#<- even though like. two characters on here count as bugs...

[slumbergoblin]

[noir-renard]

For @haunting-heroes-creative-games Poetry-Inspired GTA, I made this comic based on "10 legs, 8 broken" by tiktok user68519586.

For those unfamiliar with the poem, it's a conversation between a spider and the human who squashed it. It's a poem that reframed how I think about and interact with bugs in my house, so it's important to me personally; but what really stuck with me is the hate the human has for the spider, mingled with fear and a sense of entitlement, it reminds me of the way the various anti-ghost characters in Danny Phantom talk about ghosts, from the disgust to the lack of care about a ghost's sense of pain, self, and existence in a world that is shared (even if ghosts are "from" the ghost zone (though many of them used to be humans, so really they're not only from the GZ)). Spiders are distinct from other kinds of bugs; as any Spider-Man fan surely knows, they're not insects! They're arachnids. They help control other kinds of bugs onenmight not want in one's house for various reasons. So Danny as the role of the spider in the poem is fitting on several levels.

When making this comic, I wanted to create distance between the humans and their humnity because of how they act, so I hid their eyes, including Jack who usually does not wear his goggles. Eyes are the windows to the soul, so by keeping theirneyes hidden from our sight (and Danny’s), we get perspective into how he's feeling. Danny only ever has one eye showing at a time because of his own internal conflict about his status as human. There's a secret eye hidden in one of the panels, though. Can you find it? (Hint: it's symbolic)

I might post a part 2 to this eventually, but I think it feels complete as is. So we'll see!

Full poem under cut!

To the spider,

the shadowed creature in the corner of the room

i hate you.

You scared me just as your brothers and sisters did before you,

and i will tell you what i told them,

You are a trespasser that does not belong here.

You entered without knocking.

Roamed freely like this is your home and decorated my walls with unwanted, silk webs without asking.

You may not be the only killer here, but only one of us is innocent, a

nd it's not you.

The spider says to me, it's brittle body squashed and dying,

It's not you, either.

There is venom infused in my fang-shaped maws,

but i was born this way.

What's your excuse?

If you could count your murders, how long would you be counting?

Am i really this threatening?

I thought human hearts were bigger that mine, but you have killed with malice instead of marrow of your bones and poison bubbling

behind your scowl

And i'm sorry for scaring you,

but i didn't know being seen would cost me my life.

Maybe

If you didn't fabricate the prickly feeling of my legs creeping upon your skin while I crawled across the living room floor,

If the webs I weaved were made of cotton candy and captured clementines, cherries, and sweet peas rather than struggling wings and blood;

If i had a pink tongue, push fur, a wagging tail, and fur legs instead of eight

If i had only two eyes, and they were glittering stars and not supermassive block holes;

If i was the same but looked different; maybe you wouldn't hate me.

Maybe you wouldn't have loved me, either, and maybe you still wouldn't have let me stay,

but maybe you would've shown me the door or a window.

Maybe you would've shown me mercy.

(But you are still standing, and I am still sorry).

I think

maybe,

no matter how reluctant,

mercy would've been enough.

[4kozy]

‘25 bonnie and clyde

manon. ( without you, i got nothing to lose )

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

pairing | manon x fem!reader

tw 🥏 | violence, blood, angst, implied mental illness, major character death, slight nsfw, fluff that may rot ur teeth or make u feel even more terrified, mentions of suicidal ideation/suicide, food mentions, light mention of drug use. ( not proofread )

genre + wc | angst, fluff + ( 8.5k? 8.6k? )

syn | manon never expected to be on the run with her bestfriend–but here she is anyway, in far too deep; far too in love; far too insane to stop herself from seeing this all the way through. a.k.a, your life on the run with manon bannerman.

an | lost motivation on this half way through, so ignore the rushing at the end… i love u manon…

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

Manon once told you that you could come over anytime: she’d always be there for you.

You were sure that it applied to now: banging on her door, in the cold, covered in blood, bruises, and raindrops. You needed her now more than you ever had before, and to be fair, she was your best friend after all. And it isn’t like you had any other option, given the state you were in.

There’s a muffled yell of “I’m coming, I’m coming,” from inside.

You take a glance around you, the world still and quiet, despite what had just taken place.

Despite what you had just taken: a life.

A life, that while kept you alive, probably wasn’t a good thing for the people that knew the guy–oh, and him too. It definitely wasn’t a good thing for the dead man.

A life: and you were covered in it. Covered in a man’s blood. Blood that was once very warm; now freezing against your skin.

You hear a flurry of stomps heading towards you from behind the door, and it swings open, revealing an extremely tired Manon.

“Whoever the fuck you are, it’s really fucking weird to do that shit at–“ she pauses, wide-eyed.

Manon’s always had the kind of eyes that knew more than they let on. The kind that observed, no, analyzed everything thoroughly with a doe-like gaze that made it seemed innocent.

And this is anything but. She’s looking at you like you’re the every bit of evil you believe you are, seeing through you completely. Seeing all your sins, like she’s some saint, and you’re the one she’s purifying with that stare of hers.

You don’t look away; you’re unable to.

“Get the hell in here, and hurry up,” she says.

You listen.

━ ★

You sit in silence in her dining room, as she’s in her bathroom looking for first aid.

It’s the same as always. That lonely light hanging over the table; the antique table you two thrifted when she first moved in; the flowers, the dozen-count box of half eaten donuts: it’s all so familiar. If you could pretend the blood-soaked bag wasn’t in the corner, it’d fill your heart with fondness.

Now you’re sitting and feeling as though you’re dirtying the atmosphere just by being here.

She walks in after what feels like forever.

“Take them off,” Manon whispers gently.

She’s got her kit in her hand, while she looks at you expectantly. It takes no further elaboration. You let your leather jacket fall to the floor with a heavy thud and clack, and take off your bloody shirt.

She doesn’t say anything else after that, choosing to instead pull up a chair and get to work. Manon knows it’s not enough for you: the way you were limping, she assumed you sprained your ankle and both your eyes were swollen. Knots and lumps were forming on you like bug bites, your nose was leaking like a faucet, and cuts were littered all over you–you needed serious medical attention. Not the kind that you could get just anywhere.

But worryingly, for whatever reason, you were too scared to go. Or maybe you were too stupid.

She lifts your right arm gently, but you snatch it back in fear. It’s definitely the latter. Her hand balls up in annoyance.

She raises her eyebrow at you, as if to say, are you serious?

“It’s gonna hurt, Manz!” you say, looking at her for mercy, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit moved.

Her eyebrows knit together in irritation. “Have I hurt you before?”

You don’t answer verbally, resorting to a lift of your head and a sneer; keeping your own arm hostage.

“I promise you’ll be okay,” she groans. “Now come here.”

Your eyes dart back and forth, from your arm to her hands, which curiously enough, have loosened from a fist to an open palm.

You begrudgingly surrender and grimace when she begins to disinfect the open wounds.

It reminds her of the times she patched you up before. The first time she’d ever done it was when you were 5. You had scraped your knee playing tag, and she had to sneak you in as best she could, trying not to get in trouble. You were snotting everywhere, shaking, and wailing like a siren when she sauntered up to you and stuffed half a cookie in your mouth.

Here, she said. Your half, my half. She took your cookie-induced silence to her full advantage, placing the crayon themed bandage over the red and giving it a tiny kiss afterwards.

The other times she’d done it? You were just clumsy at work. But she still took it seriously anyway, each incident like a way she showed she cared.

She still does care, even now. Even when there’s disappointment lingering behind eyes that show worry.

As the time passes, you can feel her irritation growing.

You audibly swallow, the need to apologize starting to force its way through your sense of reason, because of course, Manon feels the need to take care of you–pity you, as if you two were still those naïve kids who had too many ideas, and not enough sense.

She snaps her head up at the noise. “Don’t.”

Usually, you had better judgement, obviously she doesn’t want to hear you, but the warning falls on deaf ears.

“Manz, I–“ you start.

She cuts you off a glare. “Hush. I’m working.”

You wince when she rubs alcohol a little too hard on a particularly deep cut on your arm, but you continue. “I’m sorry,” you say.

“If you were sorry, you would’ve put this off until morning, Yn,” she sucks in a breath, clearly trying to keep her cool. “You know I’ve got work tomorrow. It’s 2 in the damn morning.”

“I didn’t mean to do this to you, Manz, I just–“

“You’re always doing this,” she interrupts. “I told you to hush. You can be sorry when you’re done looking it.”

You stay quiet. She’s pissed, as anyone else would be, and the point was made.

She was angry. In fact, you’d be terrified if she wasn’t. But Manon was a lot of things, and loud and angry wasn’t one of them. Most of the time.

She was always expressive in subtle ways. Her face could speak more than necessary, without a word ever leaving her lips. Though, she definitely could’ve been screaming at you in this moment, she wasn’t.

She didn’t need to. You could feel it. Could feel it in the way that she almost threw the bottle of rubbing alcohol every time she was putting it down. Feel it when she grumbled under her breath, and the weight of guilt began to crush you with every single word and without reservation.

But you could also feel the hesitation in her fingertips, like the gentle touches were little reminders of her attentiveness, her intrinsic need to keep you safe, even when she was trying to make you feel the tiniest bit hurt.

You could feel it when she was cleaning you up, taking care of you, and not once asking about what happened. She didn’t need an explanation–she didn’t even need a hello. She saw you, and that was all she needed.

And even though she was pretty harsh with you, you couldn’t help but to be grateful.

She takes your other arm, dropping the bloody tissue to the floor, and spends the next thirty minutes cleaning that one too.

It’s only when she looks up that you notice it. Her eyes are red and glossy. Your chest tightens; it’s suddenly so much harder to breathe in here.

“Manz, I’m sorry.” There’s pathetic tone in your voice.

“Look at me,” Manon says, grabbing your jaw and your attention. She moves you around gently, examining you as if she’d never seen you before, her fingertips like fire, making you burn hot. “You look like shit, girl. Be sorry to yourself.”

She presses a soft kiss to your forehead, forgiving. Kind. Subtle. All the things that make you feel nervous, all the things you weren’t anymore, before handing you more tissues for your nose and walking away to get something cold for your eyes.

“You’re crashing at mine tonight.”

You can’t help but release a choked sob, a gut wrenching feeling taking over you as you cry like you’ve never cried before.

━ ★

You wake up the next morning on the couch with peas on your face, in her clothes, and in confusion. You’re in a daze trying to recall the events of last night, them feeling more like a nightmare than reality.

Checking the time, 10:57, you figured Manon was already at work, so you got up with a yawn and struggled to the kitchen to make yourself something eat–until you see the note stuck on the fridge.

food is in here if you want it! yk i can’t cook so don’t talk shit if you CHOOSE to eat it:( i love you, rest well - manz ( who else would it be )

A smile grows on your face with the words you read. It was just like her to be a big baby in a written note. You take the plate out and heat it up.

It’s not very good, admittedly.

Okay, it’s bad. Really bad.

In your relationship, she was more of the eater; you were her chef, if you could say that. But the thought counts, you figure, lifting the fork to your mouth for another bite of burnt eggs. It was definitely thoughtful!

You laugh to yourself, thinking of ways you could make fun of her for this as you cut on the TV.

And then your blood runs cold.

Right on the screen is the man from last night, and reporters swarming the crime scene.

You can’t hear anything anymore, and you can’t even pretend to. All you can hear is blood pounding your ears; you feel dizzy–but curiously, you can’t think about anything but Manon. How she would react, what she would do to you, how you wouldn’t ever see her again…

You don’t know what to do.

It’s no secret anymore, no hushed meeting in the dark of morning: they’d know it was you without a doubt. You’d be sent to prison for life if you were lucky, and if you weren’t? You’d end up dead.

