manner of superhero franchises. Marvel has the definitive Hercules for me, so I left him out of the mix and concentrated on Atlas and Samson.

Atlas was re–imagined as a mighty but restless and reckless young prince of the New Mythos – a society of mega–beings playing out their archetypal dramas between New Elysium and Hadia, with ordinary people caught in the middle – and Superman.

Essentially good–hearted, Atlas would have been the newbie in a “team” with Skyfather Xaoz!, Heroina, Marzak and the others. He has a bullish, adolescent approach to life. He drinks and plunges himself into ill–advised adventures to ease his naturally gloomy “weighed down by the world” temperament.

You can see it all now. The backstory suggested an unseen, Empyrean New Gods–type series from a parallel universe. What if, when Jack Kirby came to DC from Marvel in 1971, he’d followed up his sci–fi Viking Gods saga at Marvel, with a dimension–spanning epic rooted in Greek mythology? New Gods meets Eternals drawn by Curt Swan/Murphy Anderson? That was Atlas.

Samson, I decided would be a callback to the British newspaper strip “Garth.” Although you may already be imagining a daily strip about the exploits of time–tossed The Boys writer, Garth Ennis, it was actually about a blonde Adonis type who bounced around the ages having mildly horny, racy adventures.

(Go look him up then return the wiser before reading on, so I don’t have to explain anymore about this bastard – he’s often described as “the British Superman,” but oh...my arse! I hated meathead, personality–singularity Garth...but we all grew up with his meandering, inexplicable yet incredibly–drawn adventures and some of it was quite good when you were a little lad because he was always shagging ON PANEL with the likes of a bare–breasted cave girl or gauze–draped Helen of Troy.

(Unlike Superman, you see, the top British strongman liked to get naked. Lots naked. Naked in every time period he could get naked in, which was all of them thanks to the miracle of his bullshit powers.

(Imagine Doctor Who buff, dumb and naked all the time – Russell, I’ve had an idea!!!! – and that’s Garth in a nutshell.

(Sorry, I know I’m going on and the average attention span of anyone reading stuff on the Internet amounts to no more than a few paragraphs, but basically, Garth was always getting naked. In public, in family newspapers. Bollock naked. Let’s face it, patriotic Americans, have you ever seen Superman’s arse?

Newsarama Note: Well, there was Baby Kal-El in the 1978 film...

(Brits, hands up who still remember the man, and have you ever not seen Garth’s arse? Do you not, in fact, have a very clear image of it in your head, as drawn by Martin Asbury perhaps? In mine, Garth’s pulling aside a flimsy curtain to gaze at the pyramids with Cleopatra buck naked in foreground ogling his rock hard glutes...).

Anyway, Samson, I decided, was the Hebrew version of Garth and he would have his own mad comic that was like an American version of Garth. I saw the Bible hero plucked from the desert sands by time–travelling buffoons in search of a savior. Introduced to all the worst aspects of future culture and, using his stolen, erratic Chrono–Mobile, Samson became a time–(and space) traveling Soldier of Fortune, writing wrongs, humping princesses, accumulating and losing treasure etc. Like a science fiction Conan. Meets Garth.

Fortunately, you’ll never see any of these men ever again.

Newsarama: How have your perceptions of Superman and his supporting characters evolved since the Superman 2000 pitch you did with Mark Waid, Mark Millar and Tom Peyer? The Superman notions seem almost identical, but Luthor is very different here than in that pitch, and so is Clark Kent. Did you use some aspects of your original pitch, or have you just changed his mind on how to portray these characters since?

Grant Morrison: A little of both. I wanted to approach All Star Superman as something new, but there were a couple of specific aspects from the Superman 2000 pitch (as I mentioned earlier, it was actually called Superman Now, at least in my notebooks, which is where the bulk of the material came from) that I felt were definitely worth keeping and exploring.

I can’t remember much about Luthor from Superman Now, except for the ending. By the time I got to All Star Superman, I’d developed a few new insights into Luthor’s character that seemed to flesh him out more. Luthor’s really human and charismatic and hateful all the same time. He’s the brilliant, deluded egotist in all of us. The key for me was the idea that he draws his eyebrows on. The weird vanity of that told me everything I needed to know about Luthor.

I thought the real key to him was the fact that, brilliant as he is, Luthor is nowhere near as brilliant as he wants to be or thinks he is. For Luthor, no praise, no success, no achievement is ever enough, because there’s a big hungry hole in his soul. His need for acknowledgement and validation is superhuman in scale. Superman needs no thanks; he does what he does because he’s made that way. Luthor constantly rails against his own sense of failure and inadequacy...and Superman’s to blame, of course.

I’ve recently been re–thinking Luthor again for a different project, and there’s always a new aspect of the character to unearth and develop.

NRAMA: This story makes Superman and Lois’ relationship seem much more romantic and epic than usual, but this one also makes Superman more of the pursuer. Lois seems like more of an equal, but also more wary of his affections, particularly in the black–and–white sequence in issue #2.

She becomes this great beacon of support for him over the course of the series, but there is a sense that she’s a bit jaded from years of trickery and uncomfortable with letting him in now that he’s being honest. How, overall, do you see the relationship between Superman and Lois?

GM: The black-and-white panels shows Lois paranoid and under the influence of an alien chemical, but yes, she’s articulating many of her very real concerns in that scene.

I wanted her to finally respond to all those years of being tricked and duped and led to believe Superman and Clark Kent were two different people. I wanted her to get her revenge by finally refusing to accept the truth.

It also exposed that brilliant central paradox in the Superman/Lois relationship. The perfect man who never tells a lie has to lie to the woman he loves to keep her safe. And he lives with that every day. It’s that little human kink that really drives their relationship.

NRAMA: Jimmy Olsen is extremely cool in this series – it’s the old “Mr. Action” idea taken to a new level. It’s often easy to write Jimmy as a victim or sycophant, but in this series, he comes off as someone worthy of being “Superman’s Pal” – he implicitly trusts Superman, and will take any risk to get his story. Do you see this version of Jimmy as sort of a natural evolution of the version often seen in the comics?

GM: It was a total rethink based on the aspects of Olsen I liked, and playing down the whole wet–behind–the–ears “cub reporter” thing. I borrowed a little from the “Mr. Action” idea of a more daredevil, pro–active Jimmy, added a little bit of Nathan Barley, some Abercrombie & Fitch style, a bit of Tintin, and a cool Quitely haircut.

Jimmy was renowned for his “disguises” and bizarre transformations (my favorite is the transvestite Olsen epic “Miss Jimmy Olsen” from Jimmy Olsen #95, which gets a nod on the first page of our Jimmy story we did), so I wanted to take that aspect of his appeal and make it part of his job.

I don’t like victim Jimmy or dumb Jimmy, because those takes on the character don’t make any sense in their context. It seemed more interesting see what a young man would be like who could convincingly be Superman’s “pal.” Someone whose company a Superman might actually enjoy. That meant making Jimmy a much bigger character: swaggering but ingenuous. Innocent yet worldly. Enthusiastic but not stupid.

My favorite Jimmy moment is in issue #7 when he comes up with the way to defeat the Bizarro invasion by using the seas of the Bizarro planet itself as giant mirrors to reflect toxic – to Bizarros – sunlight onto the night side of the Earth. He knows Superman can actually take crazy lateral thinking like this and put it into practice.

NRAMA: Perry White has a few small–but–key scenes, particularly his address to his staff in issue #1 and standing up to Luthor in issue #12. I’d like to hear more about your thoughts on this character.

GM: As with the others, my feelings are there on the page. Perry is Clark’s boss and need only be that and not much more to play his role perfectly well within the stories. He’s a good reminder that Superman has a job and a boss, unlike that good–for–nothing work-shy bastard Batman. Perry’s another of the series’ older male role models of integrity and steadfastness, like Pa Kent.

NRAMA: There’s a sense in the Daily Planet scenes and with Lois’s spotlight issues that everyone knows Clark is Superman, but they play along to humor him. The Clark disguise comes off as very obvious in this story. Do you feel that the Planet staff knows the truth, or are just in a very deep case of denial, like Lex?

GM: If I had to say for sure, I think Jimmy Olsen worked it out a long time ago, and simply presumes that if Superman has a good reason for what he’s doing, that’s good enough for Jimmy.

Lois has guessed, but refuses to acknowledge it because it exposes her darkest flaw – she could never love Clark Kent the way she loves Superman.

NRAMA: Also, the Planet staff seems awfully nonchalant at Luthor’s threats. Are they simply used to being attacked by now?

GM: Yes. They’re a tough group. They also know that Superman makes a point of looking out for them, so they naturally try to keep Luthor talking. They know he loves to talk about himself and about Superman. In that scene, he’s almost forgotten he even has powers, he’s so busy arguing and making points. He keeps doing ordinary things instead of extraordinary things.

NRAMA: The running gag of Clark subtly using his powers to protect unknowing people is well done, but I have to admit I was confused by the sequence near the end of issue #1. Was that an el–train, and if so, why was it so close to the ground?

GM: It’s a MagLev hover–train. Look again, and you’ll see it’s not supported by anything. Hover–trains help ease congestion in busy city streets! Metropolis is the City of Tomorrow, after all.

NRAMA: And there’s the death of Pa Kent. Why do you feel it’s particularly important to have Pa and not both of the Kents pass away?

GM: I imagined they had both passed away fairly early in Superman’s career, but Ma went a few years after Pa. Also, because the book was about men or man, it seemed important to stress the father/son relationships. That circle of life, the king is dead, long live the king thing that Superman is ultimately too big and too timeless to succumb to.

NRAMA: There is a real touch of Elliott S! Maggin’s novels in your depiction of Luthor – someone who is just so obsessive–compulsive about showing up Superman that he accomplishes nothing in his own life. He comes across as a showman, from his rehearsed speech in issue #1 to his garish costume in the last two issues, and it becomes painfully apparent that he wants to usurp Superman because he just can’t be happy with himself. What defeats him is actually a beautiful gift, getting to see the world as Superman does, and finally understanding his enemy.

That’s all a lead–in to: What previous stories that defined Luthor for you, and how did you define his character? What appeals to you about writing him?

GM: The Marks Waid and Millar were big fans of the Maggin books, and may have persuaded me to read at least the first one but I’m ashamed to say can’t remember anything about it, other than the vague recollection of a very humane, humanist take on Superman that seemed in general accord with the pacifist, hedonistic, between–the–wars spirit of the ‘90s when I read it. It was the ‘90s; I had other things on my mind and in my mind.

I like Maggin’s “Must There Be A Superman?” from Superman #247, which ultimately poses questions traditional superhero comic books are not equipped to answer and is one of the first paving stones in the Yellow Brick Road that leads to Watchmen and beyond, to The Authority, The Ultimates etc. Everyone still awake, still reading this, should make themselves familiar with “Must There Be A Superman?” – it’s a milestone in the development of the superhero concept.

However, the story that most defines Luthor for me turns out to be, as usual, a Len Wein piece with Curt Swan/Murphy Anderson– Superman #248. This blew me away when I was a kid. Lex Luthor cares about humanity? He’s sorry we all got blown up? The villain loves us too? It’s only Superman he really hates? Genius. Big, cool adult stuff.

The divine Len makes Lex almost too human, but it was amazing to see this kind of depth in a character I’d taken for granted as a music hall villain.

I also love the brutish Satanic, Crowley–esque, Golden Age Luthor in the brilliant “Powerstone” Action Comics #47 (the opening of All Star #11 is a shameless lift from “Powerstone”, as I soon realised when I went back to look. Blame my...er...photographic memory...cough).

And I like the Silver Age Luthor who only hates Superman because he thinks it’s Superboy’s fault he went bald. That was the most genuinely human motivation for Luthor’s career of villainy of all; it was Superman’s fault he went bald! I can get behind that.

In the Silver Age, baldness, like obesity, old age and poverty, was seen quite rightly as a crippling disease and a challenge which Superman and his supporting cast would be compelled to overcome at every opportunity! Suburban “50s America versus Communist degeneracy? You tell me.

I like elements of the Marv Wolfman/John Byrne ultra–cruel and rapacious businessman, although he somewhat lacks the human dimension (ultimately there’s something brilliant about Luthor being a failed inventor, a product of Smallville/Dullsville – the genius who went unnoticed in his lifetime, and resorted to death robots in chilly basements and cellars. Luthor as geek versus world). I thought Alan Moore’s ruthlessly self–assured “consultant” Luthor in Swamp Thing was an inspired take on the character as was Mark Waid’s rage–driven prodigy from Birthright.

I tried to fold them all into one portrayal. I see him as a very human character – Superman is us at our best, Luthor is us when we’re being mean, vindictive, petty, deluded and angry. Among other things. It’s like a bipolar manic/depressive personality – with optimistic, loving Superman smiling at one end of the scale and paranoid, petty Luthor cringing on the other.

I think any writer of Superman has to love these two enemies equally. We have to recognize them both as potentials within ourselves. I think it’s important to find yourself agreeing with Luthor a bit about Superman’s “smug superiority” – we all of us, except for Superman, know what it’s like to have mean–spirited thoughts like that about someone else’s happiness. It’s essential to find yourself rooting for Lex, at least a little bit, when he goes up against a man–god armed only with his bloody–minded arrogance and cleverness.

Even if you just wish you could just give him a hug and help him channel his energies in the right direction, Luthor speaks for something in all of us, I like to think.

However he’s played, Luthor is the male power fantasy gone wrong and turned sour. You’ve got everything you want but it’s not enough because someone has more, someone is better, someone is cleverer or more handsome.

Newsarama: Grant, a recurring theme throughout the book is the effect of small kindness – how even the likes of Steve Lombard are capable of decency. And Superman gets the key to saving himself by doing something that any human being could do, offering sympathy to a person about to end it all.

Grant Morrison: Completely...the person you help today could be the person who saves your life tomorrow.

NRAMA: The character actions that make the biggest difference, from Zibarro’s sacrifice to Pa’s influence on Superman, are really things that any normal, non-powered person could do if they embrace the best part of their humanity. The last page of issue #12 teases the idea that Superman’s powers could be given to all mankind, but it seems as though the greatest gift he has given them is his humanity. How do you view Superman’s fate in the context of where humanity could go as a species?

GM: I see Superman in this series as an Enlightenment figure, a Renaissance idea of the ideal man, perfect in mind, body and intention.

A key text in all of this is Pico’s ‘Oration On The Dignity of Man’ (15c), generally regarded as the ‘manifesto’ of Renaissance thought, in which Giovanni Pico Della Mirandola laid out the fundamentals of what we tend to refer to as ’Humanist’ thinking.

(The ‘Oratorio’ also turns up in my British superhero series Zenith from 1987, which may indicate how long I’ve been working towards a Pico/Superman team-up!)

At its most basic, the ‘Oratorio’ is telling us that human beings have the unique ability, even the responsibility, to live up to their ‘ideals’. It would be unusual for a dog to aspire to be a horse, a bird to bark like a dog, or a horse to want to wear a diving suit and explore the Barrier Reef, but people have a particular gift for and inclination towards imitation, mimicry and self-transformation. We fly by watching birds and then making metal carriers that can outdo birds, we travel underwater by imitating fish, we constantly look to role models and behavioral templates for guidance, even when those role models are fictional TV or, comic, novel or movie heroes, just like the soft, quick, shapeshifty little things we are. We can alter the clothes we wear, the temperature around us, and change even our own bodies, in order to colonize or occupy previously hostile environments. We are, in short, a distinctively malleable and adaptable bunch.

So, Pico is saying, if we live by imitation, does it not make sense that we might choose to imitate the angels, the gods, the very highest form of being that we can imagine? Instead of indulging the most brutish, vicious, greedy and ignorant aspects of the human experience, we can, with a little applied effort, elevate the better part of our natures and work to express those elements through our behavior. To do so would probably make us all feel a whole lot better too. Doing good deeds and making other people happy makes you feel totally brilliant, let’s face it.

So we can choose to the astronaut or the gangster. The superhero or the super villain. The angel or the devil. It’s entirely up to us, particularly in the privileged West, how we choose to imagine ourselves and conduct our lives.

We live in the stories we tell ourselves. It’s really simple. We can continue to tell ourselves and our children that the species we belong to is a crawling, diseased, viral cancer smear, only fit for extinction, and let’s see where that leads us.

We can continue to project our self-loathing and narcissistic terror of personal mortality onto our culture, our civilization, our planet, until we wreck the promise of the world for future generations in a fit of sheer self-induced panic...

...or we can own up to the scientific fact that we are all physically connected as parts of a single giant organism, imagine better ways to live and grow...and then put them into practice. We can stop pissing about, start building starships, and get on with the business of being adults.

The ’Oratorio’ is nothing less than the Shazam!, the Kimota! for Western Culture and we would do well to remember it in our currently trying times.

The key theme of the ‘Dark Age’ of comics was loss and recovery of wonder - McGregor’s Killraven trawling through the apocalyptic wreckage of culture in his search for poetry, meaning and fellowship, Captain Mantra, amnesiac in Robert Mayer’s Superfolks, Alan Moore’s Mike Maxwell trudging through the black and white streets of Thatcher’s Britain, with the magic word of transformation burning on the tip of his tongue.

My own work has been an ongoing attempt to repeat the magic word over and over until we all become the kind of superheroes we’d all like to be. Ha hah ha.

Newsarama: The structure of the 12 issues involves both Superman’s 12 labors and his impending death. Do you feel the threat of his demise brings out the best in Superman’s already–high character, or did you intend it more as a window for the audience to understand how he sees the world?

Grant Morrison: In trying to do the “big,” ultimate Superman story, we wanted to hit on all the major beats that define the character – the “death of Superman” story has been told again and again and had to be incorporated into any definitive take. Superman’s death and rebirth fit the sun god myth we were establishing, and, as you say, it added a very terminal ticking clock to the story.

NRAMA: When we talked earlier this year, we discussed the neurotic quality of the Silver Age stories. Looking at the series as a whole, you consistently invert this formula. Superman is faced with all these crises that could be seen as personifying his neuroses, but for the most part he handles them with a level head and comes across as being very at peace with himself. You talked about your discussion with an in–character Superman fan at a convention years ago, but I am curious as to how you determined Superman’s mindset.

GM: I felt we had to live up to the big ideas behind Superman. I don’t take my daft job lightly. It’s all I’ve got.

