If there’s anything that can be called “unintentional porn”, Father Figure probably would be it.  That is, this novel came out from continuous ‘assignments’ in form of kinks and themes from TogaQ.  I am usually unmotivated on writing new kinks.  Even the pairing that places the older character on the bottom’s something I’ve never done before.  But, writing for a high-caliber artist who gets paid into thousands of dollars per cover means I have to get out of the comfort zone of writing what I am used to. 

Father Figure does have something I endear and makes the writing interesting.  I have a particular interest in writing cops – both as good and bad ones.  Especially psychotic types – for no particular reason except that it’s liberating to write a character that’s unapologetic on what he is and what he does.  I like characters that makes you feel uncomfortable and drags his knife over the most visceral fears.  And then throw H on top of that since it is a requisite of the genre I am working in.

With that said, I really need to post a lot of warnings for this novel – although most of it will not appear in chapter 1.  Asides from the incest angle, there will be quite a bit of non-con and psychotic episodes.  Father Figure will make CTBK a nice, romantic read.  Yes yes, we are capable of writing ‘nice things’. This just isn’t one of them.  We are not certain the fate of this novel yet; if it will just end up as a web-novel or something we’ll continue to do as an exercise between ourselves.  TogaQ is eyeing this as a possible next manga project but somehow, I doubt additional hours in a day would sprout out for her to make it happen.

This is just a preview post with one of the character’s design for now. The rest with one of TogaQ’s illustrations will be posted in a few days.  

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                It started with a letter.

                I wrote him a letter on the Almalfi paper I had purchased years ago in Florence – the laser printer inked neatly inside the embossed ivy border.  I wrote only a paragraph but I read it over and over again – several times out loud to hear the ridiculousness of it.  It was.  But it was also sincere.  He would have to appreciate the truth for what it was.

                I folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope with the similar paper, but only  with two ivy leaves in the four corners.  I wrote the first letter to his name in the center of it with red ink.

                U.

                I stroked it with my gloved finger, smudging the ink. 

                I was not there when he read the letter. But I knew he had.  Although it was only October and the temperature rarely dipped below the 70s, he started to wear his long black winter coat.  His attempt on concealing himself from the world; even if it was a little and pointless.  I found his modesty endearing.

                I let him be for two weeks and gradually, his fears ebbed and he returned the coat into his closet.  He had become more cautious though.  He had stopped picking up his landline, allowing the answering machine to pick up his calls and returning them on his cell phone.

                I sent him another letter.  Same stationary.  The words on them had changed.  I sent him an advice instead.

                Don’t talk to strangers.

                Although it was a short letter, he had become visibly shaken by it.  His hand shook as he opened and read the letter by the mailbox slots of our apartment complex.  I had stood by the counter nearby, pretending to sort through my own mail.  I savored the sensation that course through me then, as I watched him.

                Unexpectedly, he crumbled the paper in his hand and glanced around the lobby.  He saw me, studied me for a moment then walked toward the trash receptacle.

                “Something wrong, sir?”

                He froze in his step first and looked at me, uncertainty was all he shows on his already worried face.

                “What?”

                “You look upset.”

                He shrugged.

                “It’s nothing,” he said and tossed the crumpled letter I had left in his mailbox into the trash.  He watched the flap of the lid swing back and forth, then it slowed to a stop. 

                “Nothing at all,” he said softly. 

                “You sure?” I said, presenting to him a practiced look that I had perfected from work.  “I am experienced in picking up these things.”

                His eyebrows furrowed.

                “What things?” He said.  He was suddenly cautious and he took a step back away from me.

                “No worries, sir,” I said as fished out the wallet from my pocket.  His look of concern lingered on his face even as he caught a glimpse of my badge clipped inside.  I took out one of my business cards and gave it to him. “I can just sense it when people are bothered by…not so trivial things.”

                He stared at the badge for as long as I had kept it open view.  He finally looked up only when I had closed the wallet.