It’s not like you meant to either! One moment, you’re walking home, trying to navigate dark alleyways and claustrophobic spaces. Trying to ignore a man following behind you. Trying to ignore the way your chest is pounding and the way air just can’t seem to stay inside you, hurriedly escaping while you hopelessly try to keep it in, to no avail. Trying to ignore the fact that your legs are moving faster than your rationale.

The next moment, he’s pressing forward; a glinting dark object in his right hand, and his left hand coming straight for you. He steps on your left leg, knocking you to the ground with a hard punch. And it’s in this moment that you realize it.

In a fight or flight situation, you fight.

He’s on top of you: gun to your face like he’s got something to prove, demanding that you hand over your bag, and you snap. In an instant, you rocket your fist straight into his jaw, and you don’t even give him the chance to reel back, rocking your hips upwards so that you can turn over, knocking the weapon out of his hands in the process.

You’re possessed. You’ve never moved like this before, ever. Like there’s a desire–beating, thrumming, alive; it’s underneath your skin, yelling at you to live by any means necessary. You kick; bite; scratch, becoming animalistic in the moment.

He’s reminding you that he’s also just as desperate–fists flying just as furiously as yours, and just as strong, if not stronger. He’s clawing at you, leaving deep marks, as if the cracked asphalt beneath you isn’t doing that as well, while you two toss and turn, nearly dancing around each other.

But he gets the upper hand at some point, and his hands shoot towards your neck, squeezing every bit of essence out of your body. You can’t reach his face anymore, the first mistake he made already teaching him enough. You don’t even think he can feel your nails digging into skin–the adrenaline making you both turn into something you probably weren’t.

And you swear, under any other circumstance, you’d hesitate–but you knew full well that only one of you were going to leave this place when you first punched him, and you also knew that you weren’t ready to die today. And so you reach. Reach like there’s nothing else you can do–nowhere else you can go. All you could think about then was getting home, wanting nothing more than restart or rewind or whatever the fuck could get you out of there.

There’s a grin of relief on his face when he sees your eyes flutter.

Then there’s two shots. Fired unceremoniously, like there was no thought behind them. Like there was no question: they were destined to happen.

And then a third for good measure.

And you’re winded; heaving and ears ringing like fireworks had gone off in your face. He crumples on top of you, hands loose and limp. His warmth is leaking onto your hands, and your clothes, and you can’t think–hell, you can barely feel anything, but he’s dead, it’s over, and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

But there’s a part of you trapped there, it’s grave now stuck in a dingy, unsanitary, and lonely alley, to be trampled by others who can’t rewrite their fate quite as well as you did yours.

━ ★

The doorknob wiggles and Manon bursts in, bag of groceries in hand. You struggle to get up from the couch, pain in your ankle making every step hell.

“I bought all this hoping you could make something with it. Not sure if you can put this in anything, but yeah!” she says, shaking the bag with a fresh Maine Lobster, humming to herself.

“I’ve gotta go,” you mumble, hobbling up to her.

“Not like that, you aren’t,” she glances to your ankle. “You’re staying here, where you should be getting better,” she says, with an authoritative tone.

“Manon, I have to–“

“Can you make something with the lobster or not?” she whines, throwing the bags to the table. “It was hella expensive.”

You nod, a silent acknowledgment that you can, but you don’t make any effort to move, instead crossing your arms.

She dramatically rolls her eyes. “What?”

“I told you that I can’t stay and you aren’t listening,” you reply sharply.

“You can’t fucking walk either?”

“Manon? Have you even seen the news? About that guy?”

“Yeah, I have!” she answers, too casually for your liking. “That shit was brutal–I mean, It was–“

“It was me!” you confess shakily. You’re ashamed, and it burns.

Admitting it out loud burns unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s hot. Constricting. You can’t breathe; you’re not sure you want to.

She blinks, an unreadable expression making its way onto her features, with unreadable body language to emphasize it as she backs up from you with a sigh.

“I know,” she says quietly, as if saying it with a lower volume would make the gravity of the situation disappear.

“You know? You… knew?” you gape.

“Put it together when I saw the news,” Manon pauses. “I didn’t say anything to you because you didn’t say anything to me.”

Manon knows fucking everything. She could recite everything about you like she was reading a book–like she was the book: the encyclopedia of all things Yn.

And of course, she never said anything.

She looks up at you, as her eyes bulge with wetness. “You want to leave? Then fine, but I’m going with you.”

“No, you–“

“Stop trying to tell me what to do,” she says loudly. “I was gonna come anyway.”

“But I’m not turning myself in!“

“I promised you, didn’t I?”

Your teeth grind against each other as you answer. “You did.”

“Then stop trying to act all tough and shit–you’re my best friend,” she points between you and her. “So act like it.”

Manon brings you into a tight embrace, sniffling into your chest. You wrap your arms around her, but you bite back the urge to strangle her just a bit.

━ ★

You poke your head out of the driver’s window. “Do you have everything?”

Manon stares at you, tossing her duffel in the backseat, and closing the door.

“I’ve got everything that matters,” she responds simply.

The passenger seat door opens, and Manon slides in with a deep breath.

You’ve got the leather jacket on, her clothes peeking out from under it. Your hands are trembling around the steering wheel, eyes still as you sprint deep into your thoughts.

Manon’s a little shaky–to be expected when you leave your world behind for your criminal best friend, who just yesterday was at your doorstep, looking like a disgruntled serial killer, who is now driving your car like an outlaw, running from the cops, but more than anything, she’s nervous for you.

God, she could only imagine what you’re thinking right now, being the one to go through that, and instead of imagining, she really wishes you would say it.

“Yn..?” you don’t answer.

She says it again, louder this time.

“…Huh?”

She wants so badly to ask to you, What happened? followed by a, Why don’t you wanna talk about it? and finished with a, Do you not trust me?

“Nothing… you were spacing out, is all,” Manon doesn’t pry.

“Thanks. You wanna go now?” you ask.

She nods. “I’m ready,” though you’re not sure she is, by the quiet fear lurking in her tone.

You side eye her, before nodding forward, gesturing to the fact that you finally pressed on the gas.

Once she gets settled, she kicks her feet up on the dashboard, pops in her airpods, and watches Steven Universe, even when she’s not sure that you won’t send her car wrapping around a pole.

━ ★

You’ve been driving for hours. Manon’s asleep.

To be fair, you don’t know where exactly you’re going, you just wanted to leave.

Now, there’s no motel in sight, nobody for miles, not that you’d want to see them, and your gps isn’t working–fucking great.

It’s dark as hell, headlamps more like flashlights in the all-consuming night. You make the executive decision to pull onto a darkened street, before blocking the windows and locking the doors, hoping to sleep tonight.

You don’t.

━ ★

“You know, waffle house is so much better in the middle of nowhere,” Manon says, mid-bite. “Do you want some?”

You weren’t particularly in the mood to eat, last night’s nightmare making you feel too queasy and paranoid. “No, I don’t want your peanut butter waffles.”

Manon drops her fork dramatically, placing her hand to her chest. “You said it like you have a problem with my order… like I’m not the one paying…” she says it with a funky British accent, sighing when you look at her like she’s crazy.

“That’s ‘cause peanut butter waffles are gross,” you say matter-of-factly. “They probably stick to your mouth 10 times more than normal peanut butter and syrup waffles do seperate.”

Her mouth drops. You’re a traitor. “You’ve never even had one before, liar!”

“Don’t need to. I know they’re gross,” you say, punctuating your statement with a pointed look and cross of your arms.

“What’s next…? You don’t like bojangles biscuits either?” she asks, shocked.

You hum, sipping your coffee. “They’re dry as hell.”

Her mouth drops even lower, the accent getting heavier by the second. “Cannot believe you right now.”

She’s quiet after a dramatic sigh, continuing to eat her waffles and bacon.

You chuckle softly: you’re appreciative of her attempts to be normal. Like going to diners in Nowhere, Nowhereland is a normal Tuesday morning after murdering a man ( in self defense ) for you two.

And in all honesty, it feels normal enough. Well, the ambience of the waffle house is as normal as it can be. There’s a bustling about the place: truckers and workers making light conversation; music, Human Nature by Micheal Jackson, playing on the jukebox; broken lights flickering near the hallway to the bathrooms; grease stains everywhere, along with it’s odd smell. It felt natural.

It made you sort of uneasy, in the way that only familiar things tend to do. Especially when you feel the eyes on you. Everyone’s in the know, except for you two. You two are outsiders. Outsiders are suspicious; they get caught; they–

“Hey!” Manon interrupts your thoughts. “Try it. I won’t have you knocking on peak if you’ve never had it before.”

You give her a look of disgust. “I’m not trying sh–“

Your mouth is filled with sticky peanut-buttery goodness. Your eyes widen, as a smirk grows on Manon’s face.

“See,” she laughs. “I told you it was peak!”

You feign disgust almost immediately, and refusing to let her get the last word, you gulp down the rest of your coffee. “That was so nasty, bitch…”

“Yeah, okay.”

When you leave, you take two coffees to-go. And two orders of peanut-butter waffles, one for you and her.

━ ★

You’re focused on the road when the thought pops into your head.

You’ve ruined your life, not that much was going on anyway, but it still hurt. You ruined Manon’s life, who had big things coming for her: modeling gigs, photoshoots, interviews with agencies–things that screamed, hey, I made it. And she threw it all away for you.

Your hands tighten on the wheel until your fingers go numb.

“Hey, breathe.”

And the devil reveals herself beside you, like a bad memory that won’t leave your mind.

Manon tries to rub comforting circles into your leg, moving your jacket as you shout a panicked, “Wait!”

“What the fuck is that.”

Your jaw clenches as you try to avoid looking at her. Manon’s fingers are tracing your pockets, a rough outline of something sinister living there.

“I asked you a question.”

You mumble the answer, not wanting to start anything.

“What was that?” she says, eyes narrowing in skepticism.

“A gun…”

There’s a look on her face that speaks volumes. Says more than a thousand things. “A what?”

“A–“

“You brought a damn gun with you?!” she screams at you, scolds you, more like, as if you’ve lost your mind. Part of you thinks you have.

“To be safe!” you retort, glancing at her with worry.

Oh, you’re in huge trouble.

“And you had that in my house?! Is that the same–”

You cut her off with a shameful, downcast look. “Yes.”

She glares at you, huffing indignantly before turning the radio up to obnoxious volume levels.

The radio speaks.

On the hunt for a suspect identified to be Yn Ln. Cameras around area of incident placing the young woman at the scene of the crime, DNA evidence further incriminating the individual. If you have any information, ple–

That’s why we have the gun, you want to say. Your jaw wrenches shut. ‘Cause people don’t talk when they’re dead, you’d say right after, turning your gaze to meet her watery eyes. ‘Cause I can keep running with you if there’s nothing in our way, you want to confess.

But nothing leaves your lips.

The radio doesn’t speak anymore, Manon choosing to turn it off and turn away to sleep ( or more accurately, sulk with her eyes closed. )

━ ★

You finally find a motel by the end of the night, and you’re hopeful that rest will come to you for the first time in 5 days.

It won’t.

Not when you enter the room and realize there’s only one bed, and Manon is still pissed off.

She shoulder-checks you when she walks by, tossing her stuff onto the bed and gruffly mumbling about taking a shower first.

By the time she gets back, you’re already in bed, pretending to be asleep.

You know you can’t. You don’t ever sleep when she’s upset with you.

Your eyes are closed, but you can feel the bed dip as she slides into it, feel the jolt of the bed as she tries her best to turn off the light, feel when she’s turning away. You can hear her hushed whispers, her shifting around, and then there it is–a hiccup.