As the project got going, I wasn’t thinking about Silver Ages or Dark Ages or anything about the comics I’d read, so much as the big shared idea of “Superman” and that “S” logo I see on T–shirts everywhere I go, on girls and boys. That communal Superman. I wanted us to get the precise energy of Platonic Superman down on the page.

The “S” hieroglyph, the super–sigil, stands for the very best kind of man we can imagine, so the subject dictated the methodical, perfectionist approach. As I’ve mentioned before, I keep this aspect of my job fresh for myself by changing my writing style to suit the project, the character or the artist.

With something like Batman R.I.P., I’m aiming for a frenzied Goth Pulp-Noir; punk-psych, expressionist shadows and jagged nightmare scene shifts, inspired by Batman’s roots and by the snapping, fluttering of his uncanny cape. Final Crisis was written, with the Norse Ragnarok and Biblical Revelations in mind, as a story about events more than characters. A doom-laden, Death Metal myth for the wonderful world of Fina(ncia)l Crisis/Eco-breakdown/Terror Trauma we all have to live in.

The subject matter drives the execution. And then, of course, the artists add their own vision and nuance. With All Star Superman, “Frank” and I were able to spend a lot of time together talking it through, and we agreed it had to be about grids, structure, storybook panel layouts, an elegance of form, a clarity of delivery. “Classical” in every sense of the word. The medium, the message, the story, the character, all working together as one simple equation.

Frank Quitely, a Glasgow Art School boy, completely understood without much explanation, the deep structural underpinnings of the series and how to embody them in his layouts. There’s a scene in issue # 8, set on the Bizarro world, where we see Le Roj handing Superman his rocket plans. Look at the arrangement of the figures of Zibarro, Le Roj, Superman and Bizaro–Superman and you’ll see one attempt to make us of Renaissance compositions.

The sense of sunlit Zen calm we tried to get into All Star is how I imagine it might feel to think the way Superman thinks all the time - a thought process that is direct, clean, precise, mathematical, ordered. A mind capable of fantastical imagination but grounded in the everyday of his farm upbringing with nice decent folks. Rich with humour and tears and deep human significance, yet tuned to a higher key. We tried to hum along for a little while, that’s all.

In honor of the character’s primal position in the development of the superhero narrative, I hoped we could create an “ultimate” hero story, starring the ultimate superhero.

Basically, I suppose I felt Superman deserved the utmost application of our craft and intelligence in order to truly do him justice.

Otherwise, I couldn’t have written this book if I hadn’t watched my big, brilliant dad decline into incoherence and death. I couldn’t have written it if I’d never had my heart broken, or mended. I couldn’t have written it if I hadn’t known what it felt like to be idolized, misunderstood, hated for no clear reason, loved for all my faults, forgotten, remembered...

Writing All Star Superman was, in retrospect, also a way of keeping my mind in the clean sunshine while plumbing the murkiest depths of the imagination with that old pair of c****s Darkseid and Doctor Hurt. Good riddance.

Newsarama: This is touched on in other questions, but how much of the Silver/Bronze Age backstory matters here? What do you see as Superman's life prior to All-Star Superman? (What was going on with this Superman while the Byrne revamp took hold?)

Grant Morrison: When I introduced the series in an interview online, I suggested that All Star Superman could be read as the adventures of the ‘original’ Pre-Crisis on Infinite Earths Superman, returning after 20 plus years of adventures we never got to see because we were watching John Byrne‘s New Superman on the other channel. If ‘Whatever Happened To The Man of Tomorrow?’ and the Byrne reboot had never happened, where would that guy be now?

This was more to provide a sense, probably limited and ill-considered, of what the tone of the book might be like. I never intended All Star Superman as a direct continuation of the Weisinger or Julius Schwartz-era Superman stories. The idea was always to create another new version of Superman using all my favorite elements of past stories, not something ‘Age’ specific.

I didn’t collect Superman comics until the ‘70s and I’m not interested enough in pastiche or nostalgia to spend 6 years of my life playing post-modern games with Superman. All Star isn’t written, drawn or colored to look or read like a Silver Age comic book.

All Star Superman is not intended as arch commentary on continuity or how trends in storytelling have changed over the decades. It’s not retro or meta or anything other than its own simple self; a piece of drawing and writing that is intended by its makers to capture the spirit of its subject to the best of their capabilities, wisdom and talent.

Which is to say, we wanted our Superman story be about life, not about comics or superheroes, current events or politics. It’s about how it feels, specifically to be a man...in our dreams! Hopefully that means our 12 issues are also capable of wide interpretation.

So as much as we may have used a few recognizable Silver Age elements like Van-Zee and Sylv(i)a and the Bottle City of Kandor, the ensemble Daily Planet cast embodies all the generations of Superman. Perry White is from 1940, Steve Lombard is from the Schwartz-era ‘70s, Ron Troupe - the only black man in Metropolis - appeared in 1991. Cat Grant is from 1987 and so on.

P.R.O.J.E.C.T. refers back to Jack Kirby’s DNA Project from his ‘70s Jimmy Olsen stories, as well as to The Cadmus Project from ’90s Superboy and Superman stories. Doomsday is ‘90s. Kal Kent, Solaris and the Infant Universe of Qwewq all come from my own work on Superman in the same decade. Pa Kent’s heart attack is from ‘Superman the Movie‘. We didn’t use Brainiac because he’d been the big bad in Earth 2 but if we had, we’d have used Brainiac’s Kryptonian origin from the animated series and so on.

I also used quite a few elements of John Byrne’s approach. Byrne made a lot of good decisions when he rebooted the whole franchise in 1986 and I wanted to incorporate as much as I could of those too.

Our Superman in All Star was never Superboy, for instance. All Star Superman landed on Earth as a normal, if slightly stronger and fitter infant, and only began to manifest powers in adolescence when he’d finally soaked up enough yellow solar radiation to trigger his metamorphosis.

The Byrne logic seemed to me a better way to explain how his powers had developed across the decades, from the skyscraper leaps of the early days to the speed-of-light space flight of the high Silver Age. And more importantly, it made the Superman myth more poignant - the story of a farm boy who turned into an alien as he reached adolescence. I felt that was something that really enriched Superman. He grew away from his home, his family, his adopted species as he became Superman. His teenage years are a record of his transformation from normal boy to super-being.

As you say, there are more than just Silver Age influences in the book. Basically we tried to create a perfect synthesis of every Superman era. So much so, that it should just be taken as representative of an ‘age’ all its own.

In the end, however, I do think that the Silver Age type stories, with their focus on human problems and foibles, have a much wider appeal than a lot of the work which followed. They’re more like fables or folk tales than the later ‘comic book superhero’ stories of Superman when he became just another colorful costume in the crowd...and perhaps that’s why All Star seemed to resemble those books more than it does a typical modern Marvel or DC comic. It was our intention to present a more universal, mainstream Superman.

NRAMA: In your depiction of Krypton and the Kryptonians, you show the complexity of Superman’s relationship between humanity and Earth even further. Krypton has that scientific paradise quality to it, but the Kryptonians are also portrayed as slightly aloof and detached, even Jor-El. But from Bar-El to the people of Kandor, they’re touched by Superman’s goodness. What do you see as the fundamental difference between Kryptonians and Earthlings, and how has Superman’s character been shaped by each?

GM: My version of Krypton was, again, synthesized from a number of different approaches over the decades.  In mythic terms, if Superman is the story of a young king, found and raised by common people, then Krypton is the far distant kingdom he lost. It’s the secret bloodline, the aristocratic heritage that makes him special, and a hero. At the same time, Krypton is something that must be left behind for Superman to become who he is - i.e. one of us. Krypton gives him his scientific clarity of mind, Earth makes his heart blaze.

I liked the very early Jerry Siegel descriptions where Krypton is a planet of advanced supermen and women (I already played with that a little in Marvel Boy where Noh-Varr was written to be the Marvel Superboy basically). To that, I added the rich, science fiction detailing of the Silver Age Krypton stories and the slightly detached coolness that characterized John Byrne’s Krypton, which I re-interpreted through the lens of Dzogchen Buddhist thought, probably the most pragmatic, chilly and rational philosophic system on the planet and the closest, I felt, to how Kryptonians might see things.

We also took some time to redesign the crazy, multicolored Kryptonian flag (you can see our version in Kandor in issue #10). The flag, as originally imagined, seemed like the last thing Kryptonians would endorse, so we took the multicolored-rays-around-a-circle design and recreated it - the central circle is now red, representing Krypton’s star, Rao, while the rays, rather than arbitrary colors, become representations of the spectrum of visible light pouring from Rao into the inky black of space. In this way, the flag, that bizarre emblem of nationalism becomes a scientific hieroglyph.

Showing Krypton and Kryptonians was also important as a way of stressing why Superman wears that costume and why it makes absolute sense that he looks the way he does. I don’t see the red and blue suit as a flag or as rewoven baby blankets. There’s no need for Superman to dress the way he does but it made sense to think of his outfit as his ‘national costume‘.

The way I see it, the standard superhero outfit, the familiar Superman suit with the pants on the outside, is what everyone wore on Krypton, give or take a few fashion accessories like hoods and headbands, chest crests and variant colors. In fact, all other superheroes are just copying the fashions on Krypton, lost planet of the super-people.

Superman wears his ’action-suit’ the way a patriotic Scotsman would wear a kilt. It’s a sign of his pride in his alien heritage.

Newsarama: Although All–Star Superman ties in with DC One Million, you style of writing has changed dramatically since then. How do you feel about One Million now?

Grant Morrison: I just read it again and liked it a lot. Comics were definitely happier, breezier and more confident in their own strengths before Hollywood and the Internet turned the business of writing superhero stories into the production of low budget storyboards or, worse, into conformist, fruitless attempts to impress or entertain a small group of people who appear to hate comics and their creators.

NRAMA: Obviously, this book is the most explicit SF–Christ story since Behold the Man, only...happy. Superman/Christ parallels have existed for decades, but this story makes it absolutely explicit, from laying his hands on the sick and dying to...well, most of issue #12. You’ve dealt with Christ themes before, particularly in The Mystery Play, but outside of the comics, how do you see Superman as a Christ figure for the “real” world?

GM: The “Superman as Christ” thing is a little too reductive for me, and tends to overlook the fact that Superman is by no means a pacifist in the Christ sense. Superman would never turn the other cheek; Superman punches out the bully. Superman is a fighter.

When did Christ ever batter the Devil through a mountain?

The thing I disliked about the Superman Returns movie was the American Christ angle, which reduced Superman to a sniveling, masochistic wreck, crawling around on the floor, taking a kicking from everyone. This approach had an odd and slightly disturbing S&M flavor, which didn’t play well to the character’s strengths at all and seemed to derive entirely from a kind of Catholic vision of the suffering, martyred Jesus.

It’s not that he’s based on Jesus, but simply that a lot of the mythical sun god elements that have been layered onto the Christ story also appear in the story of Superman. I suppose I see Superman more as pagan sci–fi. He’s a secular messiah, a science redeemer with tough guy muscles and a very direct and clear morality.

NRAMA: Continuing the religious themes, in issue #10, you have Superman literally giving birth to himself, both philosophically and as a character – a nice little meta–moment showing how Superman inspires a world where he is only fiction. How did that idea come about?

GM: It came from the challenge we’d set ourselves: as I said, issue #10 had been left as a blank space into which the single most coherent condensation of all our ideas about Superman were destined to fit.

I wanted to do a “day in the life” story. So much of All Star had been about this threat to Superman himself, so we wanted to show him going about a typical day saving people and doing good.

Then came the title “Neverending,” which comes from the opening announcement – “Faster than a speeding bullet!...” of the Superman radio show from 1940, and seemed to me to be as good a title for a Superman story as any I could think of. It seemed to distil everything about Superman’s battle and his legend into a single word. And the story structure itself was designed to loop endlessly, so it went well with that.

On top of that went the idea of the Last Will and Testament of Superman. A dying god writing his will seemed like an interesting structure to use. Then came the idea to fit all of human history into that single 24 hours. And then to show the development of the Superman idea through human culture from the earliest Australian Aboriginal notions of super–beings ‘descended” from the sky, through the complex philosophical system of Hinduism, onto the Renaissance concept of the ideal man, via the refinements of Nietzche and finally, down to that smiling, hopeful Joe Shuster sketch; the final embodiment of humanity’s glorious, uplifting notion of the superman become reduced to a drawing, a story for kids, a worthless comic book.

And also what that could mean in a holographic fractal universe, where the smallest part contains and reflects the whole.

Of course the next panel in that sequence is happening in the real world and would show you, the reader, sitting with the latest Superman issue in your hands, deep within the Infant Universe of Qwewq in the Fortress of Solitude, today, wherever you are. In “Neverending,” the reader becomes wrapped in a self–referential loop of story and reality. If you actually, seriously think about what is happening at this point in the story, if you meditate upon the curious entanglement of the real and the fictional, you will become enlightened in this life apparently. According to some texts.

NRAMA: On a personal level, you’ve explored all types of religions and philosophies in your work. What is your take on religion and how it influences humanity, and the Christian take on Jesus Christ in particular?

GM: I think religion per se, is a ghastly blight on the progress of the human species towards the stars. At the same time, it, or something like it, has been an undeniable source of comfort, meaning and hope for the majority of poor bastards who have ever lived on Earth, so I’m not trying to write it off completely. I just wish that more people were educated to a standard where they could understand what religion is and how it works. Yes, it got us through the night for a while, but ultimately, it’s one of those ugly, stupid arse–over–backwards things we could probably do without now, here on the Planet of the Apes.

Religion is to spirituality what porn is to sex. It’s what the Hollywood 3–act story template is to real creative writing.

Religion creates a structure which places “special,” privileged people (priests) between ordinary people and the divine, as if there could even be any separation: as if every moment, every thought, every action was not already an expression of dynamic ‘divinity” at work.

As I’ve said before, the solid world is just the part of heaven we’re privileged to touch and play with. You don’t need a priest or a holy man to talk to “god” on your behalf: just close your eyes and say hello. “God” is no more, no less, than the sum total of all matter, all energy, all consciousness, as experienced or conceptualized from a timeless perspective where everything ever seems to present all at once. “God” is in everything, all the time and can be found there by looking carefully. The entire universe, including the scary, evil bits, is a thought “God” is thinking, right now.

As far as I can figure it out from my own reading and my own experience of how the spiritual world works, Jesus was, as they say, way cool: a man who achieved a state of consciousness, which nowadays would get him a diagnosis of temporal lobe epilepsy (in the days of the Emperor Tiberius, he was crucified for his ideas, today he’d be laughed at, mocked or medicated).

This “holistic” mode of consciousness (which Luthor experiences briefly at the end of All Star Superman) announces itself as a heartbreaking connection, a oneness, with everything that exists...but you don’t have to be Superman to know what that feeling is like. There are a ton of meditation techniques which can take you to this place. I don’t see it as anything supernatural or religious, in fact, I think it’s nothing more than a developmental level of human consciousness, like the ability to see perspective – which children of 4 cannot do but children of 6 can.

Everyone who’s familiar with this upgrade will tell you the same thing: it feels as if “alien” or “angelic” voices – far more intelligent, coherent and kindly than the voices you normally hear in your head – are explaining the structure of time and space and your place in it.  This identification with a timeless supermind containing and resolving within itself all possible thoughts and contradictions, is what many people, unsurprisingly, mistake for an encounter with “God.” However, given that this totality must logically include and resolve all possible thoughts and concepts, it can also be interpreted as an actual encounter with God, so I’m not here to give anyone a hard time over interpretation.

Some people have the experience and believe the God of their particular culture has chosen them personally to have a chat with. These people may become born–again Christians, fundamentalist Muslims, devotees of Shiva, or misunderstood lunatics. Some “contactees” interpret the voices they hear erroneously as communications from an otherworldly, alien intelligence, hence the proliferation of “abduction” accounts in recent decades, which share most of their basic details with similar accounts, from earlier centuries, of people being taken away by “fairies” or “little people”.

Some, who like to describe themselves as magicians, will recognize the “alien” voice as the “Holy Guardian Angel”.

In timeless, spaceless consciousness, the singular human mind blurs into a direct experience of the totality of all consciousness that has ever been or will ever be. It feels like talking with God but I see that as an aspect of science, not religion.

As Peter Barnes wrote in “The Ruling Class”, “I know I must be God because when I pray to Him, I find I’m talking to myself.”

Newsarama: When we spoke earlier this year, you talked about some of your ideas for future All Star stories. Are you moving forward on those, or have you started working on different ideas since then?

Grant Morrison: I haven’t had time to think about them for a while. I did have the stories worked out, and I’d like to do more, but right now it feels like Frank and Jamie and I have said all there is to be said. I don’t know if I’m ready to do All Star Superman with anyone else right now. I have other plans.

NRAMA: You end the book with Superman having uplifted humanity – having inspired them through his sacrifice and great deeds, and with the potential to pass his powers on to humanity still there. Do you plan to explore this concept further, or would you prefer to leave it open–ended?

GM: I may go back to the Son of Superman in some way. At the same time, it’s best left open–ended. I like the idea that Superman gets to have his cake and eat it; he becomes golden and mythical and lives forever as a dream. Yet, he also is able to sire a child who will carry his legacy into the future. He kicks ass in both the spiritual and the temporal spheres!

NRAMA: The notion of transcendence – always a big part of your work. But the debate about All Star Superman is whether or not it "transcends its genre." Superman becomes transcendent within the series itself, and inspires the beings on Qwewq, but does the work aspire to more than that? Is it simply the greatest version of a Superman story, and that’s enough?

GM: That would certainly be enough if it were true.

It’s a pretty high–level attempt by some smart people to do the Superman concept some justice, is all I can say. It’s intended to work as a set of sci–fi fables that can be read by children and adults alike. I’d like to think you can go to it if you’re feeling suicidal, if you miss your dad, if you’ve had to take care of a difficult, ailing relative, if you’ve ever lost control and needed a good friend to put you straight, if you love your pets, if you wish your partner could see the real you...All Star is about how Superman deals with all of that.

It’s a big old Paul Bunyan style mythologizing of human - and in particular male - experience. In that sense I’d like to think All Star Superman does transcend genre in that it’s intended to be read on its own terms and needs absolutely no understanding of genre conventions or history around it to grasp what’s going on.