                “I see,” he said.  He didn’t sound any less relaxed.

                “Is there something I can help you with?”

                He chewed on his lower lip and shook his head.

                “It’s nothing,” he said.  “Thank you for your concern.”

                He looked at the card I gave him.

                “I live in the rear building,” I said, gesturing toward that direction.  “Just give me a call if you need something.”

                He nodded.  His defense never lowered.  He put the card into his pocket and he held out a hand.

                “I’m being rude,” he said.  “I never introduced myself.  My name’s Uriel.”

                He didn’t offer me his last name.  I took his hand and shook it.

                “Very unsual name,” I commented.  “One of the archangels.”

                He smiled.  It was the kind of smile that didn’t mean anything except that he was probably tired of someone making that obvious remark whenever he offered his name. 

                “Thank you for being concerned about me,” he said.  “If you will pardon me…”

                I could still feel the warmth of his hand in mine, even after he had ascended up the stairs and turned the corner toward the elevator.  I gathered my mail and papers from the counter and tucked it under my arm.  But before I left the lobby, I retrieved the crumpled letter from the trash and took it with me.               

                I hadn’t known of his existence for most of my life.  I had learned it among one of the papers mother had put away in a yellow-and-green box.  It was a box that she had used to archive yellowed photos of people I didn’t know and of whom she had never talked about.  The same box that had the copy of her car title and deed to the small townhouse she owned.  Same townhouse she had passed away in one night in her sleep; succumbed to throat cancer.  In the box, a copy of my birth certificate that had the name of someone mother never spoke of.

                Uriel Blackstone.

                By the time of this discovery, I had been in the police force for over four years.  I had ample knowledge and means to find this one person.  The sole biological connection left in an isolated life that mother had given to me.  Even at 23, I was excited to have a father again.  I used any and all means to find him – uncaring of my own fears of his rejections or anger at the unexpected life intrusion of a son he may not have known he had.

               After eight months, I had found him. He had moved into a different State; a suburb.  I had taken leave to seek him out.  To see what kind of person he was.  What he had looked like.  Perhaps summarize why mother had never spoke of him all of her life although she had kept his name as the father on the certificate.

              His name was unusual.  He was easy to find.  I found him at work at a small firm that dealt with investments.  He wore expensive suits and sported an expensive haircut.  He looked prim and unlike his age.  There was a silver band on his ring finger but I had known he was no longer married.  I found and read the report of his wife who had perished in a car accident.  They had a son who had survived the accident, just two years younger than me. 

              I watched him for three days, following him to study his routine.  He didn’t have unusual habits.  He went to work, took lunch breaks with his colleagues at a local eatery they walked to.  Then he would go home in the late model Lexus at a small gated community called Golden Falls  Estates.

              I resigned from my post after I came back from leave and asked to be transferred.  I wanted to be close to my father.  Of course, I could not tell my supervisors that.  His existence mattered only to me.  No one needed to know. 

              Before that year ended, I would be a new officer of the very town father lived in and I would be a new resident of the Golden Falls Estates.  I had insisted to the broker on a particular apartment that was across a small courtyard from father’s building.  I could see his living room through my bedroom window.  I was happy.  I would get up early each day to see him prepare for work, walk out of his own apartment and slip into his black sedan.  Soon after he left, I would be ready to go to work myself.  Filled with thoughts of him for the day.

              I hadn’t planned on writing to him until the Friday I did not see him return.  Then on the Saturday afternoon, he had come home.  There was a woman with him.  I was enraged.  And my anger continued to flare as I watched him walk the woman up the stairs to his apartment.  From my window, I can only catch scant sights of them passing through the living room.  I came to a decision what to do when the woman stayed through Sunday.  Father had to be warned about the dangers that came with company of strangers. 

              But first, I needed to be sure, although I was quite certain he was my father.  I needed to be absolutely sure.