Her back is turned to you, so you risk opening your eyes.

Her back is moving with a sharp rise and slow fall: she’s crying. And you’ve made her cry too: great going.

You want to press your fingers against her. Tell her you’re sorry for scaring her, sorry for everything.

But you don’t.

You just close your eyes again.

A moment passes before you feel the bed shift and creak beneath her movements. A gentle hand cups your face. A sniffle rocks your spirit. You’re trying your hardest not to move or breathe, scared that like a deer, she’ll run away from you like earlier.

Heat fans across the bottom half of your face. “I’m sorry for being an asshole,” and it’s so quiet that it might as well have been the broken fan in corner, wheezing and rasping to life when it wanted.

“You mean everything to me. I just hate when you act like that… like you know what any of this means,” she pauses, only to hold back a sob. “You don’t. I don’t. But we’re supposed to not know, together.”

You hold back everything that’s threatening to come spilling out.

“I’m sorry,” she lets out a sorry chuckle. “I’m just scared of what’s next. I’m trying hard not to be, though.”

“You’re probably way more terrified than I am.”

When she falls asleep, you hold her hand, hoping that in the morning, when she wakes up, she won’t let go.

━ ★

The morning after, you don’t mention it. You don’t even look at her.

You just take her hand in yours when you get into the car again; big feelings lingering behind the smallest physical intimacy.

━ ★

You stand in the mirror with effort, deadpanning at your reflection. “This is really unflattering.”

Manon smirks, holding up 2 different skirts for you to try. “You say unflattering–I say your ass looks amazing in those jeans.”

“Why do we even have to do this?” you groan.

“You should know better than anyone that you need to change up that appearance,” her voice gets suddenly ominous. “Anyways, that jacket has been fugly, babe, you desperately need a wardrobe change.”

You roll your eyes. She’s right, unfortunately. You’d draw too much attention in it. It was insane how nobody called you out before.

��Okay, fine, Manz. We’ll do a makeover. But don’t call Lucy fugly again. She’s an acquired taste.”

You let Manon forcibly take you around on a mind-numbing shopping spree. It was torture: for hours you tried on the most egregious displays of fashion you’d ever had the displeasure of wearin–

“Girl,” she says, taking pictures of you from the bench. “Smile, it’s literally just baggy jeans and a white t-shirt. It makes your muscles look really good.”

You feel warm all over at the compliment but you decide to be stubborn anyway. “Manz,” you whine, letting her name come to a long drawl. “We’ve been at this dumb store for hours, I genuinely can’t think of a worse way to spend our time.”

“We’re in Denver, baby, which I’m not even sure we had to come this far, but I digress, ” she argues. “This is the land of bad decisions, like even the name is bad, and we’ve only been here for an hour.”

You grimace. “An hour spent is an hour lost, to this.”

Manon raises her eyebrows at you. “Fine then,” she says.

You have half a mind to stand on what you said, but Manon doesn’t even half-stand up before you take it back. “Wait–no. I’ll… I, uhhh, I love it!”

Against your will entirely, you start posing in front of her, ignoring the throb in your ankle, hyping yourself up like how you thought she would. You are eating, girl, is not something you thought you’d be saying in an Old Navy in Denver, Colorado.

She bites her lip. Air flies through her nose. And she doubles over, laughing so hard she falls to the ground. You can’t help but laugh right along with her.

“So you’re buying this, right?” you ask.

“Nope. You are.”

You’re at the register when you realize she’s very much so serious about not paying.

“That’s 157.63. Cash or card?”

You stammer like an idiot. You don’t have shit on you. “Give me a minute,” you smile, jaw tense.

You pull Manon over to the side, trying to make things quick as a line starts forming behind you. “I don’t have anything, Manz,” you say quickly.

“Girl, neither do I, if you want some gas money and something to eat tonight,” she replies. You really really do want gas money and something to eat.

“Fuck!” you curse, leg bouncing as you come up with a plan. “You trust me?”

“‘Course I do. What’re we doing?”

“This.” You drag her back over to the cashier, and Manon waits for something to happen.

But nothing does.

At least, until–

“Lady,” the cashier says, checking her nails. “There’s a line, I need to–“

You scream. “I can’t believe you!”

Manon is frozen for a second, looking between you and the poor girl who’s supposed to be ringing you up. She melts when you yell again.

“You’re such a bitch,” you stop to read her nametag. “…Casey! My boyfriend? My fucking boyfriend? You’re supposed to be my bestfriend,” you bury your head in Manon’s chest, hoping to God she sells it.

Manon ignores the way her eyebrow twitches when you mention having a boyfriend, or another bestfriend, deciding to help you out just this once. “Casey, I can’t fucking believe you. You’re just a whore–a stupid whore!” she growls, throwing outfit number 4 over the counter at Casey’s head.

Casey’s both dumbfounded and pissed, not knowing what to do but stammer out a pathetic “What?”

The customers are backing away, recording and standing there shocked.

You lift your teary face up to scream at her again. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

You lunge at her, Casey’s yelling for security, and Manon’s using all her strength to hold you back without cracking up. The bystanders are being bystanders.

You’re hollering and hurling obscenities like candy at parades, and Manon knows better than to laugh. She’s determined to finish your improv strong.

Casey runs to the backroom, only for a second, but the damage is already done. You snatch your bags from behind the counter, and attempt to run away, but it’s not very effective with the whole sprained ankle business.

Manon scoops you up with a grunt of effort and a determination you rarely see her have. She hates running.

She’s doing it for you.

You feel hot again; you push it down with a smile and kiss to her cheek.

You two ( Manon ) run all the way back to car, and speed off, you cackling the whole way through.

━ ★

So you killed a man, ran from the law, and stole 160 dollars worth of clothes. All in the span of nine days.

You are becoming a bonafide criminal genius; Manon, your partner in crime.

Her phone is plugged into the car, playing music from your shared playlist, you finally allowing her to drive you after nine days of If you touch that wheel, I’ll throw you in the backseat.

You guys are singing to Drunk in Love, well, Manon is. You’re ad-libbing as best you can, the talent of a singer not being given to you, but still wanting to enjoy something with Manon.

It makes you think about another thing that’s been on your mind. Her.

Manon looks gorgeous all the time, even more so when she’s like this. Smiling and genuine. Her side profile is highlighted by the sun that’s not blocked by her visor. You can see everything, from the mole on her chin, to the sunspots dotting her cheeks. You want to absorb everything, take it in like you’re a flower, and she’s the sun.

“You’re staring,” she grins, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.

“Don’t be. I love it when you look at me like that,” her grin gets wider.

“Like?”

“Like you need me. It’s sweet.”

You open your mouth to say something snarky, but nothing comes out, so you turn in faux irritation.

She giggles at your reaction before placing her attention back on the road.

You’re starting to learn how much she means to you, and not in the way you’ve grown so accustomed to. Featherlight touches were starting to feel like needles in your skin, going so deep, you could feel it in your nerves. Every compliment that would make you roll your eyes so far back they’d disappear before are now making you heat up. You were beginning the crush phase of horny teenage boy and you didn’t even realize.

On one hand, yeah, it’d be great to kiss Manon, the way you imagine yourself doing in your dreams at night or during the day, when you think it’s not obvious. On the other, there was too much going on right now. Too much to think about, and too much to deal with.

You’re starting to get scared of it. Of her.

━ ★

It’s a quiet morning in a new motel.

Well, it was.

“Oh my god!” Manon shrieks.

You drop your toothbrush in the dirty motel sink, rushing to her aid. “What’s wrong?!”

She drops to her knees, clutching her wallet like it’s her long lost child. “I’m BROKE. That’s what’s wrong,” she sobs, before adding, “We’re broke.”

You cry with her.

━ ★

“Do you trust me?” you ask Manon, pulling a black shirt over your head.

“Not sure… This seems really dumb,” she answers honestly.

In her defense, this is quite possibly the dumbest thing you’ve done since the clothes incident yesterday, but then again, you’re broke. There’s not much to go around.

You peer at her through the poorly-cut holes in your makeshift mask. “It’s not like we have anything else,” you argue.

You step out of the car, and open the door for her.

You stagger into the gas station, and whistle with the gun in the air. People start screaming, as expected. Manon flinches a bit, the gun reminding her of her previous freakout, but stands still as she can by the door, hands in her pockets to make everyone think she’s armed too.

“I want everyone to shut the hell up and get the hell down!” you shout.

They comply, terror etched onto their faces.

“We have to make this quick, babe!” Manon shouts, looking outside the glass doors.

“I know, I know,” you grit. You roll up to the cashier, trying to look as menacing as possible. “I need all the money in the register, please.”

“Okay, okay,” he splutters. “P–Please don’t shoot me!”

You gawk at him, I didn’t even do anything yet, you have half a mind to say. “Can you just… get the damn money?”

“Okay!” he whimpers, pressing buttons behind the counter.

You tap your foot impatiently, hand on your hip as you wait for the boy to get his life together. It’s been at least 10 minutes. You’re sure that if the tables were turned, you’d be acting with a little more…urgency.

“Can you hurry–“

“NO, DON’T!”

You stare at him in disbelief, pausing to turn to Manon. “I literally didn’t even do anything?!” you wave your hands around wildly, gun swinging like a hollow threat. “I’m just talking to him??”

Manon shrugs her shoulders, looking at you with big eyes. “I don’t know. We really need to hurry this up, like now, though.”

You gawk at her too. “I’m trying! He’s being so difficult…” you groan, index and ring finger rubbing your temple.

The boy is still fumbling with keys and buttons, tears streaming down like waterfalls on his face.

“Look–Why are you crying? I haven’t even…?!” you scream in frustration, the boy clearly not operating with haste. “Stop CRYING, and give me the money, please,” you beg.

The people on the ground, once crying in fear, are now confused, looking up and–just like before–recording.

He finally throws the money at you after entirely too long with a trembling, “Here!”

“You know, kid. Taking your time gets you killed. It’s important to do as told first, and cry later. Lives are at stake when you aren’t aware. Don’t do it,” you scoop up the money and hobble away as fast as you can.

“Oh, get snacks too, love,” you tell Manon.

You got out of the gas station 20 minutes laterwith a handful of takis and plenty of cash. This isn’t the last robbery you guys commit, either.

━ ★

The next night, you two are on the news. Manon’s fast asleep right next to you, despite this motel having two beds.

Two viral recordings of some of the strangest robberies we’ve ever seen, they said. Two women in the first video, staging an argument to get out of an Old Navy, and the same two are suspected of being the gas station robbers lecturing on how to be robbed?, they said.

You’re quiet with fear, desperately praying they don’t identify you; that they can’t identify yet.

The blurry quality makes it hard to identify them, but we will keep a close eye on them, they said.

You breathe a heavy sigh of pure relief.

━ ★

A week and some change of running away from your problems, and you’re sure this is the hardest thing you’ve done by far.

You stare blankly ahead, watching Manon take her turn of driving.

It’s dark.

You’d been riding for almost ten hours straight.

You’re antsy.

You’ve been trying this whole time not to be a hornball; not to make this weirder than it is. It’s one thing to kill a guy: you did that in self-defense, but like an idiot, you ran instead of telling the truth. It’s one thing to rob a store: you needed the clothes. It’s one more thing to rob a gas station: you needed the cash.

But it’s an entirely different thing to be attracted to your friend, your bestfriend, who’s doing nothing but making things hard for you.

If you didn’t know her like the back of your hand, you’d say it’s all friendly–a coincidence. But you know better.

Everything this seductress does is intentional, deliberate. Like how she’s driving one-handed, jawline illuminated by the LEDs, hand on your thigh–not because she wanted to pounce on you–but just because she craved the intimacy with you.