In today’s world, in today’s media climate designed to foster the fear our leaders like us to feel because it makes us easier to push around. In a world where limp, wimpy men are forced to talk tough and act ‘badass’ even though we all know they’re shitting it inside. In a world where the measure of our moral strength has come to lie in the extremity of the images we’re able to look at and stomach. In a world, I’m reliably told, that’s going to the dogs, the real mischief, the real punk rock rebellion, is a snarling, ‘fuck you’ positivity and optimism. Violent optimism in the face of all evidence to the contrary is the Alpha form of outrage these days. It really freaks people out.

I have a desire not to see my culture and my fellow human beings fall helplessly into step with a middle class media narrative that promises only planetary catastrophe, as engineered by an intrinsically evil and corrupt species which, in fact, deserves everything it gets.

Is this relentless, downbeat insistence that the future has been cancelled really the best we can come up with? Are we so fucked up we get off on terrifying our children? It’s not funny or ironic anymore and that’s why we wrote All Star Superman the way we did. Everything has changed. ‘Dark’ entertainment now looks like hysterical, adolescent, ‘Zibarro’ crap. That’s what my Final Crisis series is about too.

NRAMA (aka Tim Callahan): Continuing with the theme of transcendence: The words "ineffectual" and "surrender" are repeated throughout the book. Discuss.

GM: Discuss yourself, Callahan! I know you have the facilities and I should think it’s all rather obvious.  

NRAMA: What was the inspiration for the image of Superman in the sun at the end? (I confess this question comes as the result of much unsuccessful Googling)

GM: I didn’t have any specific reference in mind - just that one we‘ve all sort of got in our heads. I drew the figure as a sketch, intended to be reminiscent of William Blake’s cosmic figures, Russian Constructivist Soviet Socialist Worker type posters, and Leonardo’s ‘Proportions of the Human Figure‘. The position of the legs hints at the Buddhist swastika, the clockwise sun symbol. It was to me, the essence of that working class superheroic ideal I mentioned, condensed into a final image of mythic Superman, - our eternal, internal, guiding, selfless, tireless, loving superstar. The daft All Star Superman title of the comic is literalized in this last picture. It’s the ‘fearful symmetry’ of the Enlightenment project - an image of genius, toil, and our need to make things, to fashion art and artifacts, as a form of superhuman, divine imitation.

It was Superman as this fusion of Renaissance/Enlightenment ideas about Man and Cosmos, an impossible union of Blake and Newton. A Pop Art ‘Vitruvian Man‘. The inspiration for the first letter of the new future alphabet!

As you can see, we spent a lot of time thinking about all this and purifying it down to our own version of the gold. I’m glad it’s over.

NRAMA: Finally: What, above all else, would you like people to take away from All Star Superman?

GM: That we spent a lot of time thinking about this!

No. What I hope is that people take from it the unlikelihood that a piece of paper, with little ink drawings of figures, with little written words, can make you cry, can make your heart soar, can make you scared, sad, or thrilled. How mental is that?

That piece of paper is inert material, the corpse of some tree, pulped and poured, then given new meaning and new life when the real hours and real emotions that the writer and the artist, the colorist, the letter the editor translated onto the physical page, meet with the real hours and emotions of a reader, of all readers at once, across time, generations and distance.

And think about how that experience, the simple experience of interacting with a paper comic book, along with hundreds of thousands of others across time and space, is an actual doorway onto the beating heart of the imminent, timeless world of “Myth” as defined above. Not just a drawing of it but an actual doorway into timelessness and the immortal world where we are all one together.

My grief over the loss of my dad can be Superman’s grief, can trigger your own grief, for your own dad, for all our dads. The timeless grief that’s felt by Muslims and Christians and Agnostics alike. My personal moments of great and romantic love, untainted by the everyday, can become Superman’s and may resonate with your own experience of these simple human feelings.

In the one Mythic moment we’re all united, kissing our Lover for the First time, the Last time, the Only time, honoring our dear Dad under a blood red sky, against a darkening backdrop, with Mum telling us it’ll all be okay in the end.

If we were able to capture even a hint of that place and share it with our readers, that would be good enough for me.

#All Star Superman #Grant Morrison #Superman

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Listed: Upper Wilds

Dan Friel has been a mainstay of Brooklyn noise rock since the aughts, first with the obliteratingly loud (but kinda hooky) Parts & Labor, then with a series of ebullient solo albums and now, three records in, with Upper Wilds. Reviewing Venus, his latest, Jennifer Kelly noted with approval that it was, “a continuous barrage of bass and drums, knocking his inimitable fuzz-crusted hooks sideways and to pieces and rampaging on regardless.” Here, Friel lists some of his favorite live performances, and we agree 100% about the Coachwhips.

Friel notes that “It's been a good year for reflecting on the importance of live performance. Here is a wildly subjective list of good shows I ended up at. The clips aren't necessarily from the sets I saw, but I tried to be somewhat era-appropriate.

Suicidal Tendencies (1992)

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My first show. I was 16, and really liked “How Can I Laugh Tomorrow If I Can't Even Smile Today.” Not something I still listen to a ton, but thrash-era ST is just a fascinating combination of anger/positivity, chops, and fashion choices. I got a ride to the show in Worcester, MA with older kids who had to shovel beer cans out of the backseat into the Stop & Shop recycling center for change to put in the gas tank. Suicidal were just past their peak, but still had some of the best players in thrash (Rocky George forever) and blew Megadeth off the stage (near as I can remember).

Rorschach (1993)

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My first punk show, in a former porno theater, with Universal Order of Armageddon. I had never seen anyone move around that much while playing music and thought their cover of King Crimson's “21st Century Schizoid Man” was an original for long enough that hardcore and prog are still hopelessly intertwined in my head.

Ornette Coleman and Prime Time (1994)

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My first big jazz show. Ornette took some extremely punk violin solos, the set was short and chaotic, and the whole thing was so fluid and conversational it felt like watching a group of people form a river.

Black Star (1999)

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My first night living in NYC. I had just started working at the Knitting Factory, and Black Star played for like 2+ hours with The Roots backing them up. A long way into the set, Questlove took one reality-shredding 8-bar drum solo, and then quietly went back to holding it down for the rest of the night.

Sainkho Namtchylak (2000)

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Sainkho Namtchylak is an experimental vocalist from Tuva. I went into this show blind, and still think frequently about the range of sounds she was able to make, and the point where she seemed to visibly realize she didn’t need the microphone to fill the 250-capacity room with those sounds.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs (2001)

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The first YYYs show I saw was also at the first real show I played in Brooklyn. Karen O performed wearing a plastic bag for a shirt and screamed real good on “Art Star,” and their set was the first time I felt like I was watching a band become famous in real time.

Friends Forever (2003)

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Friends Forever was a band from Denver that played in their van instead of venues. They were goofy and loud and highly representative of the moment. I saw them a few times, including a Halloween-ish show outside Brian Chippendale’s space in Providence, which included a lot of flying pumpkins and punks jumping through a small fire.

Coachwhips (2004)

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John Dwyer is never not entertaining, but there was this one small show in a junkyard outside of Austin where he just kept picking up lit fireworks and throwing them back at the audience, and I really wish there was footage somewhere. This show was good too.

Justice Yeldham (2006)

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Justice Yeldham (aka Lucas Abela) has been traveling the world biting off pieces of amplified broken glass for a while now. I first saw him at Monkey Mania 2, Friends Forever’s space in Denver. Beyond the obvious madness of performing with broken glass, he’s an extremely dynamic musician with crazy range on his instrument, and it always rules.

Pet Shop Boys (2010)

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A wise British friend dragged me to this at a festival I played, and I'm still confused as to how they pulled off this billion-dollar Broadway-esque trick of projecting onto a wall of bricks, having the wall collapse, having dancers pop out of the bricks, and then having the bricks reform the wall. It's true that I don't go to a lot of big-budget stage productions, but I swear it was nuts. Having 10,000 people sing along to the chorus didn't hurt either.

#dusted magazine #listed #dan friel #upper wilds #suicidal tendencies #rorschach #ornette coleman #prime time #black star #sainkho namtchylak #yeah yeah yeahs #friends forever #coachwhips #justice yeldham #pet shop boys

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arecomicsevengood · 4 years

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“Follow Your Own Star”

Lately I’ve found it hard to shake the feeling that everything of value is being destroyed, but we are being given simulacra in exchange, while we wait, to soften the blow. The relationship between the U.S. economy and what actually has value is basically nil, obviously, and COVID has only highlighted that, but beyond that, being in isolation has brought to light how much of what I consider “real” because it exists outside the bounds of money is nonetheless vulnerable. We’ve been given podcasts to fill our working hours with parasocial relationships where once we may’ve had genuine camaraderie with our coworkers. We’re given desultory political candidates to vote for in the absence of those who would govern in accordance with our actual beliefs. It feels like an elaborate art heist is taking place, where the masterpieces are exchanged for forgeries, and the endgame of those seeking to enrich themselves is to set a bonfire of all that’s made us human, all we’ve invested our true selves into. All this can occur only because our relationships have been made increasingly transactional already. I wondered at the start of quarantine how many couples, with the ability to see one another in the flesh compromised, had switched to having “sex” over Skype, how many intimate relationships were compromised by distance into resembling cam shows. Partly this curiosity was a way of comforting myself, as I came to the understanding that I would not be entering into anything approaching a real romantic relationship for the foreseeable future.

In the context of all of this, reading a book that feels reminiscent of the work of another artist feels like a minor thing, but it slips easily enough into the larger pattern. After reading Roaming Foliage by Patrick Kyle, I thought “Huh, this is very much a CF/Brian Chippendale thing.” Then, after reading Eight-Lane Runaways by Henry McCausland, I thought, “Oh, this is even more like a CF thing.” Both are, I think, appropriate for kids, which Powr Mastrs isn’t, but I also never read Powr Mastrs and felt like the thing that made it good was its BDSM pornography elements. People have been biting CF’s style for years — enough for him to address it with a little note in the third Powr Mastrs book, instructing them to “follow your own star.” Simon Hanselmann admits the similarities between the character design for Owl and a character in CF’s story in Kramers Ergot 5, Hanselmann’s subsequent popularity seems to suggest a moment where something becomes less of a direct influence and more just something that exists generally in the world. It’s art: Inspiration, influence, and appropriation are all part of the game. Reading Hanselmann, I’ve wondered what his work would’ve been like before exposure to his most obvious influences; reading these, I wondered instead if they would still have been made had Powr Mastrs 4 ever come out, to finish out the story and close the system; it feels like, in a transactional relationship between artist and audience, the fact of a work remaining unfinished makes it more socially acceptable to steal from. For instance, think of the debt Alejandro Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain owes to Rene Daumal’s Mount Analogue. It feels like an attempt to create something with an ending, to satisfy a desire for the logic to reach its conclusion. The comics fulfill a certain set of expectations, I found them a pleasant enough experience, satisfying on a certain level. However, on a deeper level, I found them completely unsatisfying, because they speak so directly to a sense of unfulfilled potential. They lack the thrill that CF’s comics provide, of totally transcending any expectations placed on them.

Measuring the impact made by CF, Paper Rad, and the Fort Thunder contingent is difficult to calculate, because there were so many radical gestures inside that work, and while some have been metabolized, others have not. The “reclamation of genre material in an art-school context” is maybe the most readily understood. Johnny Ryan’s Prison Pit probably wouldn’t exist were it not for these comics, but that’s such a “who cares” for me, such a dumbed-down and simplistic understanding of what makes these comics good. The silkscreening of covers is close behind, in terms of something that people really ran with. That’s fine, no one owns silkscreening, it looks great. What hasn’t really been reckoned with are the gestures against commodity fetishism. Paper Rodeo is progenitor of the free comics newspaper format, but the work that ran there is so much wilder than what you see in what followed, and most of it was anonymous. I understand why that was a gauntlet that wasn’t picked up, but is still one of the things that made an impact on its initial readership. Similarly, I haven’t seen anyone steal the CF format of the single-sheet xerox, with comics on the front and back. I guess that’s not surprising! But honestly? Sick format.

I’ve just been talking about comics, but Lightning Bolt playing on the floor is its own radical gesture, albeit one with an obvious precedent in the form of Crash Worship. The Forcefield oeuvre is its own thing. Those videos are great! The animation made out of photographing the cutting layers of multicolored clay… I wonder how much of this stuff hasn’t been picked up on because it’s the last stand of working with real world physical materials, before the coming of digital as the default medium for art students to work in. Obviously, the silkscreening has similar roots in physical media, and playing on floors relates directly to how you communicate with people when you’re in the same physical space as them. Real world community has distinct advantages, but many that came after took the trade for the benefits working digitally provides. Anyway. I could write a 33 1/3 book proposal for Lightning Bolt’s Ride The Skies that addresses all this stuff, but I also believe I would not be the best person to write such a book; I suspect those better suited would not be interested.

There is something so exciting about artists whose work feels overflowing with ideas, not just on a level of concept or drawing but also in terms of how the work is presented. That whole Providence/Picturebox crew was so abundant with this creative ferment that when I see others picking up on individual threads it makes sense on a certain level — you want more of a certain thing — but if it’s not backed up by something distinctly unique, as a reader I’m hyper-aware of what’s absent.

These artists also made books, and records, and it was their doing so that brought their work to a larger audience, including me. Not everything has to be a gesture against making money. But at the same time, radical gestures suggest the benefits made in fostering community work out better in the long term than leveraging oneself to be consumed as a commodity does. This is not to suggest that McCausland or Kyle are doing something wrong that will sabotage some sort of grand plan for utopia: I’m really just riffing here. If I buy electronic music mp3s online, I’m not necessarily going to lament the death of live music performance the same way I do when buying the mp3s of a jazz act. Looking at a contemporary superhero comic that feels dire and ugly will make me nostalgic for the Mike Parobeck comics of my youth, but a contemporary black and white zine exists in a completely different universe and might not remind me of anything. Certain things make you miss the world that was more than others.

It’s also worth noting that by all accounts Patrick Kyle has a bunch of people online ripping off his style but I have successfully been able to avoid such people. While Roaming Foliage is consciously modeled after the sort of weird adventure comics of not just Powr Mastrs, but also Brian Chippendale’s If N Oof, What I am most often seeing and thinking “that’s a ripoff” is the presence of these geometrical patterns which are also similar to design choices made throughout his oeuvre. There’s a chaotic, obfuscatory energy approach to comics that he works with frequently, but so much of his other comics feel dark, melancholy, or paranoid whereas this feels much lighter in its tone. At the same time, compared to the claustrophobia of Don’t Come In Here, having his characters move about makes for an adventure narrative. Watching them wander, interact, and be given quests and goals belongs to this tradition that’s not unique to the Picturebox artists — but the feeling that this fantasy material was arrived at through adventure games like Zelda moreso than Tolkien makes for this sort of… generational level of familiarity, rather than seeming to occupy some sort of Campbellian myth-space, if that makes sense. The strangeness of Kyle’s art, where backgrounds overtake figures, suggests a sort of PC glitching, almost like the Cory Arcangel/Paper Rad collaboration Super Mario Movie, but achieved through photocopier technology of blowing up and distorting images. It is the sensation of a feeling being chased after that makes the book feel less exciting and more melancholy, though subsequently, that darker feeling might make the book slot into Kyle’s oeuvre so much that bigger fans of his might not even notice the resemblance I’m seeing.

McCausland has a list of acknowledgments in his book which includes CF alongside Herge and Otomo. I can sort of see them all, but Herge especially is an influence that’s been so widely absorbed by comics as a whole that I really only feel particularly aware of it in the case of Joost Swarte or something. McCausland’s resemblance to CF is reinforced by things as molecular as a resemblance in the lettering, which is really odd. The figures all have this youthful smallness to them, and I can’t tell if the characters are meant to be young specifically or if it’s just the way he’s learned to draw. I can see Otomo, but it’s definitely approached through the CF filter. Other trademarks, like the rendering of geometric shapes, the patterns of parallel lines, seems integrated, highlighted, by the “racetrack” premise that gives the book its name. However, he distinguishes himself because his work is more constantly busy, with the same general level of detail. There’s also these trees in the background, which seem like they’re rendered as these painted soft grey daubs, a type of texture you don’t see in CF’s darkened pencil work.

His storytelling is different, prone to large spreads, or showing the same character multiple times in a panel as they move across the landscape. (The dimensions of Eight-Lane Runaways are considerably larger than those of Powr Mastrs.) There are nonetheless panels that seem exactly like CF drawings, but with a less cryptic sense of humor. It feels more populist, like it’s based around what a person liked, and in the act of working it out, subtracted the mystery. What would’ve been a detailed “money shot” in a CF sequence is here the baseline level of drawing detail that never gets subtracted from. It’s really fascinating to me how this makes it less good, I think many people would prefer it.

I wrote most of this before learning that Anthology is releasing a new CF book next week. You can order it and see preview images at the Floating World site. You can draw your own conclusions. CF’s on his own path such that you might not even note a resemblance between his new images and McCausland’s. We’re all living on the same planet, orbiting the same sun in an expanding universe, subject to the will of an accelerating time.

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fangirlxwritesx67 · 4 years

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Dancing Queen (Sam x Reader fluff)

For @awesomesusiebstuff . Hope you feel better soon hon! Sorry not sorry for 1000 words of fluffy crack

Today was a good day for spring cleaning. It wasn't often that you had a day off with the house to yourself in the middle of the week. When you did have such an unlikely occurrence, it wasn't usual that you would be motivated to clean. But today, you were. Maybe it was the rising spring weather giving you energy. Maybe it was the fact that you had one -okay, two- bloody marys for brunch at 1pm and now had a generally carefree and happy outlook on life. Maybe it was the soundtrack to Mamma Mia blasting through your record player, making you dance through your chores.

Whatever the reason, when the doorbell rang, you were actually almost disappointed to be pulled away. You were less disappointed when you opened the door to find two of the most beautiful men you had ever seen on your doorstep, dressed like- male strippers?! Both of them wore the unlikely combination of clerical collars and sleeveless shirts. Your mind instantly wandered to some of your favorite fantasies.

Both men were tall and handsome. The slightly less tall one (no one could call him short) was a classic American male pin-up, with a built body and chiseled face. The even taller one had a leaner build but was even more eye-catching. His oversized features and bright hazel eyes, topped with a mop of dark hair, made him almost beautiful.

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying it," you announced before they could get a word in. "And whatever religion you have, I don't want to join." Although that was not entirely true. If the taller, hotter one was taking confession... Your mind snapped back to the moment at hand.