She craved the intimacy with you.

“Pull over.”

“What?” she asks, turning off at the exit. “We’re like 10 miles from the motel. It can’t wait?”

“Pull over, Manz,” you urge, grabbing her by her shirt and kissing her hard.

She gapes at you before the biggest smile finds its way on her face… until she frowns.“Hey! Don’t do that while I’m–“

You roll your eyes for what seems like the millionth time during this journey. “Nobody’s out here, Meret. Are you gonna pull over and fuck me or what?”

And normally, you’d be cowardly, God, you wouldn’t have even brought anything up, but it was like you were drowning in your physical attraction.

She’s off the road with a vigor that you’ve never seen anyone pull over with, kissing you again with urgency and need.

She grins breathlessly. “I plan on it.”

Somehow, you two end up in the backseat, going at each other like you’ll die if you don’t.

You swing your leg over her lap, pulling away from her to take off your shirt, and she honest-to-god whines, like she can’t be without you for a second. You smile.

Manon doesn’t waste anymore time, rushing forward to kiss you. It’s messy, borderline gross–the way she licks into your mouth, the way your breath mixes with hers as the heat starts making you feel dizzy. It’s needy, desperate, uncomposed. The way you two could be with each other.

You can feel her palming your breast through the fabric of your bra; feel her warm and without the barrier of friendship in the way; feel her heart rate speeding up as her unoccupied hand finds purchase on your hip, making you grind against her.

She mouths on your neck, leaving soft kisses and harsh bites like a crumb trail of where she’s been.

You can’t help but roll your head back.

But at her insistent, “Look at me, please,” you comply, mouth already becoming kiss swollen as she presses forward to capture your lips once again.

━ ★

You’re in a daze.

Not like when you’d defended yourself at the expense of another life. Not like when you ignore everything like this is normal, and you two are normal, average, everyday people.

This daze is extremely different.

“You good?” Manon murmurs, like the air’s been snatched from her lungs.

You turn your head lazily, meeting her eyes. “Are you? I just ate you out… like, 3 minutes ago.“

“With that weak head? Don’t make me laugh,” she jokes.

“Yeah, yeah. You came twice, loser,” you sit up, giggling at her antics. “Now drive me to that motel.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. “I just–“

“I thought it was weak head, baby,” you mock, rolling your eyes again.

“I was lyinggggg, you know that!” she whines, grabbing your arm. “I’m tired… I don’t wanna drive,” she pouts. “I really don’t see how you drove that long with that leg.”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders before you climb into the front seat. “I felt like I owed you for this. I still do.”

“I chose to come along, Yn,” Manon says quietly. “You never had to ask. I made up my mind when I met you–I’d go anywhere you go.”

You freeze at her confession, if only for a moment. “I owed you for leaving everything behind. Making you give it all up because I was selfish,” you swallow thickly. “Owed it to you for being my distraction from everything I’ve done. I’m not sure I would’ve made it this far without you.”

Manon doesn’t look at you. Only speaks. “I would’ve never let you do this alone. I love you,” and she says it like it’s so simple–like this is something she would’ve chosen to do in every other life.

“I didn’t know you loved me that long,” you chance to say.

The bravado of horny drunken babble had escaped you, turning you into the coward you were by nature again.

“You didn’t need to,” she breathes. “As long as you felt it. Did you?”

“Did I?” you repeat, confused.

“Feel it,” she answers softly.

You start driving again. “Yeah, I did.”

She smiles.

You two sleep in all day.

━ ★

You burst into the motel room in a panic that night, grabbing your stuff and rummaging around like a junkie.

“We have to go,” you grit out, jaw clenched, eyes watery. “Now.”

She doesn’t say a word, nor does she question. She silently packs her things up and you two take off, trying to get as far away from Stillnowhere, Nowhereland.

What was supposed to be your run for dinner tonight ended up being your second and third murder.

You pull over, breaking down in her arms.

“I’m a bad bad person. Fuck, I’m horrible,” you stammer, holding your chest as you try to breathe with what little you have left. “I killed her–she didn’t even…S-she wasn’t even–I just–“

You can’t even speak.

You had pulled into another dingy diner with barely anyone inside, and it was pitch black outside–the atmosphere was beginning to shake you up.

And then it happened.

A man–bigger than you, bulkier than you, towering over you in every way possible walked in.

The woman takes your order.

Then his.

He’s staring at you, with something in his eyes you’d seen before. Something that shakes you to your core: His eyes.

Eyes of a predator, certain he’d find prey tonight.

But you know who you are.

You’re a person who yearns to live: whether it be for someone else, or yourself, that desire would burn, and scorch the ground to hell itself before the fire was put out.

He shadows you in the restaurant, until the woman hands you the bag. She looks at your predicament with an almost tepid expression, before looking down, reading you the cost of your order.

You book it when you lose eye contact. And you didn’t want to–you didn’t want to steal again, or kill again, or even blink wrong again; something was just nipping at you, telling you, get out, get out, get out.

You’re outside. Halfway to the car you parked in the dollar tree lot because of your paranoia,

And it happens.

He grabs you. Nails-cutting-into-your-skin until-you’re-bleeding grabs you.

And unlike the first time, where you waited until fate looked you in the eyes, and tried to end you–you just shot.

You pulled out this gun, that had gotten you into all of this mess, that was somehow magnetized towards your very being, and shot.

No warnings.

No fighting for life.

Just shot. Like it was part of your body. Like it was part of you.

And that lady, bless her soul, went chasing after her money, and witnessed the whole thing.

And dead people can’t talk.

━ ★

It’s over, and you know it.

The viral video suspects shown 2 weeks ago have been identified, well at least one, finally. Yn Ln, suspect of three other murders: One in L.A, Two in rural Houston, Texas. She is also wanted for several other robberies, they said.

Manon is quiet. You haven’t left the new motel in a week–but you know they’ll find you.

But you can think of one way this ends for the both of you.

One way you can make this work.

━ ★

You’re speeding down the freeway, law finally catching up to you. Windows rolled down: you feel free, like you’ve never felt before, swerving through cars too stubborn to move for you.

Helicopters screech above you–the manhunt for current serial killer and robber finally coming to a poignant conclusion.

Manon’s unable to speak. There’s nothing to say, though it’s not like she’d be able to, with you screaming with joy and laughing like nothing’s wrong.

“Manon!” you yell, over wind whipping through the car.

She’s sitting there. Wide-eyed. Teary. Doesn’t make any move to answer.

“Manon!” you yell once again, this time much louder.

She snaps her head towards you. “What,” she hisses.

“Can you scream with me?!”

She looks at you with shock.

You scream once, yelling out something along the lines of, Fuck you, coppers! like what you used to see in the crime movies you and Manon would watch without your parent’s permission. You’re beaming.

You glance at her–a pleading flicker in your features: eyes, nose, mouth… everything begging her to just go along with it.

She can’t resist it.

It lurches out of her mouth before she can even bite it back down.

You both can’t stop laughing.

“Manz, do you trust me?!” you yell, after a moment’s passed.

“Why? Are you gonna do something stupid again?!”

You roll the windows up. “Manz. Do. you. trust. me?” you say seriously, making her take pause.

She answers without thinking. “Yeah, I do.”

You brake so hard, she feels her brain shake. “What the–“

You cut her off with a soft press to her lips. “I was a coward before,” you take a deep breath. “That’s how I got us into this mess. But I know how to get us out too. I won’t be afraid, so you better not be either.”

“I won’t be–what the fuck are you planning?” she asks with fear lacing her voice.

“Don’t ask questions,” you sternly reply. “Do you trust me?”

Manon trusts you. More than she’s ever trusted anyone before. More than she could ever describe. More than she could ever say out loud.

But she doesn’t need to.

Her face says it all.

She is scared. She’s terrified. But she does trust you, and that’s good enough.

You kiss her one last time.

“Close your eyes, okay?” she listens, and you rub her shoulder reassuringly. You grab your gun. “When I grab you, fight me like you mean it. Because I definitely will.”

You shoot yourself in the leg.

She can’t even scream.

“Yn Ln! Exit the vehicle with your hands in the air.”

That’s when you and Manon go tumbling out of the passenger side door, her horrified shrieks and sobs filling the freeway with terror.

You put her in a headlock, the gun to her head threateningly, before mumbling a quiet, Improv, baby, in her ear.

You can’t feel your leg bleeding out. You can’t feel anything but her.

“Back off!” you shout, tightening your grip on her. “Back off, or I’ll fucking kill her.”

You hear a radioed, “hostage situation” and you smile.

It’s working.

And Manon’s a damn good actor.

She’s begging for help, and though it’s for you, nobody else can tell. It’s genuine. Nobody else can tell. You smile harder.

“Just put the gun, down, Yn!” An officer says through a megaphone. “Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

“This bitch…” you cringe at your own performance, “This bitch shot me! She’s not fucking walking away.”

“Stop!” she screams. “Cut it out, l–let me go, you don’t need to–“

You whisper a hushed, love you. I love you. And I’m sorry.

“You’re not getting out of this, Yn. You can leave this peacefully. You escaped before but it won’t be happening again. Surrender.” The officer says again, sternly.

Then she turns to look at you one last time. Teary, but with those same eyes she had all her life. As if she’s some saint, purifying you for all your sins, all your mistakes, all your–well, everything.

She’s your saint.

Her eyes, ever expressive, say all that they need to. I love you, you don’t need to this, we’re in this together, I love you, I love you, I love you.

You ask her one final time.

“Do you trust me?”

“Y–Yes, I do.” she sobs aloud.

“Then run. I’m the monster they think I am,” you swallow. “That’s what I need you to act like this time. Run, and don’t stop for any reason. And don’t turn around, okay?” your fingers graze her shoulders, a final reassurance.

You push her forward, and she doesn’t stop. Your lips weakly curve upward, pleased. And she doesn’t stop.

Not even when she’s crying so hard she can’t see.

Not even when a single shot rings behind her.

━ ★

“And on today’s segment of Survival, Meret Manon Bannerman–Kidnapped by crazed serial killer, Yn Ln,” the computerized voice announces.

The reporter looks dead into the camera for five seconds before speaking. “It’s been 6 months since Meret’s horrifying ordeal. 3 weeks of traveling across state lines and being subjected to horrors we haven’t had the pleasure of imagining until now,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Now, she quells our morbid curiosity, and tells us everything that happened…”

Manon walks in. Face hardened, body trembling: clearly not ready.

She spins a long fabricated tale: practiced for months after she lost you. Practiced because it was all she could bring herself to do. Because that’s what you told her to do, and she trusted you–hell, she still does.

But when she gets home, she stares at your picture. White tee, baggy jeans. Posing because you wanted her to stay. Smiling. Laughing.

Happy. With her.

And she’s just hoping that in the next life, you can both start over. Rewind. Restart. Whatever is she has to do to see you again.

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

[bigmacari]

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Amir Beckett x Gen Reader

Romantic Dating Headcanons

☆Warning(s) Mention of Anxiety

☆Author Note(s) Well, here's my two cents and a paper clip. Sorry it's so short, I've been focusing a lot of school lately, and it's killing me. But I hope you still enjoyed it. Warframe is underrated, even so Amir. I need more fanfics on him asap.

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☆ Holy lord this man.

Amir Beckett is a very silly character with some deep emotions going around.

As he says in the game, you are the first person he has been with.

You are his first everything AND YOU SHOULD BE PROUD.

He is willing to give his all to you and his very excited to be your partner.

Amir's love languages are words of affirmations, quality time, and physical touch.

In that order.

☆ This man will compliment you to the moon and back. All the compliments would be in extreme detail too. "I love how your eyes shine like diamonds in the moonlight 🥰" "Your skin is as soft as a baby lamb" LMAO idk some shit like that.

And as you know, he gives you the silliest of nicknames.

Honey bunch, love muffin, baby cakes, snookums, (name) booboo bear, fluffy kins, pumpkin pie, cuddle bug, love nugget, cutie patootie, etc.

I can go on and on, he just never runs out of them.

Amir isn't afraid to compliment you or use corny nicknames in front of the rest of the Hex either. No matter how much they may roll their eyes. I think he just would try extra hard just to annoy them lmao.

☆ Amir loves spending time with you, of course he understands that everyone needs their space though.

No matter what you guys are doing he's happy. Ya'll could just be cuddling and he's over the moon. Though he moves a LOT. Always fidgeting with anything he can get a hold of. You included.

Amir would love playing with your hair, doesn't matter the texture, length, or hairstyle. Amir promises he won't mess up your hair (but sometimes it happens anyways lmao)

Another thing he like to fidget with is your fingers and hands. Especially when you have jewelry on. Oooo let him paint your nails, paint his too!!

Chronic hand holder. Especially if he feels anxious.

Now, if your overwhelmed and don't want him to touch you, he understands. (Can't count how many times that has happened to me)

☆ If you asked him, Amir would totally get in the shower with you. It doesn't have to be anything sensual, it can just be relaxing and wholesome. He'll wash your body and hair, give you a massage, or just kind of hold you and relax.

Wash his hair for sure though, he would love that.

☆ Outside of battle, a lot of time is spent with him is playing video games. Since future isn't familiar with the technology, Amir would have a blast showing you all the video games that he has. Super Smash Bros, Donkey Kong 64, Final Fantasy, Resident Evil 3, Tony Hawk's Pro Skater?? And of course all the arcade games he plays with in the mall.

☆ Before yall go to bed for the night, Amir can be found playing on his game boy for a bit while cuddling you. If he's really into the game, you kinda have to rip it from his hands. Once he actually settles down and tries to sleep, its a whole process.

It takes him a good while to get to sleep. You guys talk for a hit minute while yall cuddle and Amir plays with your hair or gently rubs his hand up and down your back. Even when he's half asleep you can still feel him do it.

When he is finally asleep, the poor thing moves so much. I imagine he can't stay asleep for more than 30 - 45 mins at a time, so he's always tossing and turning. I promise you its the caffeine. Amir's also a huge sleep talker.

It could be about battle, gaming, the hex or you. But he's always mumbling something. You definitely hear a nickname of yours slip out once and a while. Other than that he's not big on snoring. If he does its very light and fades into the background after a while.

Huge cuddler when yall fall asleep but eventually sprawls out and does whatever.

He has nightmares due to stress and anxiety sometimes. I'm not gonna go into huge detail about what I think they are about, but it happens.

☆ As I said earlier, silly character with some deep emotions. Amir does have a panic attack in the game and has mention to had some in the past. So there are times were he will come to you for comfort as you have comforted him in the past.

In the beginning of the relationship, Amir will have some insecurities about not being enough for you. Which leads to reassurance from you. It may take a bit of time, but once he understands that you love him for him, nothing will stop him from treating you the best he can.

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[junedenim]

lover boy

he pays special attention

warnings: smut, angst, eating...you know, (slightly feet-loving), wet

word count: 4.3k

Weddings are lovely. This one in particular has good cake and nice decorations. The bridesmaid dresses aren’t hideous though you don’t have to wear one, which you’re thankful for. Green has never really suited you. 

A suit does suit Alex. His tie has come loose from tugging on it one too many times. He’s over in the corner with his friends and every once in a while you’ll feel a pull to look over at him and you find his eyes on you. He always has a small smile on his lips that grows two sizes bigger when he looks over at you. It’s a nice feeling to have someone beam at the sight of you.

You swirl the glass of champagne and count how many you’ve had. This is your third, you think. You’re chatting with someone at your table that you don’t know the name of. She and her husband are nice but the conversation isn’t exactly invigorating, but it passes the time.

“I Gotta Feeling” plays from the shitty DJ speakers and you feel like you’re at your 21st birthday celebration two sips away from barfing in a bathroom stall. You’re kind of mad at Alex for leaving you alone at the table. He has a habit of that. You’ve previously excused it as him catching up with his friends, now it starts to feel like forgetfulness, uncaring toward you, and your loneliness at this wedding. His smile reassures you but he’s still across the room all the same.

Maybe it’s your fault too. You could go over there and join the conversation but then you’d feel like some clingy girlfriend. Maybe it’s your fault for caring too much. Going over there might be the polite thing to do instead of moping at the table. But it would’ve been polite for him to include you in the first place. 

You go to the bathroom, not to vomit, just to pee. You leave your champagne and your purse at the table and wish you could leave your heels there too as they’re becoming a pain. You wash your hands and look in the mirror for too long. Exhaustion pours over you but you’re still going to be here for at least another hour. 

As you walk out, his hand grabs your arm. You have his hand memorized. Every crease, every callus, every bone. Early on, probably in the first month of sleeping together, you’d trace his hand because you loved the way it felt on you and how one touch could make you feel so much. It would knock you off your feet, leave you out of breath, and have you begging for more. It was transformative and then it became normal. It was impossible not to feel that way, even when his hand was just holding yours.

“You disappeared on me,” Alex says with an attacking smirk and a bruising touch. He can be so intimidating, yet so calm.

You shrugged and wished you brought your purse so you could have something to do with your hands. “You left me first.” 

He comes closer only a breeze could pass through the two of you. He doesn’t bend his head, he likes to have the hot air float between the two of you. He told you once how turned on he gets when you have to reach up to kiss him because he’s never been “the tall one” in the relationship. You’re not that much shorter than him, a fact you remind him of. He says he knows but his dick still gets hard all the same.

“Do you want me to babysit you?” He’s toying with drunk flirtation. It’s impossible not to feel something from it, despite how much it bugs you that he can just tilt his head and perk his lips like that and you’re a puddle.

“I want you to pay attention to me.” You think you sound like a whining child but you’re determined to stay strong in your firmness and fight off his taunting teases and that leering bravado.

His eyebrow raises and you’re not sure if he could come any closer without touching chest-to-chest with you. “Oh,” he sounds, a chuckle tipping at the end of his sound. He bends his head down, hiding his laughter from you like he’s breaking character. “I’ll pay close attention to you.”

His hand rubs down your arm. He slows at the crook, paying close attention to the inner elbow like it’s an aphrodisiac. You could tilt your head back and just enjoy him or you could pout some more. “I’m not doing that kind of thing here. In fact, I’m not doing it at all.”

It ticks you off that he laughs again. It’s starting to feel like he’s mocking you as if there’s a live studio audience and the laugh track is playing and everyone is making fun of you. “You becoming a nun?”

You cross your arms. “Maybe you should think about giving some of your vices up.”

Alex rolls his eyes and steps back, allowing you to come up from the water and gasp for air. “I’m working on it.” He means smoking. Not that you’ve been that hard on him about it, maybe more so lately, but he said he would try giving it up, but he still goes out for “walks” every day. You haven’t cared much in the past but the smoking has seemed to flare up into a bigger issue of him not committing to things you’d like him to do like paying closer attention to you and your needs—the non-sexual kind.

You hum and look over at the reception hall through the archway. People talking, drinking, dancin, some at the same time.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

You look back at him, now with his sad little boy look. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes looking down at the floor, an ever-present frown on his face. You roll your eyes at this act. “For what?”

Alex rubs his head, messing with his hair and pulling his face in various directions. “Want me to fuck you in the bathroom?” Deflection. Definitely deflection. 

“Al!” You smack his arm and he’s laughing at you but you’re laughing at him too. Fuck him for knowing the right thing to say to get out of anything. You want to slap him silly and kiss him, have him fuck you into the bathroom mirror. 

He shields his face. “Stop it. Stop it,” he begs with a chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You let your hand fall at your side. “You’re a loser.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, placing his hands back in his pockets, “I know.”

You don’t want to fuck him and you don’t think he wants to fuck you either. You’d like to swallow each other up. You like taking him in pieces—his hands, his hair, his face—rather than just him. But now you’d like to take him whole. You’d like to have him take you whole and not just your body but your soul.

You extend your hand. “Could you dance with me?”

He sighs at the thought. He hates this part. His two left feet and the idea of people staring at him dancing when he hasn’t had enough alcohol or enough lights in his face to block them out. “Slowly,” he says, taking your hand. He likes your hands too, likes the daintiness and how naturally soft they are, completely opposing the way he touches everything. “Protect me.”

He says it as a joke like he does most personal things. He wraps them up in mystery and hidden meanings because he’s too vulnerable to speak to anyone, especially in public, which freaks him out. He’d rather be naked in public than feel like a stranger knows him. That’s why he won’t do therapy. But he’s never been the knight for you. He told you that you don’t need him but he thinks he’d fold in on himself without you. You stand guard against the dragon because he can’t handle the thought of being emotionally exposed to outsiders.

You lied naked with one another far before you knew him. It was so much easier than telling the truth, but then one day you cracked him up and nothing could be held back after that. What therapist would understand him better than you? You get him more than he gets himself. Things only make sense to him in writing or when he tells it to you. Both respond to him in a way nothing else has been able to understand. There’s no point in finding someone—anything—else.

“Okay,” you agree.

He squeezes your hand and trails behind you. He knows everyone here and you don’t know a single soul. It freaks you both out in your own way but that understanding that the other one is just as uncomfortable somehow makes this place the most comfortable place ever.

His shoes tap yours a few times like his nerves knocking on your heart’s walls. He whispers into your ear, “I don’t like this.”

You laugh. “I know.”

He kisses your neck, softly, finding a haven in there. “I know you do.” That’s your relationship in four words. The world swells around you two, encasing you in stone, carved into time, and you never liked dancing but it’s the intimacy of his hold on you as your feet move back and forth in a swaying fashion but not like a waltz more like the cool breeze on a humid day. It’s like floating away with your feet on the wooden floors. His loafer clicks your heel and you’re glad you didn’t take them off. It’s a secret language you’ve learned in the effort to decode, to know him fully, to know yourself more because he knows you. It helps you make sense of all this mess, all of life, just with a misstep he’ll be embarrassed by and mutter a sorry for, you feel like you’ve discovered secrets of the universe in it.

Alex takes you over to his friends after. It’s almost as boring as sitting with what’s-her-face and her husband, except Al’s arm is around you and yours around him and he’ll squeeze your side every once in a while to let you know that he knows you’re still there.

At the hotel, you take your shoes off on the end of the bed while he throws his tie somewhere near your suitcases. It’s an art to be so seductive when making a mess. You’d scold him for it in the daylight but in this nighttime light, it has you shuddering. You scatter your heels at the foot of the bed to seem as sexually temptating as him.

He eyes you from the tips of your toes up to the last hair on your head. “You make me want to get on my knees.”

“And do what?” You question in fake obliviousness.

He tilts his head and his eyes move back down, stopping at the curve of everything, your boobs, your torso, the crook of your elbow, the bend in your knee, the way your foot points, your toes curling. They tick back up to meet your eyes and he looks at them in parts like it’s a medical diagram and he’s examing the iris, the cornea, the pupil, the lens, the retina, all the way back to the optic nerve.

“I don’t like when you play dumb.” He bites on his cheeks like he’s starving for nourishment. “It makes me feel like you’re talking down to me. Like the teacher just called on me or something.”

You curl your feet under you to hide part of yourself from him. “Did you want to fuck your teacher?”

He shrugs and turns his back to you. He steps on the heel of his shoes, taking them off and lining them up against the wall so neatly it’s more distressing than him tossing his tie. “Mrs. Sterling was hot. Then again, I was going through puberty.”