"Oh, no," answered the less tall one with a sexy chuckle. "We're not selling anything. We're Dean and Sam, and we're Chippendales dancers. We just moved in- we are your new neighbors. "

He pouted his lips adorably. The taller one shook his head, tossing his dark hair, but a slow smile spread across his face. Dimples popped below his high cheekbones.

You heard the opening notes of "Super Trouper" start in the living room behind you. Whatever these adorable fools were up to, you didn't have time for it. You and your mop had a dance routine for this song.

"Sorry guys, I'm busy." The men nodded and turned to go. You closed the door, although not before letting your eyes linger on the view. Broad shoulders, narrow waists and nice butts, both of them- although you liked the taller one's lanky walk better.

Spring cleaning, at least for you, usually led to spring repainting. The next warm Saturday found you out front in your most ragged, paint-stained clothes, covering the front door in a coat of shiny dark green paint. You had the Mamma Mia soundtrack on again and were dancing a little while you worked.

You noticed but didn't really register movement on the sidewalk until one of your new neighbors strolled up. It was the taller one.

"Hi," he said simply, his hands tucked in his jean pockets in an easy gesture.

"Hi," you answered, "Sam or Dean, whichever one you are."

He grinned and pushed his floppy hair back from his face with one big hand.

"I'm Sam. Dean is my brother."

You looked at him skeptically.

"And you're male strippers, and that's how you decided to introduce yourself to your neighbors?"

Sam laughed, a laugh that started as almost a giggle and quickly turned to full body, gasping amusement.

"Wow," he said, "So sassy! Really, we're FBI agents but that was the field cover they sent us in with."

That story was as believable as the last one, and you just shook your head.

"Hey," said Sam. He took a step closer to you. A mischievous twinkle shone in his deep hazel eyes. "I could pass as a dancer. Look."

The unmistakable starting notes of "Dancing Queen" were drifting out your front door. Sam began to move his body in a rolling rythmn and lifted the hem of his thin grey t-shirt, flashing you a glimpse of tanned, toned abs. With a saucy glance, he pivoted on one heel to face away from you. He rocked from side to side, letting his hips and long legs carry him. His high, round ass gyrated enticingly, and you felt yourself flush. He was the best show you had seen in a long time!

You watched for far too long, enjoying his sexy movements too much to care who might see.

"That's enough!" You gasped finally, "Sam, or whoever you are. What do you want?!"

Sam turned towards you, an irresistible smile lighting his beautiful face. He had deep dimples under his high cheekbones. The sun lit up flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes.

"I saw you painting," he said. "It looked like you could use company."

You hesitated, unsure what ulterior motives your new neighbor may have.

"Look," said Sam after a moment, "It's simple. I can reach the high parts, and we can talk while we paint."

You and Sam spent the afternoon painting in the new and hopeful spring sun. You talked and laughed, and at some point as he reached for a high corner, his arm curled around your shoulder. You would never admit it, but you leaned into him just a bit. His body was warm and firm against yours.

More sounds of Mamma Mia played from inside the house.

"If you change your mind I'm the first in line

Honey I'm still free, Take a chance on me

If you need me let me know, Gonna be around..."

You turned to face Sam and saw that he was mouthing the words as he painted, his hips rocking along in time to the music. You threw your arms around his broad shoulders and ran your hands up through his long dark hair. He slipped strong arms around your waist and together, you danced.

#sam winchester #sam x reader #1000 words #dancing queen #fangirlxwritesx67 #song fic #gif fic

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writingdirty2 · 4 years

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Eyes and Hands

Of the many strange and wonderful things I’ve seen in the past few years, few were as surprising as the tableau I glimpsed as the elevator doors opened to the party in the penthouse of the fancy downtown hotel. It was amazing, beautiful, decadent, breathtaking, and pretty fucking weird.

Actually, it wasn’t just one penthouse, but three, all opened up to the others to form a sort of club, with a DJ, two different bars, and various sexy and kinky accouterments. Massage tables, a Saint Andrew’s cross, contraptions I didn’t know the names of for tying people to or fucking people against.

I’d been to somewhat similar events, but usually, they were at slightly seedy locals with a crowd that was a mixed bag. This took everything to a new level. The whole place was opulent, clean, organized, and all of the people there were beautiful. Some were waif-like model beautiful, others curved and busty beautiful, others wild hair burner beautiful. There were all kinds of beautiful. Big Chippendale dancer looking beautiful. Assess chap beautiful. Beautiful. (I know I’m teetering into that place where you repeat a word until it has no meaning, but anyway.)

Some of these people were in tuxedos, others lingerie, some in leather or latex. Hell, there was a woman lying on a table wearing nothing but sushi.

I tried not to gawk and hoped my suit was up to snuff. Still as strange as it all was, it was remarkable how quickly I became acclimated to the environment. Within minutes I was touring the place, champagne flute in hand, as if it were an ordinary Saturday evening.

Still, stranger than the whole of the environment, were the little moments it created. Put into an otherworld fantasy, Eyes Wide Shut setting puts you in a particular mind space. The longer you walked around, the further down the rabbit hole you went. Going from room to room seeing people dancing, people kissing, people fucking, people doing naked yoga while someone blew bubbles, it was all so surreal that you felt like an outsider or a narrator, invisibly taking in each scene.

I don’t know if you know this about writers, but for many of us, this is ideal. Emotional distance to just observe and overthink the fuck out of amazing glimpses of the human condition.

One moment that shined the brightest involved nothing more than a glance. There was this dashing Frenchmen, an old acquaintance of mine, who was fucking a pretty girl on a bed in the one of the bedrooms. There was a small crowd of people lining the walls of this bedroom watching. The girl on the bed looked up at me as I passed, and I recognized her. We had been introduced to earlier in the night. I remembered her as sweet, cute, sort of shy, in a longish black dress. Big inky black eyes that seemed to be taking everything in, overwhelmed.

Now she was on the bed completely naked except for black stockings and a garter belt. Her hair was covering most of her face, but one eye was visible, its thick black wing of makeup still perfect, and her fat red lips were still glossy and vivid.

Her skin was a flawless dark tan, her hair black, she was maybe Mediterranean or perhaps Arabic. Her ass was red, with a few perfectly formed handprints overlapping. The gentleman was naked, well built, handsome. He was holding her down by the back of her neck. She was lying on the bed, belly down, and he was straddling her thighs, fucking her in a slow, steady rhythm.

She looked up at me with this smile. It was this opened mouthed smile of pure abandon and joy. It was exhibitionism, flirtation, probably drugs and champagne, and recognition.

It was like, “oh, I remember you! Hi. Look what I’m doing!”

She pushed back against him, I can’t be sure, but it seemed like she was showing off for me. A few strands of her hair stuck to her pretty lipstick. Then, suddenly, the pleasure overtook her, and her eyes flashed. This flash, just before her eyes closed as he fucked her harder, hit me. It was weird that something so visceral, so purely sexual, made my heartache. She moaned loudly, but not a “for show” kind of moan, something uncontrollable, animal, desperate.

I guess it was the authenticity of their pleasure that struck me.

I watched with the rest of the spectators. Perhaps we watched too long, past voyeurism into something else. Some intrusion on the intimacy of the moments after they came, and he kissed her forehead and lips and held her, pulled the sheets around them.

Through the rest of the evening, I kept coming back to that look. That perfect look.

That’s what that night was all about, that look. Oh, and a hand.

There was also a very important hand.

On the other side of the penthouse, my girlfriend Rose and some other friends had created a sort of home base for us in a little back living room. We would all go out and explore, get into little adventures, then come back to kiss and tell.

As I walked back there, still high on that perfect look, I bumped into an amazon of a woman in a corset, stockings, and nothing else. The tops of the cupid bow of her lips were sharp matte red. Her eyes outlined in black, cheekbones severe, haughty scowl that gave her the look of Maleficent.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my ears since I hadn’t spoken for all the time I was exploring the party.

She looked me up and down dismissively and then walked around me.

Rose watched me as my eyes opened wide, and my jaw grew slack. I groaned with want. It came from the very center of my chest. Sometimes, somethings just hit all my buttons at once. The confidence of her stride, her big ass, panty-less under her corset. Thick thighs, powerful calves.

“That’s Maria, but don’t bother, she’s kind of a bitch,” she said with a roll of her eye but a good-humored smile.

“I know, it’s super hot,” I whispered.

I don’t think Maria heard, but she looked back at me for a second, cut her eyes, gave me a plump pout before she turned the corner.

I didn’t exactly follow her, but I decided I would explore the party some more, maybe, you know, in the general direction she headed in.

I immediately noticed that the party had somehow moved to a new level. There were fewer spectators as everyone seemed to get in on the action.

I kept my eye out for Maria and saw her flirt with a tall, athletic-looking man with a shaved head, make out with a woman who looked like her twin sister, and giving a schoolgirl a spanking on the balcony. After that, I lost her, so I went back to home base.

Rose and I had planned beforehand to mingle separately during the beginning of the party, then meet up at the home base just after one in the morning.

It felt good to fall into her familiar arms after so much strangeness. We kissed, and the sights I’d seen swirled with the familiar desire for her. We smiled at each other. We didn’t need to tell each other stories about what we had seen. Not yet. We didn’t need to explain, just revel in them.

Our little home base was empty as we flopped onto the large bed and kissed. Our hands hungry for each other.

I wasn’t so much for public sex. I mean, having it, not watching, but our seclusion and the excitement pushed through the uncomfortableness. I wasn’t even phased as people started coming into the room.

A man in a white suit with long dreads came smiling in, leading two nearly naked women. He had a slight Caribbean accent, as well as an overly serious manner, and that left Rose and me hiding our snickers. It was fun having more people there. A little dirtier, a little more risqué.

With him was a thin, bespectacled woman in her early twenties with the wide eyes of someone who had never been to this sort of party. The other woman, I realized, was Maria.

Some others came in as well; an older man and woman sat on a couch nearby, she on his lap as they watched us and the threesome. I saw more faces at the door of the room, one friend smiled knowingly from the crowd.

Maria and her two friends didn’t really acknowledge Rose and me. They laid on a nest of pillows that were just next to the bed and started whispered negotiations and seductions.

Rose kiddingly cut her eyes at me, knowing I had a crush on the girl in the corset. We laughed it off and then fell into more kisses.

There was something profound in how new kisses between long time lovers could be. In a room crowded with other people kissing and onlookers gawking and whispering, we were both putting on a show and trying to shut out the distractions.

We quickly took off the clothing that were blocking the important parts. She slipped off her panties and pulled up her dress. I pulled my pants off. She slipped her breasts out of the top of her bustier, and I immediately touched and kissed them.

She bit my lip, and I pulled her hair. We smiled as we wrestled, and my cock rubbed against her.

I heard the familiar sound of a Hitachi start next to me. The three on the floor moaned and kissed and shifted to find a better angle.

Just as I slipped into Rose, the woman in the corset stood up and sat down on the bed next to us. She didn’t engage with us, she was directing the scene on the floor, but she simply sat down on the bed to get a better angle.

The thing was, she sat down right on my hand.

I was slowly fucking Rose. We continued to kiss and whisper dirty things to each other and, in general, enjoy fucking in a room full of strangers.

I wondered if Maria was aware she was sitting on my hand. She had to be. I don’t have small hands. I thought perhaps it was just incidental. Something that happens when a bunch of people are fucking in the same room. I wasn’t that experienced in orgying.

As I thought that, and Rose wrapped her legs around me, Maria pushed her ass down and ground against my hand. She looked over at me for a second, with no real smile or acknowledgement, and then bit her extra fat bottom lip and slid back a little, so that my hand was no longer under her ass, but between her thighs.

Rose’s head fell back and her eyes closed as I pounded into her. She looked more than lovely, hair a splash of black curls against the pillow, breasts pushed out and nipples hard. She felt perfect, tight and wet, as I fucked her.

Meanwhile, the girl on the floor writhed and gasped as the Hitachi buzzed away.

Maria leaned forward and kissed the pretty girl on the floor. As she did, her pussy pressed against my hand. I carefully turned my hand, cupping it. She looked back at me as she kissed the girl. A mix of pleading and contempt in her eyes.

She was really working the bitch thing.

“Fuck me,” Rose whined.

“Oh my god,” the girl on the floor gasped.

My fingers pressed against Maria, finding the outline of her lips, then the bump of her clit. My mind twisted, and I groaned as my finger slipped into her as my cock slipped into Rose. I heard the Hitachi get turned on high, and the girl on the floor cursed and struggled and moaned louder.

Maria leaned forward and held the girl on the floor down while pushing her ass towards me. Two of my fingers just barely fit in her, but she rode them hard anyway.

Rose was building to an orgasm. I knew her sounds and the feel of her body. She held on to me tightly. The sound of the girl on the floor coming and the buzzing of the vibrator and Rose and the girl I was fingering all coalescing with the feel of Rose tightening around my cock and then Maria tightening around my fingers and I felt myself closer and closer.

“Stop, stop, too much!” yelled the girl on the floor as she shot up with a laugh.

We all stopped and, for a moment, looked at each other. The man in the white suit turned off the Hitachi.

Rose looked at me and let out a giggle. Then she looked to her left and saw my hand between the girl’s legs and ground up against me. She smiled and glared.

“Is she wet?” Rose whispered into my ear.

I just whimpered a bit in the affirmative.

“Does it feel to get everything you want?”

“Yes,” I hissed.

Maria eyed us, her pout growing a bit.

“It looks like she doesn’t like it when you stop,” Rose said, biting my earlobe hard.

“You’d better keep going then, but don’t forget you have to keep fucking me,” she said with a wicked grin.

Maria closed her eyes as I finger fucked her, my fingers finding the ridge of her g-spot. Her body rocked against me. Rose slapped me, wanting more of my attention.

When I started to come, I lost my momentum. Maria grabbed my wrist when I slowed and kept fucking herself on my fingers. Rose pushed up against me, riding out my orgasm and hers.

It was all a bit too much. All the sounds and bodies and heat. I tumbled off Rose and away from Maria and laid on the other side of the bed. My body and brain suddenly exhausted.

I saw flashes of movement. Rose and Maria kissing. I felt myself pushed and pulled, then the lightning and thunder of getting slapped across the face.

“You’re not done!” Rose said, roughly grabbing my hair.

“If you are going to finger someone while fucking me you better at least make her come,” she said, a little smile creeping from under her mean face.

Maria smiled a wicked smile.

“Thank you, seriously, I was just getting going,” Maria said to Rose, both of them shifting on the bed around me.

The girl who was on the floor climbed on the bed as well, smiling and glowing with the “I just came” glow. She leaned on one arm and watched us.

Rose pulled my hair again as Maria swung a leg around and straddled my chest.

“He’ll make it up to you. He’s pretty good at this,” Rose explained as she helped Maria straddle my face.

I hadn’t even caught my breath before Maria’s slick, smooth pussy covered my mouth.

Though I could barely hear them with the strong thighs covering my ears, I made out:

“He better be able to get it up again,” Maria said.

“Oh, he will,” Rose said, grabbing my hair and making sure I did a good job.

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mdelpin · 5 years

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Gratsu Bingo 2019 Prompt: Obsession AO3 | FF.Net

Things Aren’t Always As They Seem

Chapter 1

Gray looked around the dimly lit room with disinterest. Women were walking around in tight leather miniskirts, and bikini tops, small aprons tied around their waists with Blue Pegasus embroidered on them in blue thread identifying them as waitresses. They had a smile for everyone, and the fakeness of it all irritated Gray’s every last nerve.

Not to be outdone, the male waitstaff walked around in the typical Chippendale’s uniform, tight pants showing off their every asset, a bow tie the only decoration on their torso. Gray’s eyes lingered a bit longer on these as their expressions at least differed one from the other. Some were trying very hard to look appealing, while others seemed increasingly bored with the attention they were receiving from the patrons.

Gray could relate. Hell at this point the only thing that differentiated him from them was the sash reading Groom that was draped diagonally across his chest.

It should have read Groomsman, but it had ripped at some point when he had unconsciously stripped, and someone had fixed it in a way that hid the rest of the word. He would have removed the offending fabric, but Lyon had demanded he keep the damn thing on, and tonight was supposed to be all about him, so Gray had relented without putting up much of a fuss. At least he was in the one place in Magnolia that wouldn’t give him shit about walking around half-naked.

If it had been up to him, he would have left hours ago instead of sitting next to Loke, who was quite busy with the girl that was gyrating oh so teasingly on his cock, her expert movements letting his friend know what could be his for the right price. She’d already mentioned the private rooms a few times. Gray almost felt sorry for her, Loke did not pay for what he could readily get for free.

Gray looked away, uncomfortable by the display. He could sit there, order a drink and try to tune them out, but he really didn’t want to watch was coming next so he made his way to the bar wondering how much longer he’d be forced to stay in this club.

He sat on one of the stools as soon as one opened up and was surprised to see someone he knew behind the bar.

“Mira?” His eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sight of his old classmate dressed in a very lowcut dress.

“Gray!” Mira squealed enthusiastically leaning over the bar to wrap him up in a friendly embrace, “You’re here for Lyon’s thing, right? I was hoping I’d get to see you. How’ve you been?”

Gray snorted as his answer, quickly taking a drink from the beer Mira had set in front of him before he could even ask.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” Mira hung her head low, letting her bangs cover her eyes, “I didn’t think about the fact that you used to be with her, this must be so hard for you.”

Gray began to laugh, causing Mira to peer at him confusedly. “Trust me, it’s totally fine.”

He changed the subject, not wanting to delve into the topic. All that ever did was remind him of the real reason for his misery. “Does Elfman know you work here?”

“Yeah, of course. He does too,” Mira looked out on the floor trying to find her large brother among the other male staff. “He’s around here somewhere. He was planning on doing his dancing debut tonight but will all of you here, I rather think he won’t.”

“Elfman’s a stripper?!” Gray chuckled into his drink, and it felt good. It was a real laugh, not the fake shit he’d been dishing out lately.

Mira laughed along with him, “Well, he’s been working on it. They get paid more, plus tips. College is really expensive, you know?”

Gray could only nod at that, he’d found that out too, although he’d never considered stripping. He wondered how much it paid.

Stupid stripper

Gray shook his head, trying to get that well-loved voice out of his head, but it didn’t help. All the emotions he’d been keeping locked inside came crashing down on him from just that one innocent insult. One that he’d heard from those lips more times than he could count.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work, I’ll check on you again in a little bit.” Mira gave him a quick peck on the cheek before moving away.

“Wait! I never paid for my beer,” Gray called after her, knowing Mira could be a bit scatterbrained sometimes.

“It’s on the house,” Mira waved at him cheerfully. She’d already moved on to another customer, and Gray noticed how her shoulders tensed uncomfortably. Gray made sure to leave a nice tip for her. He couldn’t imagine it would be much fun for her to work here.

Now that he had found Mira, Gray decided to stay at the bar. He made a cursory sweep of the room looking for his twin brother. He hoped Lyon was smart enough to not get into any trouble tonight, Juvia was forgiving, but she was also incredibly jealous. She’d wanted to have a Jack and Jill party but Yuka, Lyon’s best friend, had refused, and so the two parties had remained separate.

He found him quickly enough, looking drunk and uncomfortable in a situation not that dissimilar to Loke with Yuka and Toby cheering him on. Gray whistled, glad not to be in his shoes anymore. Juvia had a way of knowing things like that.

It was still hard for him to believe he had finally caved and dated Juvia. He sighed, not that he’d had much choice. He’d had to do something to quiet the emptiness and longing that had never quite healed after Natsu had left.

Natsu.

There was so much of Gray wrapped up in that name. He could still remember summer days spent climbing trees, lazing on the beach and challenging each other in every possible idiotic way they could think of. They had known each other most of their lives, had been friends since the moment they met. Although to anyone who didn’t know them well, they would appear anything but.

Natsu was sunshine, ice cream, wet dreams, and every other possible thing that brought him joy all wrapped up in one irritatingly loud package. He was the one who had unknowingly held his heart all through high school, and the one he let get away.

In his defense, he hadn’t actually known the idiot was leaving. They’d even enrolled in the same university so as far as Gray knew life was going to remain the same as always. No. It was going to be better because two weeks before school let out for their last summer, Natsu had confessed to Gray that he was gay and that had been all he’d needed to push him into confessing his feelings.

Except he couldn’t do it right away, Gray had waited so long he wanted to do something special. What a joke. He’d ended up getting drunk at their graduation party and kissing him. He put everything he had into that fucking kiss, there was no way Natsu could not have understood his meaning.

But Natsu had not responded, and when Gray had pulled away, there was only sadness in his best friend’s eyes. And that was the last time he’d ever seen him.

No matter how many times he’d called, no matter how many pathetic messages he’d left begging for the prick to just please talk to him, silence was the only response he ever received.

No one knew what had happened to him, or even where he’d gone. His roommate Sting said he’d just disappeared overnight with no explanation, taking all his things with him and leaving one month’s rent on the table to give him time to find another roommate. That had been two years ago, and Gray had never gotten over it.

Good things had come of it, Juvia finally wore him down, and they’d dated for a few months. It hadn’t lasted long, even her fantasies weren’t enough to make the reality of dating him bearable.

In a move that surprised everyone but him, Juvia had dumped him for his brother, and now they were getting married. Honestly, he wished them well. He’d been a dick to her, and she deserved better, and Lyon was definitely that. After the initial awkwardness, he found he really didn’t care.

He tried dating, tried having casual sex, then he tried just being alone as much as possible, and found that was what he preferred. His already surly personality deteriorated to the point only a few people could stand being around him, and that was how he liked it.

Still, his thoughts would return to his best friend. Why had he looked so sad after he kissed him? Where did he go, and why did he have to leave so suddenly? How could he have ignored Gray’s pain so blatantly after everything they’d meant to each other. Had their friendship all been in Gray’s mind?

No matter how many times he thought about it, he could never come up with an answer that satisfied him, and it pissed him off. It had become an obsession. One that he couldn’t seem to claw his way out of.

He still checked in with Sting from time to time, but he had no more clue than Gray did. Lyon had suggested he hire a private investigator. If only to put an end to his questions once and for all, but Gray wasn’t ready to do that yet. Taking that step would force him to let go of too much of himself, and he wasn’t sure he’d like what would remain.

“Gray?” Hands were shaking his shoulders, and he found himself peering into his brother’s worried eyes.

He felt the fake smile curl on his lips, but before he could say anything, Lyon had waved Mira over.

“Hey, Lyon!” Mira must have been feeling generous because she also gave Lyon a hug. “Congratulations! What can I get for you?”

“Do you guys sell any t-shirts or something?” He pointed at Gray’s naked torso, and she giggled.

“Haven’t you tortured the poor guy enough? I doubt he’d want to walk around with a shirt from this place. Let me see if I can find something in Elfman’s locker.” She walked over to a fellow bartender who took over her area as she rushed into a back room, returning a few minutes later with a black shirt that looked to be too small for her burly brother but should fit Gray just fine.

“Here I grabbed one of his muscle shirts, he won’t mind,” Mira said kindly as Lyon thanked her.

He tossed the shirt at Gray, “Put this on, and let’s get out of here before Yuka can get me into any more trouble.”

Gray felt like he should be convincing his brother to stay at his bachelor party, but then again, he wanted to get the hell out of there. He took the dreaded sash off to put on the shirt, happy to see it wasn’t a bad fit after all. He was about to toss the sash into the nearest trash receptacle when Lyon stopped him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You can’t be serious,” Gray whined, “I’ve worn it all night, come on have a heart.”

“Put it back on, the party isn’t over,” Lyon grinned somewhat drunkenly as he put the sash back on his brother, chuckling at his obvious discomfort, “This is my last night of freedom and I am not done yet. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Gray let Lyon lead him out of the club, stopping to breathe in the fresh air. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was still quite early, not even ten o’clock. “Alright, where do you want to eat? My treat.”

“Steak, lots of steak! Ooh, is there one of those Brazilian steakhouses around?” Lyon asked hopefully, “Juvia wants me to become a vegetarian, says it will make me live longer.”

Gray snorted at the idea, to him that was a fate worse than death.

“Uhm, dunno, lemme check,” Gray grabbed his phone and opened a search window plugging in Brazilian steakhouse near me into the text box. A few seconds later results popped up.

“You’re in luck, it looks like there’s one about a twenty-minute walk from here. Let’s go,” Gray began to walk, and Lyon followed although his steps were a bit wobbly. “Would you rather take an Uber?”

“No, I want to build up an appetite so I can eat more meat, “Lyon replied, his voice sounding almost cheerful, something Gray was definitely not used to.

Gray snickered and kept walking, keeping a loose grip on his brother’s arm.

“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?” Lyon scolded, “You promised me, no Natsu tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Gray hung his head, feeling sorry he’d disappointed his brother, “I tried.”

“I know,” Lyon’s voice was surprisingly gentle, something Gray was not expecting. Usually, when the topic came up, Lyon became angry.

“Where do you think he went?” It was a question Gray asked himself daily.

“If it were anyone else, I’d say he was hiding from a gambling debt or something,” Lyon shrugged, “I just can’t think of anything that would make him leave.”

“Or to treat you like that,” this last bit was muttered under his breath but Gray still heard it.

They were getting a lot of strange looks from passersby, and even some cheers and high fives and Gray finally realized that both their sashes read Groom. His mood darkened further, and he tore the sash off, ignoring Lyon’s complaints as he tossed it into the nearest trash bin and sped up his steps towards the restaurant.

Groom, he scoffed. As if he’d ever be such a thing. There was only one person he wanted, and clearly, that wasn’t going to be happening.

They lucked into a last-minute cancellation and were seated right away, both drinking heavily as they picked different items from the waiters that stopped at their table every few minutes. Lyon ate his fill of meat until he was sated, all while looking at his brother worriedly.

“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” Lyon asked suddenly, surprising Gray out of his thoughts.

“Marrying Juvia?” When Lyon nodded, Gray thought about it for a minute. “Nah man, she makes you happy. How could that be wrong?”

“It wasn’t that long ago that you were all she wanted, she could change her mind again.”

The doubt in Lyon’s face gave Gray pause, made his heart feel tight in his chest. He’d thought Lyon was long over that.

“I’m pretty sure I scared Juvia out of that idea,” Gray’s laugh sounded brittle, and he just wanted to go home, but he also wanted to be a good brother. “This might be the one time where you are the better man,” Gray deadpanned before breaking into an amused smile, “And I will forever deny saying that.”

“I wish,” Lyon began before Gray interrupted him.

“Don’t.”

“Alright,” Lyon complied, although he looked sad again and Gray could have kicked himself. “I love you.” Lyon’s eyes welled up, and Gray took that as their cue to go home. He asked for the bill.

“I know, but save your tears for the wedding,” he advised, as he squeezed his brother’s shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

They called an Uber, and when it finally arrived, Lyon drunkenly refused to get in unless Gray wore his groom sash. He finally did just so they could get home, knowing they would have to get up early for the wedding preparations. Lyon fell asleep in the car, and Gray could only snort. His brother had always been a lightweight, more interested in his studies than partying.

Gray studied his brother’s sleeping face, smiling fondly at how the anxiety Lyon normally exuded just melted away when he was resting. Growing up, he hadn’t really enjoyed being a twin, although it had helped that they weren’t identical. But the last few years they had gotten closer.

When Gray tried to push everyone away in his grief and anger, Lyon had steadfastly ignored him, moving into his apartment and refusing to let him hide away. But after tomorrow everything would be different, and Gray was going to miss him.

He stared out the window for the remainder of the drive.

Natsu, where the hell are you?

To be continued...

A/N: This should only be a two-shot, I think.

#fairy tail #gratsu #gratsubingo2019 #ftlgbtales #prompt: obsession #gray x natsu #natsu x gray #ftfanfics #my edits

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thephantomofthe-internet · 5 years

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Rock You Like A Hurricane

Stripper!Billy Hargrove x Reader

Summary: On the whims of a drunk group of bridesmaids and the bride to be, you went to Studz and found your own Romeo...too bad you already knew him.

Word Count: 2,772

Warnings: swearing, drinking, sexy dancing (is that a warning? idk), minor sexual implications it’s not graphic and i’m a little baby at this so be gentle with me

Author’s note: so did I reach 1.2k? No, but Tumblr is trying to censor safe sexuality and I want to see how far I can go writing wise before I start making plans. If this gets flagged, I will make an AO3 and give y’all the user so we can keep getting weird, ya know? Anyway, hope you like this mess! I tried 😫😫😫

Permanent Tag: @hotstuffhargrove @hargrovesgoldilocks @denimjacketkisses @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @casaharrington @moonstruckhargrove (you ain’t usually on this tag but...I LOVE YOU AND WANT YOUR LOVE) @thechickvic @alex--awesome--22

FEEDBACK APPRECIATED AND ENCOURAGED!!!

Your cousin Elizabeth was getting married. Twenty-three years old, barely out of college, and engaged to the richest guy you knew. Your mother was never going to let you hear the end of it. You and her were the same age and practically grew up together and your mother believed that she was the standard every girl should live to. She was pretty, decently smart, and popular. She was a high school cheerleader, an honour roll student; she volunteered at animal shelters and had just graduated from college with a degree social work. You were a mediocre student, a college dropout, and, thus far, a failed actress. You were a failure of a daughter and your mother had seemingly given up on you.

So when Elizabeth asked you to be one of her bridesmaids, your mother wouldn’t hear the end of it unless you said yes. You agreed, begrudgingly, dropping too much money on a magenta taffeta nightmare to wear once and answered every upset phone call from the anxious bride to be. You had been given the highly important role of planning the bachelorette party. Naturally, the large hoard of rich North-eastern girls were only coming to you for this because you lived in LA and they were ready to bask in the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, refusing to believe that you didn’t actually live at its centre. And so Elizabeth dragged Vivian, Olivia, Kimmy, Maria, and Amber to your shit hole apartment and tried to not complain about it or your plans, although they were already over it and you before the clock struck eight.

You had decided on one thing and one thing only-you would not take them to a strip club. You’d go anywhere else-tourist traps, filthy clubs and bars- you’d even sneak them onto a movie set if it meant the whole thing would be over sooner. Just no strip clubs.

And you didn’t take them to one. Elizabeth’s maid of honour, Vivian, dragged you all out to the nearest club, advertising the hottest guys in town. You were forced into what was perceived as the hottest dress you owned, a short neon nightmare you bought in college, and pushed out the door despite your pleas. You didn’t want to be in a grimy strip club, certainly not with your cousin and her bridesmaids, all various degrees of drunk.

And Studz was not a nice club. If you had wanted to take them to a club, you would’ve taken them to a Chippendale’s, it would have at least been cleaner and a bit busier. Inside the dingy club, with its sticky tables and tiny stage, you were one of three occupied tables. Vivian had chosen a table at the front of the stage, a prime location for viewing the milk crates the club was calling a stage, but the other two parties seemed intriguing.

One was filled with what you could only assume were regulars, an intriguing mix of tough looking women with buzz cuts and sour expressions guarding a trio of grinning, excited boys each with their own sense of style, all of which your mother would’ve called feminine or, as politely as she could, queer, and your father would’ve called…well, you wouldn’t use that word.

The other table was a group of nervous looking women, all old enough to have children old enough to at least in middle school and surrounded by tall orange drinks, which you’d guess were ‘Sex on the Beach’es, knowing the fruity gradient well enough from the drunk barely-legals who came to your bar. They all seemed awkward and embarrassed, the same feeling you felt sitting in the dark room where drinks were twice as expensive and the music blared in your ears. You might’ve been able to handle it if you weren’t forcefully decked out in bachelorette party gear bought angrily by Olivia, peeved that you hadn’t bought any for the group. You had on a white sash which read in glittery pink text ‘I’m the single one’, advertising you like a prime piece of real-estate and not a broke loser. You felt silly and sad, you wished you had just put your foot down and said no. But still you stayed, nursing an insanely overpriced jack and coke through a penis shaped straw, listening as the girls chattered on.

“So anyway, Y/N, this is how you throw a bachelorette party! We want Lizzie to be surrounded by insanely hot dudes for one more night before she ties Stevie down forever. One last night of sexy adventures for our gorgeous bride to be!” Vivian declared cockily, pointing at the giggling Elizabeth, already drunk from the giant Cosmo in front of her and the five jello shots she’d taken at your apartment, the one thing you’d done right so it seemed.

“Whatever you say…” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you spun the melting ice around in your glass. Suddenly, the lights in the bar dimmed impossibly further and the stage lights flashed on, first in a spinning disco ball of bright rainbow coloured lights.

“Alright ladies, let’s give a big welcome to Armando!” the announcer slash bartender called from the microphone on the rail, barely looking up from his copy of Proust. You clapped politely as the bridesmaids cheered, though not as loud as the mismatched table, where the boys of the group lit up like Christmas trees and hollered loudly. The sultry, sticky sounds of Def Leopard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted from the speakers. A larger man with a beautiful tan stepped on stage. He wasn’t exactly rippling in muscles, but he was fit and his fade was lined up nicely. He was dressed as a construction worker, complete with a hard hat. He looked confident, but you could see the Vaseline he’d used to define and brighten his abs caking in between the muscles; most men would’ve used baby oil, but he was trying to appear fitter than he actual was and the trick seemed to work, Kimmy, Elizabeth’s childhood best friend was already openly drooling over him.

His set was awkward and jerky, you were certain it was one of his first shows, and he tended to rely on pelvic thrusts instead of a variety of moves. When the bar cut the song, you were able to count the money he’d earned sitting sadly on the stage floor.

The rest of the numbers were about the same. Next came Carlos, who the back table seemed to be a big fan of. One of the boys, decked in a bedazzled muscle tank, screamed out “I love you Carlos!” in a feminine voice with a slight Puerto Rican accent, clapping above his head. Then Julian, Stefan, Emilio, and Cole all decked out in various ‘sexy’ outfits; poor Emilio was stuck in a weak Native American costume as though he was a member of The Village People. The whole thing was embarrassing and awkward but as Elizabeth and her friends got drunker and drunker, they seemed to enjoy it more and more. Poor Maria had seemingly fallen in love with Stefan and, after running a shaky hand over his greasy, hairless chest, declared that she wanted to have his baby and spent all her cash on him. When he didn’t come around after his set, she pouted and drank more to fill the void.

Then, everything got improbably darker. At one point, Vivian had snuck off to talk to the emcee and returned with a smug, proud smile, which worried you. You were the only sober person left in the group and thus the babysitter of the girls, watching drinks and keeping hold of those drunk enough to pounce on a dancer.

“There’s a bachelorette party in the house!” the emcee called, earning polite claps from the other tables and hoots and hollers from the girls surrounding you. “Well, we have a treat for you! Welcome to the stage, Romeo!”

First, in the darkness, someone brought out a chair and when the lights came up again, The Divinyl’s I Touch Myself began to blast out of the speakers and out from the sparkling red curtains came a man dressed in leather chaps, the most attractive of the group. His back was to the audience, his muscular legs and butt on full display, his right hand reaching up to the microphone descending from the ceiling, taking it easily.

“I’d like to invite the lovely bride to be up for a dance.” He said huskily and your heart stopped. You knew that voice, it stuck in your brain like a thorn. Billy Hargrove. You should’ve recognized him from the still present mullet. But how could you? Why on earth would you believe him to be anywhere near you, in the Valley of all places? Elizabeth was being forced to her feet by Vivian; this was obviously her master plan from the start to give her dear friend one last thrill.

But this thrill was unwanted, as it seemed. Elizabeth was trying very hard to force her thin wrsit out of Vivian’s grasp and begging anyone nearby to help. Naturally, you jumped into action, pulling Vivian away from her.

“Y/N! Y/N I can’t do it! I don’t wanna cheat on Stevie! I don’t wanna do this!” she cried, tears welling in her bright green eyes. You nodded, taking her hand, and squeezing it in your own.

“Okay, okay sit down you don’t have to. We’ll go home, okay? We’ll go, just calm down.” You said sternly as she nodded, teary eyed.

“Don’t ruin the fun, Y/N.” Vivian said crossly, scoffing at Elizabeth’s tears. “Here, if you’re so hell bent on being the centre of attention, you go.” Before you could even try to retort her idea, you were being pushed to the stage the girls were screaming with delight. Billy was looking down at you with a smirk and a hand extended to you. When your nervous expression met his confident leer, his smirk dropped away.

He recognized you.