“What’s your excuse now?” You watch him hang his jacket up in the hotel’s closet. 

Alex laughs through his teeth, air fighting its way out of his lips. “Maybe I’m still going through it. At least my penis is.”

You stand up and walk over to him. He’s running his fingers through his hair in the mirror like he isn’t about to go to bed. Almost like you aren’t going to fuck and mess it all up. You slide your head onto his shoulder and nudge your arms around him. He grabs your hands like he’s slipping them into his trouser pockets. You talk to each other through your breathing. He sighs and you take in the air he’s just let out.

“You smell nice,” you say. You give a peck to his neck before sliding out of his grasp, moving around to the front of him.

He grabs your waist now, just resting them there as if they are shelves. “Hmm. This is what happens when I don’t smoke for a day.”

You’re smiling but you don’t let him see it, ducking your head down and turning your back to him. “Unzip me,” you request. You can see him through the mirror. A smile gently emerges and his hands graze up to the top of your back. He rubs your shoulder blades with the faint touch of his knuckles. You lift your hair up out of the way. Alex smoothly lowers the zipper. His touch is non-sexual, only a caring way of easing your aches and pains but his face plays with temptation and an eagerness that he thinks is unseen.

You remove the straps and tug the dress down to the floor before hanging it up beside his suit jacket, mixing him with you. Your feet carry you away from him, leaving him stranded by the mirror. You pull your bra off and one of your old shirts on. You take off your underwear and wear one of his boxers.

He takes off his shirt and hangs it up. He hides himself in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. You lie down on the bed and wait for him. You don’t get under the covers. You don’t want to hide from him. You want to be exposed, physically all of you left for the taking.

Alex shuts off the sink water and taps his feet on the tiled floors. The bathroom light flickers off. He steps out, catching you on the bed with a smirk. He walks over to his suitcase. “I think this is the first wedding I didn’t get drunk at,” he says, shimmying out of his remaining clothes.

“Good. I want you to be upright.”

He unapologetically snorts at that. He’s naked, bending down, his ass staring at you. Part of you wants to go over there and just start eating him. You make a noise to yourself to do that at some other time but for now, you lie further back, sending a message to him. 

His boxers are blue with white polka dots. His hair is messed up again despite the time he spent in the mirror. His chest is bare with a slight roundness to it that makes him feel cozy, instead of stiff. He stands at the foot of the bed and takes one of your feet in his hands. His thumb makes love to the arch, easing the painful build-up from the evening. 

He kisses your ankle, the bulge that catches his eye. He licks his tongue over it as his mouth leaves your skin. You moan at the feeling of everything. The slight wetness on your joint and the relief of your muscles coming undone at the same time. “Do you want to have sex?” He asks.

It’s romantic for something that is so clinical sounding. His cheeks are red like an embarrassed schoolboy’s. “Do you?” You nervously return the question.

“Yeah,” he quickly answers. Then, he shrugs. “Maybe.”

You giggle. “Maybe?”

He drops your foot and picks up the other one. He repeats his act, leaving this one wetter than the left. “If you want to go all the way. I’m fine with just taking care of you.” That translates to “I’d like to eat you out now please.”

You lift your left foot and poke your toes into his cock. “What about you?”

Alex kisses your big toe. “What about me?” He chuckles as if it’s an absurd thing for a man to want to come all over the place: pussy, boobs, mouth, stomach, feet, the crook of the elbow.

You sit up on your elbows and nudge your foot against his dick some more. “I don’t want him to feel lonely.”

He places your right foot down with graceful care. He kneels on the carpeted floor. He kisses the arch of your left foot as if he’s saying goodbye to it. “I’m not lonely. I can hear it calling my name.”

Already knowing what he means, you ask him, “It?”

His hand slides up your legs and fiddles with the edge of his boxers hiding it from him. “Your cunt. Wet cunt, right?”

You swat his hand away. “Shut up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh.” And with a chuckle, he says, “You’re soaking wet, aren’t you?”

You want it so badly yet you’re so embarrassed by it. This want inside you is so intense that no one should know about it, not even you. But he can feel it in the air alone just like you can feel how badly he wants it. Unapologetically wants it. This is where he lays himself bare, never hiding how desperate he is for you and the mess between your thighs. In fact, that’s probably all he ever thinks about. Your core and how to get back to it—to this, edging up into the pocket of you.

“I like how shy you get,” he teases. “You’re so bossy until I touch you then you’re just a mess I have to clean up.”

“Clean up?” You question.

He nods. “Yeah. I need a mop or something.”

It’s impossible not to laugh even if you feel so fucking sheepish over it. Like you want to cover your hands over yourself and hide everything, every desirable part (to him, that means pretty much all of you). “You hate me.”

Alex shakes his head and curls his fingers under the elastic band. “I’d like to fuck every inch of you.”

You turn your head, unable to look at him without turning completely red. “You’re so provocative.”

“Pft,” he sounds. “Barely. You’d die if you heard what goes through my mind.”

You shut your eyes as he begins to pull the boxers off of you. “Keep it to yourself. All of it.”

“No way.” You hear the boxers land and his hand pushes up your shirt. “I like it when you’re all red. It’s the only time I have one up on you.”

You feel that hot air between you two. You open your eyes to him completely over you. A second later his lips touch your lips. It’s always his opening, a greeting for the night to come. He lifts himself to look you in the eye. “Mouth or fingers?”

You push him down, away from you. “Stop it.”

He surrenders. Almost. “Okay. Okay.” He kisses your hip bone and from there on out you’re a goner. You lose the ability to articulate words, not even able to think.

Both his hands grab either side of your waist. He eases his head down to the mount of you, giving it a soft peck. It’s like a slow song, an instrumental one like those scores to all those movies he watches that you don’t understand. You get lost in it like a dance, your body internally swaying. 

His mouth touches the lips then he dives into the rest. He licks and kisses the clit. He swirls his tongue down your cunt until he finds the opening, pushing inside. Your hands mess his hair up more because that’s about the only thing you can do. You find him infuriating how beautifully he does this. He’s a painter with his lovemaking. If one could document such a thing he’d be Da Vinci or maybe Kilmt, that would be more aligned.

You wish he’d give as much attention to you as he does to your vagina. Not that you mind this bit either with his nose rubbing against your clit and his tongue running through you like your ice cream on a hot, melting day. 

He lifts his head, which shouldn’t be allowed. You whine and push against him to move his head back down. “Should take up permanent residency here,” he says before his fingers get involved in the mix. He re-attaches his mouth to your clit and reintroduces his fingers to the inside of you. They haven’t been separated for long, maybe three days at most. It’s hard to remember dates now. He’s moving just right.

“Fuck, please.” Maybe you’re answering his comment or just exclaiming with pleasure. It’s hard to keep track. He goes to the knuckle and sucks on you like it’s his life resource. Like he’s a baby and milk might come out of it. That’s a funny comment, you note to say that to him after you come if you can remember that.

“I’ll build a mansion down here,” he says against you, vibration running through. “With a pool to keep all this wetness in.” You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolling into the back of your head.

He moves deep but not quickly. His nose rubs against your pubic bone like his shoe knocking into your heel. He moves back but never away. It’s too much and too little all at once. You might have ripped a hair or two out but he doesn’t mind, he likes that type of thing. He might be bald at the end of this. 

He curls his fingers inside you and you might get a noise complaint with how loudly you moan. You feel Alex smile into your pussy. He shushes into your clit, which only makes you moan more, placing your right on the edge. He can feel it in the way your thighs shake, your muscles unable to take this feeling. Your brain is unsure of what to do like he’s turning the light switch on and off rapidly.

“Come on my mouth,” Alex says as he removes his fingers. His mouth is full-on, slurping like your soup and plunging his tongue into you like you’re the bottom of a jar he’s cleaning out. His hands push your legs apart more so he can take it all with no barriers in the way. No hiding.

You move against him, unable to control yourself. He goes down onto you deeper and your ears are ringing from how hot they are. The dam breaks loose and you give him what he wants and what you need. It’s all his, just like that.

He doesn’t stop, licking it all up like you’re the center of the Tootsie Pop. You thrust up into him. Unable to take anymore you tug at his hair to pull him off. His mouth is covered in your wetness. He wipes it off on his arm. He looks tired but doesn’t feel it, unlike you feeling like you just climbed and descended Everest. 

You push the shirt back to its proper position. You roll onto your stomach and rest your head completely on the pillow, absorbing the softness and how cool it feels against your hot cheeks. “Gimme the boxers back.”

“What if I want easy access?” You hear him moving but your eyes are closed.

“Too bad.” He bends your legs and helps put the boxers back over you, tucking your shared secret away under the cloth.

You hear the sheets rustle and the bed dip beside you. He tugs on the blanket under you. “Pick your feet up.” You follow orders before he covers you both with the blanket, even though it feels too hot right now on your sweating skin. “Don’t fall asleep yet. Open your eyes.”

You manage to flutter them open. Half-closed you say, “How’s this?”

The browns of his peek through along with his smile. “Good enough.”

“What time is check out?” Your eyes shut and his arm lands on your back, cooling you down just enough to not burst into flames.

He yawns. “Noon, I think.” 

You hum relief at being able to sleep in. “Want to wake up early for a blow job?”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Nah.” The buzz of silence rings the air. You sink further into the bed. Sleep closes in on you. “Want me to wake you up with head?”

You laugh and open your eyes to see his toothy smile. You bite your lip, scared to admit it, but you reveal it to him. “Maybe.” You turn your head away from him and close your eyes.

He kisses the back of your head. “Okay.” Not forcing anything. There’s no attempt to crack you open and tell you to expose yourself to him. There’s no insistence on allowing him to see every side of you. He likes that you keep these parts of yourself hidden. That you got embarrassed when his friends briefly talked about sex like it was in front of your parents or something. Like when you had to give a presentation on STDs in sex ed. That’s one of his favourite stories of you.

It’s private only for you to see fully and he’s fine with just seeing it in parts because those parts usually involve his tongue, cock, or fingers and you moaning. Or that redness that enters your cheeks where you get all flustered and bury your head into his neck. It’s the only time he gets to be the protector. You give yourself over to him. You trust him. That’s all a man could ever want. That and maybe a cigarette.

*

a/n: when i started this i hated it but now i think it's one of the best things i've written, at least the hotel room part. i think i've used the tootsie pop line before, not sure. also listened to "amore mio aiutami" on repeat so that might have helped.

[boopshoops]

Common sense doesn't feel all that common when coming from a fella such as this.

template by ai-kan1! dividers here! sound on :)

Alias: Creek

Nickname(s): Cricket, Piranha

Gender: Xenogender

Pronouns: Any with they/it preference (they>it). Also prefers masculine language/titles (i.e. lad, mister, sir, etc.)

Sexuality: Unlabeled

Birthday: June 1 (Gemini)

Age: Somewhere close to 200, they've stopped counting

Height: 5'8 or 172cm, though the height of the doll is adjustable.

Voice Claim(s): Yuri Lowenthal, Keiichi Nanba

Twisted From: Jiminy Cricket

Unique Magic: None! It's magicless.

Job: Playful Land Owner

Hobbies: Terrarium making, architecture, entrepreneurship, bug collecting, raising bug colonies, reading, violin, creating soundscapes, fashion.

Likes: Bugs, spiders, nature, Italian roulade, their doll body, cricket song, old locomotives, leaving large impressions on others, seclusion.

Dislikes: Existentialism, extreme pessimism, extended periods of boredom, drawing in an unwanted crowd, unrewarded extended efforts.

Fears: Being completely numb, feeling nothing, being stuck in one place for too long.