You and Billy weren’t exactly friends in high school. He’d come to Hawkins, Indiana in your second last year of high school and joined your graduating class with all the anger and hatred of a boy forced out of his home. He took that anger out on anyone who didn’t play his games and you weren’t one to play along. It was all because you wouldn’t do the entire English project you’d been assigned his partner for. You wanted to split the work even, he wanted to do nothing and get a great grade. In the end, he got a shit grade and tormented you for the rest of high school. It wasn’t as bad as what he did to nerdier kids, who’d get pushed around and the shit kicked out of them for the entire year while he was there. Your torment matched Steve Harrington’s; sure he mostly left you alone, but he definitely made his mark on your mind. He called you Blow Pop for a whole year, based on the baseless rumour that you’d sucked off your gym teacher, Mr. Carlson, who while being a young, hot man was a notoriously easy marker and not worth sleeping with to get a good grade. Although in retrospect, that was probably the kicker of the whole rumour. Your reputation was ruined for the rest of school and even now the kids of Hawkins, now adults, still knew you as Blow Pop.

And you hated him for it, the whole thing left a sour taste in your mouth. He was so hot, you noted it the second he arrived, but his attitude was so awful that it ruined the rest of him. And once you were Blow Pop, you lost all interest in him, no matter how tight his jeans were.

You wanted to run, but you couldn’t abandon the drunken girls cheering you on, so you used his hand to pull yourself onstage and saunter over to the chair. “Well, come on Romeo, give me a show.” You said through a gritted smile, taking your seat in the chair. Billy nodded, matching your uncomfortable expression.

He started into his number, pulling off his ridiculous leather vest, throwing it offstage and revealing more of his well oiled chest. He rolled his body, running a hand up his chest and through his hair, running his tongue over his lips with a smirk. You watched the girls as they hollered, sticking dollar bills into the waistband of his chaps, lapping up his attention. This continued for most of the song, thrusting and grinding into the open air, ripping off the legs of this chaps, revealing his black jockstrap and earning whoops from the whole bar. You wanted to laugh at the whole scene, to find it awful and gross, and it kind of was; here was this guy who ruled your high school dancing in front of you for cash. But mostly, it was hot. Like, really, really hot. He was honestly too good at this, it made the back of your neck sweat and your nerves burst into flames. You mind ran wildly with dirty images and thoughts you couldn’t get away from if you tried; rationale wasn’t quelling the fire he’d lit in your stomach. He only turned back to you when the coda hit, lip-syncing along with the words. He rolled his lips over yours, straddling you gently and running his hands over your arms, bringing your hands to touch his chest and abs.

“This is really weird…” you muttered, more to yourself than him, letting your smile drop away into a look you hoped didn’t come off as completely lustful and desperate, hoping he’d either stop or finally touch you. Of course, he did neither.

“It’ll be over soon, just till the last chorus, then you’re free.” He replied softly, thrusting into you gently. “Just touch my abs, it’ll give your friends something to laugh about and earn me better tips.”

You obeyed, running a hand over him as he got up, coming behind you to give this look of longing in your reach. You let out a heated sigh, which was mostly fake, letting your head lull to the side as you sighed, earning a scream from Elizabeth, who’d long stopped crying.

“You’re really sticky.” You whispered and you swore for a brief moment, Billy broke, his smirk turning into a tiny smile he was working hard to hold back. He came back around, pulling your hands to rest on his hips as he went back to thrusting and wriggling. You chuckled “And you’re wearing glittery eyeliner, what a treat I’m getting today.” Just as he was about to stand, the song coming to an end, you ran your ring finger up his spine. He shivered involuntarily, his gaze coming back down to you, quirking his eyebrow.

Billy didn’t like that you were here. He didn’t like that he was dancing on you. And he certainly didn’t like how absolutely gorgeous you’d become. Sure, he remembered you well enough from high school, but if he hadn’t? He probably would’ve taken you home and screwed your brains out. It left this uneasy tension for the whole dance. Usually, he’d focus on the bride to be, but with you being so…different and obviously not being the bride herself, he found himself keeping a distance to keep him professional. But he couldn’t stop the shiver when you touched him on your own. And you noticed, you smirked at him liked you’d found some secret trick. He wanted so badly to wipe that smirk off your lips.

You shrugged easily as he looked at you curiously, standing as the song ended and pulling the wad of dollar bills Amber had given you from your bra, handing it to him easily as you walked off. You jumped off the stage, grinning as your fellow bridesmaids screamed, coming to hug you and grab your arm, declaring that he was so hot.

“Come on girls, my hands are all sticky now, let’s get out of here.” You said, pulling your purse off the back of the chair, walking off towards the exit. For a brief moment, you looked back, desperate for another look.

Billy was already gone, much to your disappointment, it was as though you’d dreamt him and you’d wake up at home drenched in sweat and soaked. He might as well have puffed into a cloud of smoke and glitter and vanished, the chair was gone too. But you knew it happened. And you felt so stupid-you’d just been played by a stripper.

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lordjohntheshow · 5 years

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John Grey and his boyfriend Stephan Namzten have a great life (and now three dogs) and are considering taking the next big step: marriage and children. Complications arise. This is a Modern AU set in 2019.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

VANITY FAIR, November 2017

A FAMILY AFFAIR

An excerpt from the actor’s forthcoming memoir WILD NIGHTS chronicling his early years growing up to his days as a struggling actor. In anticipation of the Royal Wedding enjoy his take on a wedding among Britain’s upper crust.

By: Percy Wainwright

Imagine my surprise when my stepfather George invited me to his third wedding, in London. He wanted me there with him as he took on his new life and invited me out for the “whole season”. I took one look around my tiny, non air conditioned studio apartment in the Valley and knew I had no other choice. Within 24 hours I was touching down in Heathrow. I wondered a little about why George invited me, but in a small way it made sense: he had no real family himself and didn’t want to feel left out. He let me have the use of his apartment- or “flat” as I learned to call it, having already moved in with his bride to be.

I then did what any self-respecting 22 year old with a large, empty apartment, an allowance, and too much free time would do. I went clubbing. That’s how I first met Kay*. It was sometime past midnight, and the DJ was trying out some experimental trance pop. I saw him before he saw me. He was small, but he didn’t have that obnoxious edge some short men get. Cute blonde hair a shade most boys grow out of. Muscular, but the white shirt and jeans he wore showed he didn’t really care about his appearance. He glided through the crowd, disappearing in the back room for a moment. I lost track of him until I saw him cut through the dance floor to leave. On a whim, I grabbed his hand and kissed it. He looked up at me and laughed, crinkling a pair of baby blues that would have made Paul Newman jealous. I pulled him to me, like he was water in the desert. The music was too loud to have a coherent conversation, but neither of us wanted one.

After three or so songs (who can really tell with electronica?) he was pressing me up against the wall outside the bathroom, kissing my lips, my neck, as if he wanted to swallow me whole. In fifteen or so minutes we were in my flat and I was flat on my back. When I woke up the next morning alone in that big bed, I actually laughed- I’m usually the one that leaves them high and dry.

I still went clubbing, but I didn’t see my blonde boy again. Four weeks before the wedding George invited me out to a dinner with the family. “They’re gentry, you know. You don’t have to bow or anything, but do you know the proper forms of address?” He’d asked me nervously, in the taxi on the way over. “Um.. milord and milady?” I’d said, trying to remember what I’d learned from my days of getting high and watching Downton Abbey. He sighed. “They’ll just think you’re an uncouth American, it will be fine.” He’d huffed in reply. It was cute, to see him so nervous to make a good impression.

How to describe the family. Everyone looked like one of those paparazzi pictures of the royal family on their time off: trying to look normal in jeans and a sweater but the outfit still cost 700 pounds. I suppose I’m not one to talk though, my style’s always been very Gucci via Goodwill.

My new stepmother’s flat also had that rich, lived in feel. There was a couch from 1972 next to what I’m fairly sure was a pair of original Chippendale settee chairs. Every flat surface or shelf was covered by books: leather bound ones in the library and slick, glossy ones in all of the real living areas. Yes, you read that right: this was an apartment. With a library.

We all sat down to drinks in the living room. I chose one of the Chippendales, of course. An actual butler took my drink order. Once everyone was arrayed and properly lubricated, the true conversation began. The son who was obviously serving as Head of the Family grilled me and George about our jobs, hobbies, acquaintances, and was probably about to start on what petty misdemeanors we’d committed when his wife patted his arm and started a real conversation instead of a background check. It was boring, but I was surprised to find I was enjoying myself. Mostly I was enjoying what I am dead certain were a pair of original Degas’ ballerina studies.

Nearly an hour in I was shocked out of my art appreciation when my own tiny dancer walked in. He was out of breath, dressed for work (a boring navy suit, so a professional of some type, I noted), and apologizing profusely, to his mother, his soon to be stepfather, his annoyed brother, and then his gaze fell on me. I’ll say this about him: I’d never want to play poker against him. There’s not a man alive better at controlling his face. For a moment I was certain he didn’t remember me (I mean, I was in a clean cut Oxford, not the neon green mesh tank he’d last seen me in.)

“Hello. You must be Percy. I’m Kay.” He said, warmly, holding out his hand for me to shake. The look he gave me, and only me, had so much heat I thought I was back in L.A.

He sat across from me when we moved to dinner, and chatted politely. I was annoyed to find someone so handsome was also smart, and funny, and kind, especially to his mother and my stepfather. Yet, when he raised his brows to me at the end of dinner- a challenge, and invitation- I was all mush.

The next four weeks went by quickly- too quickly. All the pomp and nonsense of what American hetero weddings have become pales in comparison to An English Society Wedding. There were morning suit fittings, tux fittings, and even normal suit fittings, to make sure I wouldn’t be looked at some poor American cousin. Forget a bridal shower at some swanky country club. There were at least three engagement parties, a trip to the Queen Anne Enclosure of the Royal Ascot (requiring another suit), and multiple days involving skiffs, yachts, polo ponies, and cricket. I was game: it was like being stuck in some specialty park at Disneyworld, and I love to learn the rules so I can break them. Here were a few I discovered:

-You can’t ask people where they go on vacation. You ask them where they summer, or winter, or, for the younger, sportier ones, where they ski.

-An American accent threw them, especially when I turned on the Southern drawl I usually kept safely packed away. If I wasn’t from Newport, or Vail, or New York, I was no one of importance.

-No one ever discussed money, but every conversation was about it: where children were going to school, what new homes or paintings were being purchased, who had just closed what deal.

-And unlike in L.A., where everyone bedecked themselves in the latest runway looks, here you often learned the richest people also had the oldest clothes. The Princess Royal attended one of these parties in a dress she’d had since 1983. I know the year because I asked her.

By the time the wedding rolled around, part of me was ready to go back to the plastic sheen and bounce of Los Angeles. Other parts of me, like my heart, wanted to stay in this weird world forever, because it’s where Kay was. If this world was a weird Disneyworld, than I was its Cinderella. I’d been scraping things together for so long, spent so many nights wondering where the money was going to come from, how I was going to eat, I cannot explain the relief of having that disappear. Of having someone ready to pick up the check like nothing- and unlike a lot of the men I’d slept with, not expecting a quid pro quo.

Kay and I spent a few weeks before we even had sex again- he was busy, and I was being pulled along to every wedding event anyone could possibly imagine. It’s the stolen moments I remember the most. The way his breath hitched when he saw me partially undressed during our tux fitting. How he always made sure I had what I wanted to drink, no matter the party we were at. When his hand brushed mine and we hooked our pinkies together, walking down this hallway or that. And the night we were finally together again: breathing our secrets together in the dark.

I told him I loved him. I didn’t actually say “I love you”, I’m not an idiot. I told him “I’ve never felt this close to someone,” and that “I’ve told you things… I’ve never told anyone before” and “I know this must sound strange.” He soaked it up, and looked at me, those blue eyes full of affection, rubbed my arm. “I care deeply for you, Percy. My heart… I think someone else has that. I can give you everything else.” He said it like he’d pried it out of himself… carefully and painfully.

I wish everything had been enough for me.

The summer swept along, and suddenly it was the day I’d come for all along: the wedding. It was held in a quaint village in a “small, country chapel” that sat the two hundred guests with ease. The interior looked like a florist’s shop the night before Mother’s Day. (Kay’s big brother had to take at least three puffs from his inhaler and everyone had to pretend they didn’t notice it happening.) All the women were arrayed in pastels, or florals, most looking ten years older than they actually were in the severe, pinned up styles the occasion demanded. One of the coach horses ate the fascinator Kay’s girl cousin had talked about incessantly over the summer. But seeing my stepfather trip over his words, bursting with happiness at his new life and new wife was truly one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. In short, it was a perfect family wedding.

And then it was over. They were off on their honeymoon, backpacking in East Asia as if they were 22 and not 62. I’d seen my stepfather off. I knew he would always be part of my life, but that I wasn’t meant to live in his. I finally understood why they call it a flat: that’s all I felt walking around that apartment.

I wanted Kay to say: “I love you. Move in with me. Marry me, when it’s finally legal.” He didn’t. He was still caring, and attentive, and sweet, but we never talked about love or a future. Maybe that’s why I invited the Swede back to the flat on the last night before I left. Why I forgot that Kay was coming over to cook me a farewell dinner. Why I didn’t lock the door.

Turns out, he’s not as good as a poker player as I’d thought. I saw it all. Shock, dismay, pain, but never the anger. He left, never saying a word.

It wasn’t until the next day, somewhere 10,000 feet above Chicago, my suitcase full of a bunch of fancy clothes I’d wear only to auditions that I realized he always got quiet when he was angry.

*names, dates, and details have been altered to protect the innocent

#writing percy is hilariously fun #outlander fanfiction #outlander rarepair #john/stephan #john/percy #lord john grey #outlander modern au #percy wainwright #percy beauchamp

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sternchenstories · 6 years

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Title: Pour Some Sugar On Me

Pairing: Destiel | Rating: Explicit | Word Count: 2910

Inspired by art from: @cas-watches-over-you ->LOOK!<-

Beta read by: @jemariel

Summary: Castiel has a new job as a waiter in a strip club, but it’s hard to concentrate on work when Dean sex-on-legs Winchester is dancing on stage.

Castiel loves his new job as a waiter. Two months ago, when he applied for it, he didn’t think he would, but now he gladly sleeps at odd hours to make it through his late shifts at the strip club. The staff is friendly and welcoming and due to their strict policies, most of the customers are nice and respectful as well; no drunks and no hands on his ass.

Everything could be perfect, but two weeks ago, things changed. Two weeks ago, Castiel saw him for the first time. Green eyes, a dazzling smile, a face to be painted and showcased in a museum, and a body to die for. That is Dean Winchester. When Castiel started working, Dean was on vacation to visit his brother, but now he’s back, ruining Castiel’s life.

Their shifts align perfectly, so Dean is always there when Castiel is working, and every time, he’s the main attraction, and with good reason. Castiel doesn’t mind the dancing going on in the background and just focuses on his work. After all, he’s no stranger to the sight of naked men. But Dean Winchester is different. The first time he performed, Castiel stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Dean for solid five minutes before he came got back to his senses. Nobody noticed, but Castiel feels his cheeks go red everytime he thinks about it.

Today is a particularly awful day because the club is almost empty. Some of the regulars sit at the bar, and the few tables that need serving don’t take much time, which gives Castiel a lot of room to watch the dancers, including Dean. As soon as “she’s my cherry pie” starts playing, Castiel knows he’s in trouble. The lights change and dip the room in different shades of red with their focus on the main stage.

Dean comes out, dressed in a sexy nurse costume, complete with red thigh highs and a stethoscope. Castiel didn’t even know that a guy in a tight dress might do it for him, but here he is, unable to tear his eyes away. Although there aren’t many guests, Dean’s performance doesn’t lack enthusiasm. He mouths the words of the song and makes sure to draw everybody in, from the guys at the bar to the one tipsy fella in the far corner of the room. Castiel might not be his target audience, but he stares like the rest of them. When the show is over, one guy at the front puts some bills in Dean’s tiny panties, and for a brief moment Castiel wishes he could trade places with him.

But then Dean disappears and Castiel becomes aware that he still has a job to do. He makes another round through the club, checking if people need something to quench their thirst, at least the one Castiel can help them with, and soon he ends up back at the bar. Attempting to keep busy, he fills up the snacks until he feels a presence next to himself. “Heya, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, his throat suddenly dry. Over the last week, Dean had made it a habit to talk to him when there’s time. It doesn’t help Castiel’s crush on Dean because on top of being a godlike sexbomb, he’s also nice and funny.

“You mind getting me a beer?” Dean asks. “Benny doesn’t like it when I infiltrate his bar.” He rolls his eyes with the words, but he’s still the kind of guy who respects his co-worker’s wishes.

“Sure,” Castiel says and hurries behind the bar. He opens a bottle and hands it to Dean, getting one of his beautiful smiles.

“Thanks,” Dean says and downs half the bottle in one go with Castiel staring at him, thinking that it should be illegal to wrap your lips around anything the way Dean does. It gives Castiel way too many ideas, all of which could get him fired.

To keep himself from crawling into Dean’s lap, Castiel does another round and hopes that Dean will go home like he usually does. Not tonight though. When Castiel gets back, Dean is still sitting there, nursing a second bottle of beer between his hands while he watches another dancer. Castiel puts down his tray and stacks the dirty glasses into the basket for their dishwasher.

Dean turns to him and gives him an acknowledging smile, so Castiel feels the need to say something. “New girl?” he asks, nodding to the stage.

“Yeah, her name is Bella,” Dean says. “She’s good; very intriguing.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel says, the words just slipping out.

“Oh come on, you’re not a priest. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the show.”

Castiel clears his throat, thinking about how much he actually enjoys it. “I do look, but I was talking about the intriguing part. She might be good, but I’m not interested in women.”

There’s no reason to tell Dean about that either, but Dean just shrugs and winks at Castiel. “I like both,” he says, like they’re talking about ice cream flavors. When Castiel doesn’t reply, Dean leans over the bar. “Can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure.”

“Why aren’t you up there?”

Dean nods to the stage and Castiel almost laughs. “Me? I’m-,” Castiel gestures down on himself as if that’s explanation enough and adds, “and I can’t dance to save my life.”

“Really? You have the posture, though, and the confidence when you walk. Totally took you for a dancer. Maybe not stripping, but something.”