Summary: The eccentric yet secluded benefactor of Playful Land, both feared and loved by many for their charities. The owner is known for exploring many different business ventures, to the point where their company is behind a startlingly large amount of big names and faces. It's been around for a suspiciously long amount of time... at least others find it suspicious, Creek's lifespan isn't that much of a secret to their close circle... that circle mostly consisting of a bunch of insects, but still.

Creek, evidently, is more so focused on doing their own thing and finding constant sources of emotion rather than living up to the standards their business has risen to. After all, once you reach the top, it has to find out just what else life has in store for them. That, and what life has in store for others. Whether that is dangerous or not is up to you, long as you stay on your toes.

Playful Land's owner is known among their hires - even in avenues outside the amusement park - as being oddly generous, if not even incredibly intelligent. Guidance is something they are almost always willing to offer, in any topic or field. Don't get it wrong, though. They're not kind or overtly rude. What you see is what you get, even if it gets you sent straight to hell. Thems the facts, lad.

CHARACTER PLAYLIST - CREATION STORY - DEATH STORY

Author's note: koisdghdosieeee theyre so sillayyy! theyre just sooo sillay guys trust me guys its just a sillay lil geek mk! wym they abandoned isola and stole whats practically her skeleton. what could u posibly mean i jhave no idea what you're talking about :) they just like little critters theyve never done anything wrong no human trafficking into labour here noooooooooooooooooooooooooo pal!!!!!! perfectly legal lived a perfectly normal amount of time totally is NOT a peepaw and has not fed ANYONE to their massive supply of crickets.

anyway ernesto/fellow bombing their giantass ship was the most entertaining thing thats happened to them in a decade <3

mr. "why are you charging those two for the destruction of the park" "i just wanted to see what would happen lol" Creek

Tag list :)

@skriblee-ksk @lowcallyfruity @justm3di0cr3 @kitwasnothere @cecilebutcher

@distant-velleity @thehollowwriter @techno-danger @scint1llat3 @the-trinket-witch

@beneathsakurashade @kathxrat-01 @qsoap @twsted-canvas @prince-kallisto

@gimmeurmoneyagh @tixdixl @sillyslipperybananapeel @twstinginthewind

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Missing You | Lucien x Reader

Summary: After coming back home from a long trip to Autumn Court due to his emissary duties, Lucien is exhausted, but still more than willing for whatever touch you’ll give him.

Word Count: ~ 1.3k

Warnings: Lucien’s bad relationship w Eris, smut but like…comfort smut? is that a thing? p in v, sub lulu, yknow

Minors, do not interact!

A/N: I have not been feeding y’all good😔 so here’s a lucien fic since we all know he’s the best character in acotar hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

As the somewhat-official emissary of Night Court, there were things Lucien had to handle.

Such as the impossibly long mission he’d been sent on, an excursion to Autumn, to get reassurances that everything was running smoothly with Eris installed as the newest High Lord following a few recent riots and whatnot. The visit had been…awkward, to say the least, considering how Lucien wasn’t the closest with his elder brother.

Things were getting better between them. Slowly, but surely.

As soon as he was back in Velaris, the report he knew he should go give Rhysand be damned, he stumbled to the door of the home you two had, a simple, but warm and cozy one. Fitting for you, he always thought.

It was late then, he could hear the chirping of the nighttime bugs of Velaris, the birds quietly cawing before settling down. The moon was out tonight, in its waning stage. Clouds aimlessly drifted past in the midnight sky, and as soon as he had taken one step through the dod frame, he felt a small warm form collide with his body as you threw your arms around his neck.

“Gods, I missed you.”

You murmured into his ear, and he smiled softly, arms loosely embracing you back. And then he was suddenly all too aware of the grime and sweat soaking him from the journey home, the sleepless nights, and his anxieties.

“I know, love, but I need to take a shower.”

He relied in an almost apologetic tone, giving a small kiss on the forehead to you, before pulling out of the embrace even when you whined and pouted at him.

“Alone?”

You asked, giving him a pleading look. He sighed and nodded. Even after being alone in Autumn for so long, he needed time to decompress in a safe space, which was here. As much as you hated separating from him, you mumbled a little “okay” before he left to enter the bathroom.

*********************************************************

You had seen the exhaustion in his body language, the way his shoulders caved in, weighed down. Or how he hadn’t even noticed the dinner set out on the table, one that you’d specially made for him.

You couldn’t blame him for it, though. He hadn’t known, you told yourself as you slid the food into glass containers for tomorrow, how long you’d spent on it. And you couldn’t bear to be angry at him right now, when he’d been away so long, and had to be around his older brother as well. He’d slowly opened up about the problems between the two of them, the gap that never seemed to fill.

You felt bad for him, truly, but there wasn’t much you could do to comfort him other than give him space and be there when he needed you.

The sounds of the shower started up, water flowing down and hitting the bottom of the tub. Every second of that shower felt like an eternity because even though you knew he needed a little time to himself, you just wanted to hold him impossibly close and feel every inch of him and remember that this was real, that he was here and back.

Still caught up in your thoughts, you put up the now-packaged food and turned the kitchen lights off, walking quietly into your shared bedroom, and slipping your clothes off to don a thin, cotton nightgown. The material was always just lightweight enough to be breathable for your skin.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, before moving under the covers, shuffling around a bit to get comfortable and stretch the tension out of your body.

Not long after, your eyes began feeling heavy as you blinked, and the shower stopped, before Lucien stepped out of the bathroom, a towel hanging loosely around his waist. If the earlier signs that he was tired weren’t enough, the fact that he didn’t even go through with his skincare or haircare routine tonight showed it clearly. He was usually so strict about it, the specific serums and oils, his hair masks and hydration, honestly sometimes it seemed more like he was speaking a different language when he tried to explain it.

But you liked hearing him talk about things he was invested in.

“Luci..”

You mumbled, sitting up slowly and rubbing your eyes. He only barely pulled some boxers on before collapsing into the bed beside you, one arm trying to pull you close. He sighed deeply, inhaling as much of your scent as he could when you moved closer.

“Missed this,”

He mumbled, looking like he was in a daze. Your hands began gently roaming his skin, beginning with his shoulders, rubbing the tension out of them as best as you could. The angle you were at currently wasn’t too great for it, though, so you shifted to where you were almost straddling him, your body lying above his limp one.

“Careful, I’m-“

The words died in his throat as he let out a breathy groan when you hit a particularly stiff spot. You leaned down slightly, letting your lips brush against his jaw, before starting a light trail down his golden-tanned skin. Every little inch of him received your kisses, his biceps, his abdomen, his legs, face, then you were at his inner thigh, gently rubbing the skin as his breathing turned to little pants.

You hooked a finger on the edge of his boxers, slowly tugging them down as you continued your exploration, all the way down to his cock. It was half-hard, and every tiny movement you made anywhere near it made it twitch. Your tongue darted out to give a little lick, at which Lucien whimpered, and then it was throbbing. Your hand snuck up your nightgown, pushing your panties aside as you began slipping fingers in, stretching and rubbing.

“Lulu,”

You cooed softly, a nickname you’d made for him long ago, and even to this day you swore the tips of his ears turned a light shade of pink when you used it. He sniffled, looking down at you with what almost looked like a pout. Sure, you’d seen him submissive before, but never just so utterly defeated and whiny.

“Please.”

He whispered, hips trying and failing to buck up, his body failing him. You gave a little lick again to his length, before you let your fingers slip out of you, and slid up a bit against his body. As soon as he saw your glistening fingers, his mouth was open and inviting, and you didn’t deny him any longer, letting his deft tongue lick and suck the slick from your fingers. His eyes rolled back in his head, growing slightly glazed over with lust.

You shifted a bit more, pulling your fingers away, only to gently wrap that hand around his dick, managing to pull a light gasp out of him from it, as you slowly sunk onto him. He whimpered and groaned, body near trembling as you suffered the slightly painful stretch.

When he was finally, finally all the way in, you let out a ragged sigh of relief, leaning down to lay against his chest, arms folding easily around him. He buried his face in the nook of your shoulder, hips barely able to move other than the tiniest bit of rocking back and forth. It was barely perceptible, but more than enough for the both of you.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you remained like that, hips barely rocking back and forth until you came undone around him with little more than a moan, and he spilled into you with a whimper. Tonight wasn’t the night for hard, demanding sex. Sometimes you both just needed something comfortable and soothing, while both were able to feel each other.

He eventually drifted off to sleep, breathing and falling into a deep rhythm, and you were soon to join him.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Gerald Robotnik

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

You may not know this, but Jim Carrey is actually really good at playing villains. Like, it’s a pretty obscure fact about his career. So obscure that despite him playing at least three of the funniest villains I’d ever seen growing up, I completely forgot about them when I did the Psycho Analysis for Ivo Robotnik back when the original Sonic film dropped.

But now I know better. The Grinch, Count Olaf, the Riddler… Carrey is a master of playing cartoonish creeps. And Ivo Robotnik has proved to be the best and most fun of all his villainous roles, evolving beyond the simple yet fun egomaniac scientist of the first film into something that hews far closer to what Sonic fans might expect from the world’s sexiest fat man AKA Dr. Eggman. In fact, Robotnik might be my favorite villain role of his, and one of my favorite villains of all time.

Now what if we doubled that?

Sonic the Hedgehog 3 went bigger and better than its predecessors, and considering it was introducing the most popular character in the Sonic franchise who isn’t the Blue Blur himself—Shadow—it kind of had to. And that meant giving us not one, but two Jim Carrey performances. In this movie, the typically posthumous Gerald Robotnik is alive and well and out to enact some revenge. It’s a pretty bold and different approach to the beloved story of this Sonic adventure… so how does it work out?

Motivation/Goals: Gerald Robotnik is motivated by revenge, much like in the games, though this time he’s around to pursue it himself. After what G.U.N. did to Maria, he wanted to completely dismantle and destroy them. But the thing is, his decades of stewing in his hate and rage made him a little cuckoo, and now his hate extends to not just G.U.N., but the entirety of the human race… as well as himself.

Performance: Jim Carrey had already perfected Ivo over two films, but I think there may have been a little worry he’d make Gerald too similar and ignore what made fans love him in the game. Of course, we needn’t have worried; not only is Gerald a distinct character from his grandson, he still manages to be a truly despicable human being, perhaps more vile than he’s ever been before. He’s still as wacky and ridiculous as Ivo, but unlike with Eggman he manages to drop the silly at just the right moments to make Gerald a genuinely threatening monster.

Final Fate: No firing squad for Gerald this time; no, his ending here is much more undignified, but also incredibly well-deserved and satisfying. After callously trying to send his grandson into the vacuum of space, Ivo surprises the old man with a super-charged Sonic quill into his ass which sends him flying through the air into the chaos energy. He then proceeds to be disintegrate with a little pop like a bug in a zapper.

Now, this may seem incredibly cartoonish and even ridiculous as a way to defeat such a villain… But read the rest of this analysis to see just how disturbingly vile Gerald ends up being. I think this truly absurd and cartoonish death is exactly what the movie needed to do to rerail things and keep it from going way too dark. And, if you think about it, his death is still colossally fucked up, particularly because Tails seems a little too chipper about committing murder.

Evilness: For most of the movie, he seems like he’ll end up being like… a 6 or 7/10, like clearly a bad guy but one with an understandable motive that you can root for. G.U.N. do not come out of this film smelling like roses, and when you see the full extent of what they did to Shadow it’s hard not to root against them.

But then comes the third act. He reveals he wants to kill everyone and himself, he reveals he doesn’t give a shit what Maria would want because he’s so utterly consumed with misanthropy, and he drops the coldest line ever to reject his grandson… Yeah this guy is a 10/10. Maybe even a 10.5/10. He is genuinely fucking callous and vile and monstrous.