Castiel shakes his head, rendered silent by Dean’s words and Dean continues, “And don’t give me that crap.” He imitates Castiel’s hand gestures. “You’re a hottie with a body if I might say so. I mean, you stand there like a brick house stud. If that shirt would come off-”

He doesn’t specify what would happen, but his face is pretty telling and Castiel blushes. “No, I’m not- That’s not me.”

Dean chuckles. “You know what you are? Lightning in a bottle. You just need somebody to screw the lid off.”

He throws the money for his drinks on the bar and winks at Castiel again before he gets up and leaves. Castiel stares after him with a prickling feeling washing over his entire body. “Lightning in a bottle,” he whispers to himself. He has no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but something just happened, and it’s not over yet.

Castiel yawns until his jaw cracks and runs his hands over his face while walking up to the bar. He woke up from a dream that might have had Dean in it and he wished he could have gone back to sleep. Instead, he had to go to work. He still loves his job, but over the last month, his situation had not improved. Instead, it had gotten worse.

Aside from being a walking temptation, Dean also stayed at the club after his show numerous times, and always sat at the bar and talked to him. They shared some stories of their past, discussed likes and dislikes, and the more Castiel got to know Dean the more he wished he could do something about his crush on him. Sometimes it even felt like Dean was flirting with him, but Castiel couldn’t bring himself to return the favor.

Castiel sighs and grabs an apron from the basket of fresh laundry, but then someone walks in from behind the stage. “Cas?”

Of course, it has to be Dean. “Hello, Dean,” Cas says and does his best not to stare but it isn’t easy. Dean is wearing a new costume with a pinstripe suit, a long coat, and even a hat. He looks like a fifties gangster and Cas wouldn’t mind being held at gunpoint.

Dean watches him with a raised brow. “Why are you here so early?”

“I’m always here at-” Castiel checks his watch and realizes that he’s over an hour early. “I’m- How?”

“Misread the time, huh?”

Castiel blushes and wishes he could disappear. Dean chuckles and slaps him on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. Happens to me all the time. Sometimes the late nights take their toll.”

“This is unfortunate. I don’t have time to go back home, but wouldn’t know what to do here either. There isn’t that much to prepare.”

“You could help me,” Dean suggests and a lump forms in Castiel’s throat.

“How?”

“Just watch me. I have a new routine and wanted to try it out,” Dean explains. “You know, if my movements line up with the music, if I use the whole stage, things like that. You think you can handle that?”

Castiel knows that Dean is teasing him, but saying no would be pretty suspicious. “Sure, why not?”

“Great, just give me a second to get backstage and then hit the music.”

Dean disappears and Castiel takes a few deep breaths to prepare himself. Then he walks over to the sound system and hits play before taking a seat directly in front of the stage. When the first notes fill the room, the light switches to different shades of blue, almost like sitting outside on a clear night. Castiel leans back in his chair and tries his best to appear relaxed, but when the artist sings the first line of “pour some sugar on me,” it feels as if Castiel’s heart might jump out of his chest any second.

A few seconds later, the curtains part and Dean steps outside. He walks right up to the front, immediately losing the coat, and Castiel hates himself because he even finds Dean’s bowlegs extremely attractive. When Dean reaches the end of the stage, he winks at Castiel before turning around, and soon after, Castiel loses any sense of time. The music becomes background noise, only there to keep his blood pumping, and his whole body focuses on watching Dean.

He moves perfectly to the music and not only does he use the whole stage, but he also involves the two poles on each side. At first, it seems like his usual gig, but his behavior changes with every piece of clothing he takes off. Dean always flirts with the audience, but usually his movements are suggestive at best, and not as overly sexualized as they are now.

Castiel wishes he could be up there with him and peel him out of his shirt, but instead, Dean rips it off and leaves the collar and cuffs behind which makes him look like a Chippendale. He takes more time with the pants, but since the music isn’t nearly done, he has lots of time to present his almost naked body to Castiel. At one point, he reaches for his hat and stays in that position like a statue, the imagine perfect to be etched into Castiel’s brain. Then Dean falls to his knees and crawls over to him, his eyes boring into Castiel’s.

All Castiel can do is stare back, and finally Dean gets back up on his knees and stretches out his arms when the song ends. He’s breathing heavily, and Castiel gets out of his chair and walks up to him. Dean only opens his eyes when Castiel pulls at his panties to stick a bill in it. He smiles down at Castiel who can’t help but voice his suspicion. “This wasn’t a new routine, was it?”

Dean’s arms drop to his side and he takes a deep breath. “No, this one was just for you.”

Heat shoots through Castiel’s body and he knows he should take his hand away from Dean, but it still rests on his hip. “You’re a demon.”

“And you act like an angel when we both know that’s not all that you are,” Dean says and he looks down at Castiel’s hand. “Told you I wanted to screw the lid off.”

“What else do you want?” Castiel barely manages to say the words and Dean shakes his head.

“I think it’s pretty clear what I want,” Dean says and he takes Castiel’s hand and puts it on his naked chest. When Castiel doesn’t move, Dean does it for him and runs Castiel’s fingers down his body to his stomach. “Tell me what you want, angel.”

With Dean’s smooth and warm skin under his fingertips and his rough voice in his ears, Castiel is too mesmerized to answer. Dean stretches out his other arm and carefully cups Castiel’s face, his thumb ghosting over his lips. “What do you want, Cas?”

Every fiber in Castiel’s body screams to finally let this happen and the one word rushes out of him. “You.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle with mischief and he grins smugly as if he knew the answer all along. Castiel growls and takes control of his own body again. Now that he said it, he might as well act on it and Dean has toyed with him long enough. He grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him down to kiss him. At first, Dean is surprised, but then he takes part, as eager as Castiel. They breathe each other in with their tongues rubbing against each other and their lips never apart for more than a few seconds.

Castiel held it together the whole time Dean was dancing, but now that they’re making out, his pants grow uncomfortably tight and he urges Dean on to move. “Come down here.”

Dean pulls his legs out from under himself to sit on the stage and Castiel lifts him off the stage before pushing him up against it. “Someone is excited,” Dean says with a grin, but when Castiel only growls, Dean is the one who tears at Castiel’s clothes.

He tries to loosen Castiel’s tie but when it doesn’t budge, he moves on to the buttons of his shirt and marvels at Castiel’s chest. “Damn, I was right about the shirt coming off.”

“Shut up,” Castiel says when his cheeks turn red.

Dean grins. “You’re not blushing, are you?”

Castiel kisses him again to keep him quiet and Dean lets his hands wander to open Castiel’s pants. For a moment, Castiel wishes they could do this under different circumstances, but Dean tastes and smells so good and there’s no way Castiel can wait any longer. His hand travels down between Dean’s legs and Dean pushes his hips forward and rubs against him. At least for a moment, then he carefully pushes Castiel away. “Let me get those off; still need ‘em for the show.”

He pushes the panties down and steps out of them to drop them on the stage; without pause, he reaches for Castiel to level the playing field. Dean pushes Castiel’s pants down far enough so he can reach for his cock and they start kissing again. Like horny teenagers, they jerk each other off with the music in the background barely drowning out their grunts and moans.

When Castiel feels that Dean is getting close, he kisses down along his jaw and neck and as soon as his tongue just grazes Dean’s nipple, Dean’s fingers claw into his shoulders and he comes onto his stomach and Castiel’s fingers. In his bliss, he grabs Castiel harder and pumps his cock so eagerly that Castiel can’t hold on any longer either. He comes with his head buried at Dean’s neck and it feels so good that he doesn’t even care about dripping onto the floor.

For a moment they just stand there, their legs weak, and their breathing fast, and Dean is the first to get his shit back together. “Um, anybody could come in here, like any second.”

Castiel doesn’t want to move, but then he steps away from Dean. “You get dressed,” he says, and tries to pull his pants back up, “I’ll clean up the mess.”

“Alright,” Dean says and wants to get back up on the stage, but Castiel holds on to him to give him another kiss. Dean smiles. “Cas, you sap.”

“Shut up and move!”

Dean follows Castiel’s order, but before he disappears behind the stage, he throws Castiel a kiss and mouths something that looks a lot like “love you.”

In his whole life, Castiel never smiled so big while cleaning up come.

Dean fidgets on his chair. Cas told him to sit down because he has a surprise, but that was ten minutes ago. “How much longer?” he shouts into the direction of the other room.

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Cas walks in, dressed like a cowboy, with a hat, the boots and even a lasso hanging from his hip. He stretches out his arms and looks uncertain. “What do you think?”

“Howdy, sexy cowboy,” Dean says with a smile, but he’s still not sure about the surprise part. “Is that for Halloween?”

“Not exactly,” Cas says. He walks over to Dean, and gets the lasso from his belt. Without warning, he takes Dean’s hands to tie them behind the chair. It’s loose enough that Dean could get out of it, but he stays put, curious about Cas’ behavior. Dean can hear Cas move in the background and he walks back in front of Dean when music starts playing.

“If you tell anybody about this, I will end you,” Cas says and then he starts dancing.

Dean leans back in his chair and enjoys the show. There’s no way in hell he’d tell anybody. While Cas can live with Dean dancing for others, Dean would rather keep his boyfriend all to himself.

#destiel #destiel fanfiction #destielfanficnet #under 5k words #writing 2018 #stripper!dean #waiter!cas #fluff and smut

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scarlettsberry · 5 years

Text

Just Like A Tattoo || Berrington

Date: March 3rd

Location:Minneapolis

Starring: Scarlett Berry and Hunter Clarington @conceitedclarington

Summary: Scarlett picks Hunter up and takes him on a promised adventure.

Notes/Warnings: None

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett couldn’t help but laugh to herself as she pulled up to Hunter’s place, she knew he wouldn’t be expecting her and she halfway hoped that Blaine would be there and she would be interrupting a date. The devil in her liked the prospect of pissing off Professor Bowtie. She got out of her car and went up to Hunter’s door with a little spring in her step and a bottle of her favorite whiskey in her hand.

She knocked a few times on his door before looking down, she unzipped her jacket to adjust her tank top underneath, pulling it down just enough for the top of her bra to be showing-- just enough to remind Hunter what he couldn’t have anymore. “Open up, hotshot.” She hollered, knocking a little harder.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter opened up the door, having been alone in his apartment. He was topless and his hair was wet, a damp towel around his neck. “Red? What’s up? What’re you doing here?” he asked, peeking out down the hallway a bit to figure out she was there alone. He glanced down at her cleavage, his face remaining as stoic as possible. His eyebrow twitched a bit and he could feel that familiar arousal he had when they were still sleeping together.

Paying no mind to the way his body felt, he opened up his door a bit wider and motioned for his friend to come inside. “Want a drink?” he asked, unsure what her presence meant for him today. He was sure it would be interesting-- that much he was certain.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett’s face lit up a little when Hunter opened the door, pushing past him when he opened the door wider for her. “Whoa there, you practicing for your new job as a Chippendales dancer?” She said, patting him on his exposed pectoral as she passed him by with a chuckle. “I’m gonna need you to cover all of that up and get in my car.” She motioned towards his naked torso.

“Also, of course, I want a drink, I always want a drink. Here,” She turned around, handing over the bottle of whiskey to him. “I brought the good stuff in case your boyfriend threw out my old bottle.” Scarlett smiled at him as she took a seat on his coffee table. “Now c’mon, get dressed. Mama’s taking you out tonight.”

Hunter Clarington:

“I just got out of the shower, stupid.” Hunter laughed at her joke and taking the bottle of whiskey from her. “And I always keep a bottle of this stuff on-hand in case you want to come over; Blaine doesn’t really drink all that much. He’s only twenty.”

He walked over to the coffee table and poured her a drink, but not before taking a swig of whiskey himself. “Where’re we going?” he asked, walking towards his bedroom to get dressed. He slipped on a simple white tee over a pair of dark jeans, pairing it with a jacket of his own to match Scarlett. He emerged from his room to join her back in the living room, slicking his damp hair back.

Scarlett Berry:

“Oh that’s right, I forget you like us young kids, huh?” She teased him. “Does he call you grandpa in bed?” Scarlett chuckled at her own joke before she happily took the drink Hunter poured for her, downing it and chasing it with a sip from the bottle. “I appreciate that you still think of me even with Bowties taking up all of your time.”

When Hunter returned after getting dressed, Scarlett gave him a small grin as she got up from the coffee table. “C’mon,” She grabbed his hand to lead him out the door and down towards her car. “You trust me, don’t you?” Scarlett asked, turning to face him as they reached her car, standing a little too close to him.

Hunter Clarington:

“Gross, no,” Hunter let out an amused laugh at his friend's joke. He didn't question anything as Scarlett led him to her car. “And obviously I can manage having friends and a committed relationship.” When she had asked if he trusted her, he grinned. He already knew it was going to be more fun for her if he was kept in the dark and in all honesty Hunter did enjoy following her blindly on her adventures. The fact that she was so physically friendly with him wasn’t unwelcome, either.

They got into her car and she took off down the road, the direction they were driving in gave Hunter no clues as to their destination. “We're not planning an impromptu cross-country trip now, are we?” he joked with a friendly jab into her side. Even though it was a joke, he knew it wouldn't be a far cry from something Scarlett would actually do.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett’s grin mirrored Hunter’s, knowing damn good and well that he trusted her. Ignoring the flip in her stomach she hopped in the car and started it up. When Hunter joked about a road trip and poked her side, Scarlett giggled at the way it tickled, pushing at his hand. “Stop,” She chuckled, shaking her head, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not originally what I had planned, but the day is young, hotshot. The day is young.” She teased, shooting him a wink. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep that in her back pocket for later. Stealing Hunter away from Blaine unexpectedly for a couple of days would be hilarious and probably extremely fun.

“No,” She said as she threw her car in reverse and started on her way towards their destination. “We’re gonna go do something fun and crazy today but it‘s in town. If I were kidnapping you and taking you out of town I’d show up at a more inconvenient time, like three in the morning on a work night.” She teased as she rolled down the windows in her car to let the fresh air in, and she smiled as she looked over to Hunter briefly. She really liked that he trusted her so much to follow her wherever she lead. She almost hated it because she knew he was getting attached to her, in turn she would end up attached to him and this whole thing was bound to go down in flames. But she couldn’t help but toe that line, playing with fire was fun. “I’ve kind of got you whipped, huh? I just show up and you get in the car with me. I can take you anywhere I want.” She giggled, teasing him a little more.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter wasn't sure a multi-day trip alone with the girl was a good idea and could be a mixed signal for the young man. Considering his relationship with Blaine was still new, he didn't want to do anything jeopardize that. It seemed like it was just a joke so Hunter didn't say anything in regards to this nonexistent trip.

“Any hints on this ‘something fun and crazy’?” Hunter asked as he draped his arm over the edge of the open car window. “And I prefer the word ‘trusting’ over ‘whipped’; I know you wouldn't steer me wrong.” He looked back at her profile and noticed her bright smile, his company definitely seemed to lift her mood no matter the circumstance. Along with her smile, just by her reaction to him-- her laughter and teasing--, he knew that he was good for her and she for him. Regardless of what she had in store for them today, he was optimistic.

“Take me wherever you like but if we're crossing international borders, you need to tell me so I can get my passport,” he joked.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett couldn’t help that her smile grew when Hunter reaffirmed that he trusted her and his words take me wherever you like made a forbidden flit across her stomach. Pushing it way deep down inside of her to be ignored, she let out a soft laugh. “Please, it’s more fun to smuggle you out of the country.” She said as she turned down a street. It wasn’t much longer until they were at their destination and she was parking in front of a small building with a neon sign lighting up the word TATTOO in the window.

“Alright, here we are.” Scarlett said, looking over at her former lover, raising an eyebrow. “You ready for this, hotshot?” A cheeky grin spread graced her face as she carefully watched his reaction. She half expected him to back out, mostly testing him here. “Unless you’re a chicken and back out on me.”

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter had been left in the dark their whole trip but when his eyes came upon those big neon letters, his eyes grew big like saucers. “Oh, you weren't kidding about the tattoos,” he said as he remembered their conversation from the other day. He saw her cute little grin and shook his head with a little chuckle. “Of course you weren't kidding, it's you.”

Now Hunter Clarington was a lot of things but one thing he wasn't was a liar. He was a man true to his word and when he said he would get a tattoo, he meant it. He promptly got out of the car with a determined look on his face. “Let's go get ourselves some tattoos, Red.” He walked towards the front door, leading the way inside.

“Hey there,” a heavily-tattooed woman was standing behind the counter, a shock of vivid purple hair obscured half her face. “Got an appointment?”

Scarlett Berry:

“Fuck yeah!” Scarlett giggled excitedly when Hunter got out of the car, following suit and going inside with him. Greeting the woman with an awkward smile, she glanced around. “Yeah, actually, I spoke with someone named Bill and set up an appointment with him for me and my friend here. I’m Scarlett.” She said, introducing herself.

The woman glanced down at the book in front of her, flipping the page and nodded with an almost-smile. “Super, Bill will be ready soon.” She said as she marked down that the two were there, before leaving the room, seemingly uninterested. It made Scarlett chuckle as she looked up at Hunter. “Same. Maybe I should dye my hair purple, what do you think?” She smiled, looking up at him. “I should get my nose pierced again, too.” Scarlett was mostly thinking out loud, the feeling of being in the tattoo parlor gave her a rush and she liked it and wanted to do all of the rebellious things.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter watched the exchange silently, unsure of who this Bill person was and what exactly he had planned for the two of them. The uncertainty of the situation itself was both thrilling and nerve-racking.

When Scarlett asked about changing her hair, Hunter furrowed his brow. “What's wrong with the way your hair looks now? I like the red streak; it makes calling you ‘Red’ that much more satisfying,” he replied honestly. “A nose piercing sounds like that's within your character, though.” He tried to picture himself with a zany hair color or metal studs in his face but it didn't feel right-- those things just weren't Hunter Clarington.

While they waited for Bill to greet them, Hunter walked over to the books that held various art pieces that were meant to inspire. Many of them looked cool but he wasn't sure what he thought of them being on him. To him, a tattoo had to have meaning since it'd be on him for life. “Are we getting, like, matching tattoos?” Hunter asked his friend, wondering to himself what his boyfriend would think if he came home with Scarlett's name on his unmarred skin.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett looked down at her long hair, picking at the red bunch and twisting it around her finger, smiling to herself. “Yeah? You like the red?” She shrugged. “I used to have blue hair, you know, you’ve seen the pictures.” The girl chuckled as she watched Hunter go over to one of the books, following close by to look over his shoulder at the art.

“We can if you want to,” She shrugged, grinning a little. “You can get my name on your ass and I’ll get my own name on mine.” Scarlett teased him as she walked around to lean against the counter that held the books. “No, I know what you’re getting. You just have to figure out what I’m getting.” She said, raising her eyebrows. “And you better make it good, Hunt. I don’t need something stupid on me forever.” As she said that, a thought crossed her mind that made her life. “Like the Target logo on my ass-- though that would be hilarious.”

Hunter Clarington:

“The blue was nice, too. But I think the red is hot,” Hunter told her in a matter-of-fact tone.

When Scarlett revealed to him that they were choosing each other's tattoos, the man furrowed his brow again. He hadn't given it much thought and the notion of impulsively choosing an image or word that Scarlett would get permanently etched onto her body increased Hunter's nervousness. It was a heavy responsibility and he wouldn't dare make a mistake. Still, he knew that she was like water; she went with the flow of things. Where he was nervous, she was thriving. Where he was apprehensive, she was diving in head first.

“Scar, I can't just come up with an awesome tattoo design on the spot like this,” he protested as he turned to face her. He reached out for the strands of bright red hair sticking out from behind her brunette locks. “A tattoo isn't like hair where you can go changing it whenever you feel like…” he mumbled, twirling her red hair around his finger. He cracked a slight smile, an idea hitting him like a Eureka moment. “Wait, I think I just thought of a great tattoo?” He said, sounding a bit uncertain.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett didn’t move away as Hunter stepped closer, she watched him carefully as he reached forward to play with her hair himself. She liked that he was so comfortable with her, he liked that he wasn’t wary about being close to her or touching her. It gave her a smug sense of pride knowing that Blaine would be absolutely beside himself if he were to know what they were doing. Glancing down at his hand, her hair wrapped around his finger, her heart skipped a beat and she cleared her throat to shake it off as her brown eyes lifted to the smile spreading across his face. She liked his smile.

“Yeah?” Scarlett’s eyebrows raised when he said he actually had a great idea. “Perfect! Let’s do this then, babe.” She crinkled her nose at him, she knew he wouldn’t let her down. As much as he trusted her, and as much as she would never admit it, she trusted him too. Against all of her better judgment.

“Scarlett?” A gruff voice came from a doorway leading back to where the magic happened, causing her to whip around, an excited smile on her face as she faced the balding man with a very thought out handlebar mustache and beard combo. “Ready when you are, do you have your art chosen?” He asked and Scarlett eagerly nodded her head as she reached into her pocket.

“Yes! My friend here will be getting this but-- don’t show him ‘til it’s done.” She said, handing him a piece of paper. “And put it right here on his pectoral, right over his heart.” Scarlett instructed, patting Hunter on the chest.

Hunter Clarington:

It was difficult to tell whether the man was amused or annoyed by Scarlett's request of no peeking, but he nodded nonetheless and motioned for Hunter to get in the tattoo chair. “Hop aboard, sailor,” he said in his gruff voice as he looked at the paper that had the art on it. “I'll go make a stencil; be right back.”

“Why can't I see until it's done?” Hunter asked the girl as he removed his shirt, seeing as how his chest was about to become a canvas for the tattoo artist. “Is it going to be a penis tattoo? Or something gross like a Teletubbie?”

When Bill returned with the stencil, he had Hunter lean back in the chair. “Just stare up at the ceiling and we'll get this, uh, Teletubbie drawn on you,” he joked, clearly having overheard Hunter.

With being restricted to look down, Hunter couldn't exactly see the man working and it made him anxious. He heard the tattoo gun startup and it made him jolt a bit in the chair; he wasn't necessarily afraid but this was a completely new experience for him. He reached out almost instinctively for Scarlett's hand and held it in a firm grip.

“Relax, fella,” Bill patted Hunter's chest with one of his gloved hands. “You won't even feel a damn thing.”

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett giggled as Hunter and the tattoo artist both joked about the Teletubbie and she shook her head. “No, it’s definitely a giant cock.” She laughed before taking a seat on a nearby stool, scooting it closer to where Hunter was sitting. “Oh you’ll be fine, it’ll only hurt a lot.” She said as she let him take her hand, exchanging a look with the artists and sharing a laugh as they’d said opposite things. “Calm down big baby.” Scarlett patted his hand.

“No turning back now,” She grinned at Bill and then at Hunter, watching as the needle came in contact with his skin, excited for the outcome. Scarlett’s gut told her this was the worst idea she’d had since she agreed to be fuck buddies with Hunter when they first met, but it Scarlett was infamous for anything it was not listening to her gut feelings. “Surely the professor won’t mind my name on your chest, yeah?” She smirked, holding his hand tight, lacing their fingers together.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter was in no way afraid of needles but when he felt the tattoo gun first come into contact with his skin, he felt a coiling in the pit of his stomach he'd never had before. Still, with Scarlett there beside him he managed to overcome his nerves. It honestly didn't hurt but the close proximity to his heart made him a bit nervous. “Oh, is that what I'm getting tattooed on me? I'm sure Blaine will be thrilled,” he chuckled. He could tell by the way the artist was drawing the shape that this wasn't lettering.

He couldn't look down but felt their fingers laced together and it made him smile broadly. As nervous as this made him, it was actually a lot of fun and incredibly adventurous. Before this, Hunter had never before even thought about getting anywhere near a tattoo parlor. “I hope you like the tattoo I thought up for you; you might not like it at first but I think it'll be cool.”

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett couldn’t wipe the smile from her face as she went back and forth between watching the tattoo artist work and Hunter’s face. “Yeah, no, he’ll be so hella jealous I got to your heart first.” She said before almost immediately flushing red, realizing how her statement sounded. “Ew, gross, not like that, obviously. But like, you know.” She furrowed her brow, shaking her head. “Shut up.” She said before Hunter even said anything, rolling her eyes.

The tattoo Scarlett had created for Hunter was relatively simple and small and only required minimal detail, it took about half an hour or less for Bill to finish up. Scarlett held Hunter’s hand the entire time, even catching herself absentmindedly caressing his hand with her thumb— which she promptly stomped each time she realized.

Hunter Clarington:

Scarlett's words about getting to his heart made Hunter beam with a smile so wide, it could cure cancer. He knew she didn’t mean it in such a heartfelt way, judging from her facial expression she wanted to reject it completely but Hunter knew. There was something in the back of his mind that wanted to speak up and say more to her statement but he decided against it. He kept quiet as the girl continued on with her little façade, her reaction enough to amuse and satisfy him.

“Almost done, kid,” Bill said in his gruff voice as he moved away momentarily to change colors and put the finishing touches on the tattoo. The entire experience was just short of an ordeal; the pain was manageable but it wasn’t Hunter’s favorite, either. When Bill wiped away the excess ink and blood, he motioned for the man to get up and go look at the finished work in the mirror. Hunter did just that, walking toward his reflection and he looked down at his chest. It took only a moment to recognize not only the object but what it meant. “Is that a raspberry?” he laughed, reaching up to touch the freshly inked flesh. A red berry. Scarlett Berry. “That’s so silly,” he laughed again, “I love it.”

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett ignored Hunter’s smile and stayed focused on the tattoo being punched into his skin, only grinning to herself a little when she was sure he wasn’t looking. When Bill was all finished, she let go of Hunter’s hand and stood up to follow him excitedly to watch the big reveal, looking from the raspberry to his face. Biting her lip, she clapped her hands and raised her eyebrows. When he questioned it, she stayed quiet as she watched the realization wash over his stupid face and it made her chuckle softly. “Yeah?” She asked, coming around in front of him to get a better look, she let her finger trace around the reddened area and a wide grin spread across her face.

“It suits you,” She said softly. “Kind of like me.” Scarlett chuckled, glancing up at him, shaking her head. “I honestly can’t believe you did it-- what are you going to tell Bowties?”

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter looked away from his reflection-- which was difficult because he looked so damn attractive-- to the girl in front of him, who looked rather pleased with herself. Going through with this made her incredibly happy and even if it was a silly tattoo, Hunter knew it was worth it in the end. Besides, now he'd have a permanent reminder of her and no matter how much she might try to drive distance between them because she “didn't do feelings”, this tattoo represented otherwise.

“Not sure,” he replied simply to her question as he gave a vague shrug of his shoulders. “I'll tell him you and I got matching tattoos to commemorate our friendship.” Bill came around to clean the tattoo and dress it in a bandage, and Hunter allowed him to do so as he carried on his conversation with Scarlett. “It's not a lie and besides, he shouldn't have a problem with me having friends.”

“You're up, little lady.” Bill announced as he cleaned his station and patted the chair for Scarlett to take a seat.

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett snorted when Hunter said he would be honest with Blaine, knowing full well that conversation wouldn’t go as Hunter was imagining. “Good luck with that, bro.” She said with an eyebrow raise, shaking her head. She almost felt bad that it was so easy to get Hunter to follow her around the way he did, knowing full well Blaine would hate it. Almost.

When it was her turn to hop into the chair, she looked over at Hunter expectantly, waiting to hear where she was getting her new ink. “Where am I getting this?” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re gonna say my tit just so I’ll take my shirt off aren’t you?”

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter grinned as he watched her get into the chair, seemingly excited to blindly get some new ink. Her comment about her tit made him-- and Bill-- laugh. “No, I won't subject you to that,” Hunter said, motioning to pull the tattoo artist aside to discuss his idea. He made sure to whisper quietly enough that Scarlett wouldn't hear them and when the message was received, Bill gave a nod as he twirled at his mustache.

“What a guy you got there,” Bill told Scarlett as he got his equipment ready and placed the red ink front and center.

Hunter approached the chair once again and brought a seat up to her left side, reaching out to take her left hand into his own. “You'll have to hold my hand with this one because he'll be inking up the other,” he informed her as Bill motioned for her to put her hand on top the thick armrest. The tattoo gun buzzed to life and Hunter waggled his eyebrows at his friend.

Scarlett Berry:

As Scarlett settled in the chair, waiting for the two men to finish up with their secret discussion, she felt excited. She was so ready for the rush that she got when she felt the needle against her skin. She also liked the thrill of not knowing what she was getting-- she trusted Hunter and she knew whatever he chose would be perfect for her. When Bill came over to take his place and he uttered his statement, Scarlett’s forehead wrinkled in curiosity. Quite a guy I’ve got. It made her chuckle out loud, even strangers thought she had him.

Her brown eyes glanced over to Hunter when he sat to take her hand, looking back at Bill to place her other hand where instructed. “A hand tattoo?” She questioned, smiling a little. “I like it.” Scarlett laced her fingers with Hunter’s and she looked at him. “What am I getting? Are you putting berries on me too?” He eyes fell to the red berry on his chest and it made her smile. Biting on her lip, she raised her eyebrows. “Do you really like yours?” Her voice softening.

Hunter Clarington:

“You’ll see,” Hunter stated simply, the coy expression he supplied her making himself laugh a bit. He could see why she liked introducing him into the unknown; it definitely had its perks.

When Scarlett asked about his new tattoo, he nodded confidently. “I really do, yes,” he assured her, placing his free hand over his chest. “I like that I’ll be able to see it in the mirror whenever I’m admiring my perfect visage and physique.” As he spoke he held his chin up, knowing his statement was sure to have the girl rolling her eyes. He liked being cocky and knew it got a reaction out of her every time he spoke on it. “I like that you didn’t go the general route of just getting your name or your face. This is… special.”

The tattoo gun shut off and Bill declared that he was finished; it had taken significantly less time to do Scarlett’s tattoo compared to Hunter’s. Since it was right there on her hand, Hunter looked down to see it for himself as well, looking back to the girl for her initial reaction. “It’s a red thread of fate. The story behind it is that no matter the time or place, the two that are tied together with this thread are destined to meet one another in a certain situation or help each other in a certain way. So, regardless of wherever the fuck we end up, we’ll always be best friends and find our ways back to each other.” Hunter explained, reaching out to get a better look. The tattoo was a simple, thin band that went around the diameter of her pinky finger, a tiny bow on top. Along the outside of her hand, the thread looped into the simple cursive letters that spelt his name.

Scarlett Berry:

When the tattoo gun stopped way sooner than she expected, Scarlett looked to Bill with a raised eyebrow. “Done already?” She glanced down at her hand just as Hunter did and she listened as he explained the meaning to her. She’d heard of the story before but she never believed in it, she didn’t believe in soulmates or anything of the sort- even now when she knew deep down her connection with Hunter was no accident, she still struggled to believe in it. That didn’t stop her stomach, however, from flipping upside down when she turned her hand over to see his name written along her hand.

Scarlett felt extremely heavy and light in that moment, she felt the burning sensation running through her entire body- the feeling that only Hunter was able to ignite. She hated it, she hated him for doing this to her. Biting down on her lip, Scarlett shook her head. “You are so fucking corny.” She teased him, doing her best to hide the fact that she wanted to cry, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to cry because she felt things for and from Hunter that she wasn’t allowed to feel and it was difficult. Pushing at him playfully, Scarlett shook her head and stood up from the chair. “Thank you, Bill.” She then looked at Hunter again. “Pay the man, doll, I need to call my sister—I totally forgot.” She lied, doing her best to keep her cool until she was outside, finally able to take the deep, shaky breath she was holding in. “Jesus, fuck, Scar, what the hell are you doing?” She muttered to herself.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter had had a feeling before Bill had even started up the tattoo gun that she would try to reject it. He knew her all too well and that she didn't “do feelings”, but he also knew that was a load of crap.

After settling up the bill with Bill and giving him a nice little tip, he joined Scarlett outside after she'd had a moment to herself. “You don't have to hide the fact that you obviously love the tattoo I got for you,” he said with his usual cockiness. He was wearing his shirt again and handed the girl an after-care pamphlet. “I doubt you need this since it's not your first rodeo but Bill gave these to us.”

He gently reached out for her hand, bringing it closer to her to get a closer look. It was a simple and cute tattoo; great in its significance rather than its visual presentation. “It looks good on you.”

Scarlett Berry:

Scarlett sucked in a breath when Hunter came outside, looking at him and smiling a little. “Shut the fuck up.” She chuckled, taking the pamphlet and shoving it in her back pocket. “Yeah I know, lotion and no ocean. Blah blah.”

Her breath caught in her throat when Hunter took her hand and she watched his face carefully as he inspected her new ink, her heart skipped a beat and attempted to crawl up her throat to nestle against the breath she was holding. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have words to say to him, so she expressed herself the only way she knew how. She wrapped her hand around his to pull him close to her without warning and she crashed their lips together in slow, passionate kiss.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter acted before he thought, melting into the kiss and reciprocating in earnest. Her lips were soft and kissing her was always amazing. Nights together in bed flashed before his eyes that reminded him of what was once too good. His other hand wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer for just a moment. Their lips moved against one another in sync, both especially familiar with each other. When he pulled back from the kiss, he felt something stirring in the pit of his belly. His boyfriend was an afterthought as he looked at the beautiful girl in front of him.

“Wow,” he started speaking, a slight chuckle falling from his lips. “Where'd that come from?” He didn't know what to make of the kiss but he knew that he'd enjoyed it.

Scarlett Berry:

When Hunter didn’t hesitate at all, Scarlett pulled herself closer to him and she melted into him as well as she kissed him deeply. He still wanted her and she felt it and that’s what she needed in that moment. When their kiss came to an end, she stayed close to him, her hands resting on his biceps.

Licking her lips slowly, she took a soft breath, the corner of her lips quirking. It was like an addict taking a hit of their vice, she felt mildly recharged in that moment. Leaving her eyes closed, she wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know, Hunter.” She said his full name, fighting the feeling of being vulnerable with him. She hated it. That moment of bliss from kissing him was over and all she wanted was to kiss him again, take him home and fuck these feelings away. “Sorry.” Her hands dropped to his stomach, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, trying to physically stay in that moment before reality settled in.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter frowned when she so suddenly seemed to recoil into herself after what he felt was such a wonderful kiss. But he too had to return to reality and face that fact that he was already in a committed relationship with Blaine. While he and Scarlett toed the line between “friendship” and “something more”, they both knew they both would never be anything but what they already were.

“No, I'm sorry,” Hunter apologized as he looked down at her, his hands coming up to just barely hold her arms. Their kiss and embrace were both too short; something about her called to him. “I should've known better and made you get a silly tattoo and not something… meaningful.” But of course, he wanted to show her his relationship with her was meaningful to him. She meant something to him-- a lot, actually.

Scarlett Berry:

When Hunter apologized for the tattoo she rolled her eyes, finally opening then to look up at him. “Shut up, you know I love it even if it’s gross.” She said, sighing as she looked down at her hands, picking at his shirt.

After a long moment, she sighed heavily and shrugged. “I don’t know, I just wanted to kiss you. I like kissing you because I can.” She said honestly. “And your stupid magnetic field I get caught in and shit.” Scarlett looked up at him. “Maybe that’s not being just friends, but—“ All She did was shrug, she didn’t know how to voice her feelings and she didn’t want to admit she was feeling anything. She just wanted to kiss him again to make the conversation end and to curb her craving. Looking up at him and narrowing her eyes. “I hate you.” She said, a tiny twitch tugging the corner of her lips.

Hunter Clarington:

Hunter knew what she was trying to say. Their relationship was atypical and they had had an intense sexual relationship first and then became close friends. It seemed to the outside eye more often than not that the two were a couple when that simply wasn't the case. Truth be told, he liked kissing her too and this incident was something he planned to keep to himself.

“I hate you too,” he said with a fond smile, deciding against telling her they couldn't kiss. He knew it wasn't going to be an everyday occurrence and if happened again, then he could say something. But he wanted this excursion to end on a happy note. “Did you have any plans for after this? Maybe we can get a friendly drink together?”

Scarlett Berry:

When Hunter said he hated her too, she felt her stomach flip and it made her pull away from him with a grossed out groan, shaking her hands a little. “Must you make everything so gross?” She blamed him, mirroring his fond grin before answering his question.

“Of course, you’re buying me dinner.” She said, taking his hand and spinning herself around once and tugging him close so his arm was around her neck, still holding his hand as she led the way to her car.

Scarlett had no idea what she was doing but she knew she was fucked.

#glee rp #huntchel #hunter clarington #rachel berry #Rachel Berry twin rp #Para: Hunter #Para #Hunter #Paras

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