Best Scene: Without a doubt it’s the scene where he and Ivo dance through the lasers.

This scene is great for multiple reasons. The most obvious reason is that t’s an amazing example of the movies effects and how well it showcases the dual Jim Carrey performance. Like, this must’ve been a bitch and a half to make look convincing, especially with Ivo picking Gerald up and swinging him around. It’s amazingly well done, the choreography is great, and “Galvanize” by the Chemical Brothers kicks ass.

But it also works as a further highlighting of the character of Ivo, how he’s still desperately cramming in family fun now that he feels he has someone who cares about him… and it also makes the later reveal about Gerald sting all the more.

Best Quote: Remember that line in Frozen where Hans coldly reveals he’s a villain to Anna? Remember how it’s a stupid twist that doesn’t make sense, yet the line is one of the rawest in all of Disney’s canon? Imagine that except the twist actually works and is effective. That’s what Gerald gets:

“Oh, Ivo… You’re no Maria.”

This single line completely recontextualizes everything Gerald has done up until this point. Every single bit of fun and goofiness now comes off as deliberate manipulation of Ivo to help in his schemes. It also highlights just how single-minded and insane he’s become in his pursuit of revenge; here he has a living member of his family, someone who could fill the void Maria left, but he coldly rebuffs them because he is too consumed by his own hate and rage.

Final Thoughts & Score: I fucking love Gerald.

Jim Carrey really went above and beyond here (and considering they sent him the script in gold and let him play with himself on camera, why wouldn’t he?). He manages to make Gerald hilarious and goofy but also perfectly captures his grief, rage, and hatred when the third act hits. And that third act is genuinely impressive even when he gets into a scientifically-enhanced slap fight with his renegade grandson; just his eerily calm statement of his desire to commit murder-suicide with the entirety of the Earth, his callous brushing off of both his grandson and Maria’s desires, his flippant shrugging off of the worth of Shadow’s life when the hedgehog betrays him… It’s honestly shocking just how nasty Jim Carrey manages to be without completely dropping the inherent goofiness he brings to his roles. In fact, his goofiness just makes it more chilling when he drops the act and gets going.

Frankly it’s surprising just how much nuance there is in such a goofy role, how much can be read in to his actions. Like they really didn’t have to put so much work into the silly villain in the second sequel of a video game movie franchise, they could have easily half-assed Gerald or even just had him be posthumous to save themselves a lot of work. But they didn’t do that, they brought him in, managed to flesh him out and give him depth while still keeping him true to the core of the character, and they knocked him out of the park. Of course, Carrey’s amazing dual performance where he goes out of the way to interact with himself is a big plus too. The sheer spectacle is at least 50% of what makes Gerald so fun to watch.

All in all, Gerald is one of the greatest live-action family film antagonists ever seen, and he’s a big part as to why Sonic the Hedgehog 3 is so great. And best of all he continues to show that the human characters related to Eggman are the best in the franchise. Easily a 9.5/10 for me, with the .5 less than his grandson only because we get far less time with him since, you know, he fucking dies at the ends of this one and isn’t going to develop more. But the fact they manage to make him so well-rounded in just a single movie is worth a lot.

[samcrosfaith]

COSTUME CHOICE

Soft!Happy Lowman x random fem!oc because I suck at writing character x reader.

a/n; please feel free to leave requests in my ask box for Halloween and Christmas One Shots. Happy and Jax only please because I'm not good at writing the other characters lol. If you have a specific wish/look/backstory for your OC, please let me know— otherwise I'll come up with something. 🦇🎃🕸️

If you wanna get tagged in these just let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the tag list. 🤎🍂

this one here was requested my one of my lovely Wattpad followers!

tag list; @ravennaortiz

word count; about 1.4k

Happy couldn't believe his eyes as he entered the living room and saw their family dog, a white pitbull puppy, in a Halloween sweater for dogs, the wooden floor creaking under his heavy boots, announcing that he was home. Cassie, his beautiful wife, sat on the floor with their one year old son placed in her lap, the little boy stuffed into a pumpkin costume while their three year old daughter ran towards him in her ladybug custume, her blonde hair sitting in pigtails on top of her head.

This might be a strange view for some people, but for him it was normal by now, knowing his wife was an absolute Halloween fanatic. Scented candles made sure the house smelled exactly like it should during this time of the year. He couldn't care less about the way his house smelled, Cinnamon and apple definitely wouldn't be his first choice though. But as long as Cassie was Happy, he was too.

"Daddy! Look at my outfit!" The three year old girl spun around a few times, making sure to show off her whole outfit with the brightest eyes. "You like it?"

Happy watched his daughter's face light up even more as he picked her up, her little arms wrapping around his neck. "It's perfect, bug. You picked it out?"

"Yep! I wanna be a ladybug", the girl sing-sang, wobbling her head from side to side.

Happy winked at the woman on the floor, almost unable to take his eyes off the woman he had married five years ago. "Glad Mommy showed you the costume, you definitely chose the right one", he assured the little girl.

"Hey Baby", Cassie greeted him with the sweetest smile, getting up from the floor with their son. "This little fella here I thought would look cute in a pumpkin costume. I just couldn't leave it at the store", she explained, her tone almost sounding like a whine. "You have no idea how hard it was to only take two costumes. Well, threeᅳ I had to get Ace a costume, too."

"Yeah, bet it was such a hard decision", he rasped, his tone mocking yet still loving before he bent down a little to capture his wife's soft lips for a kiss. "Means you're ready for tomorrow?"

"Yep, as ready as we can be", Cassie nodded eagerly, stealing another kiss from his lips. "You're coming too, right? We'd love that, baby."

"Yes! You have to come with us, daddy", the three year old girl added quickly, tracing her father's head tattoo with her tiny finger.

Happy let out a raspy laugh before placing a kiss on his daughter's cheek and running a hand over his babbling son's dark hair, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as the boy happily squealed at him. "Of course I'm comin', I promised you."

Cassie smiled, letting out a sigh of relief. For a moment she had been afraid something had come upᅳ club business or whatever. "Good, can't wait to go trick or treatin' with you guys."

"Our kids better get enough candy or I'll take care of it personally", he winked at his wife, earning a giggle from her in return before following her in the kitchen, the smell of Cassie's perfect lasagne filling the air. "Smells good, babe", he praised, giving her ass a quick slap as their daughter was distracted looking over his shoulder to see what Ace was doing.

Cassie rolled her eyes playfully as she sat their son into his highchair. "Stop scaring our neighbors or our kids won't get anythi at all anymore. Now sit down, dinner's ready."

"They can try not giving them anythin", he said with the slightest smirk and a murderous glint in his eyes before he listened to his wife an sat down, placing their daughter on the chair next to him.

The rest of the evening was almost like every other. After dinner they watched a movie with the three year old, a Halloween one of course, while their son was already in bed, before spending some quality time together and preparing some trick or treat bags for tomorrow after they had out their daughter to bed.

ᅳ

The next evening it was finally time and, as promised, Happy had taken the time for his family. Together with Jax, Tara, Abel and Thomas they had walked through some streets in Charming to go trick or treating.

After Jax and Tara had decided to go to Gemma's, but the three-year-old hadn't had enough of collecting candy, Happy and Cassie had decided to stroll a few more blocks, wanting to let their children have some fun.

Happy's eagle eyes kept an eye on the three-year-old, her ladybug costume with the blinking shoes so conspicuous that they couldn't really lose sight of her. Their son was sitting on his arm, his other one draped over Cassie's shoulder.

"Oh, someone's tired", Cassie cooed as the one-year-old yawned on Happy's arm and rubbed his eyes with his little fists. "Maybe we should get home soon."

"Probably", grunted Happy, running his large hand over his son's head as the boy sighed theatrically and stuck his fist in his mouth as always when he was hungry. "And he's hungry too", Happy added, snorting a laugh.

Cassie rolled her eyes in amusement. "Of course he is, it's been an hour since his last meal. Poor boy is probabl starving already."

"Yeah, I think he needs his mom", the SAA chuckled before whistling in the next moment. He immediately had not only Ace's attention, who was happily running beside them and wagging his tail, but also that of the three-year-old who came running, her tiny feet carrying her quickly to her parents. "Your brother needs some sleep, we're going home, okay bug?"

"Noooo", the three-year-old pouted, clutching the handles of her black bat-shaped candy bag. "I don't have much candy yet!"

Cassie lifted an eyebrow in amusement, crossing her arms. "Oh, that's a lie. How about we go home and eat some of the candy, huh?"

The three-year-old parted her lips, ready to protest, which looked pretty cute in her costume and gave her parents a hard time staying strict. "Butᅳ"

"No buts, little Lady", Happy replied sternly, gently pulling her closer by her hand. "If you come with us now, we'll make some popcorn and pick out another movie. And tomorrow you can wear your costume again. Deal?"

"Really?" The three-year-old's eyes lit up, her small protest forgotten as she took her mother's hand and went home with them without throwing a tantrum.

"Thanks", Cassie mouthed, flashing her husband a smile. It was at moments like these that she always fell in love with him all over again.

ᅳ

Happy looked down as his daughter's soft snores mixed with the singing of the movie. Nightmare before Christmas was a huge hit in the Lowman house, but apparently this time it wasn't exciting enough to keep the three-year-old awake.

"Look, she even has a popcorn in her hair." Amused, Cassie plucked the popcorn out of her daughter's hair and put it on the table before peeling herself out of the cozy blanket and getting up, earning a confused look from Happy. "Take her to bed, I'll wait for you in the bedroom."

"That's what I've been waiting for." Within a few seconds and a grin on his lips, Happy stood up and carefully scooped the three-year-old into his arms while Cassie turned off the TV.

After a few minutes and both children asleep, Happy made his way to the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with a huge grin as he let his eyes wander over his wife's body. Wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, she lay on the bed, her body propped up on her elbows.

"Come here", she said sultry, running her fingertips down her stomach and between her legs as she bit her lip. "Time for your treat."

"That's my kind of treat", he croaked, followed by a deep growl rattling through his throat.

With a kick of his foot, he quietly kicked the door shut. Happy got rid of his own clothes before he buried his head between his wife's legs after removing her slip, a satisfying grunt coming from him after getting the first taste of her arousal.

For him, listening to her moaning and whimpering his name, was the perfect way to end the day.

[yoshiunity]

So another Six Character Challenge completed!

This time it was Nintendo themed, and thanks to my friends on Twitter, before the site further lost its mind -- I was able to draw six characters popular, somewhat known, and as obscure as can be.

Micaiah - Fire Emblem

Didn't get far into Radiant Dawn because I had a bugged copy and had to return it for something else. Though I always liked her design!

Anyway, the spell was originally supposed to take up the majority of the picture, with two rings of light engulfing the bottom screen. I removed it because it was too distracting. You can barely make out Nevessa as it is.

Bill Grey - StarFox

Fun Fact: Bill is my favorite Starfox character. I just like how he's the commander of two Cornerian squadrons, but goes into Bro Mode whenever Fox shows up.

Despite being in multiple games, Bill barely had any good references. So this design is a composite of all of them. Even added some grey in the tips of his ears.

Also, I actually did draw his legs, but his cockpit just seemed too empty for something so compact. So I added the console.

Ibis - Pilotwings

"Alright!" I would have never thought of anyone suggesting Pilotwings art in 2025. Sucks that Nintendo only used the PW64 cast for one game. They gave that entry a lot of charm by design alone!

I could count all official art references for Ibis on one hand. So I made up for it by studying whatever fan art there was, and captured photos while playing Pliotwings 64 on NSO.

I've also updated her design slightly since PW64 characters have some of the most N64 designs to ever N64. (That's not a bad thing, but an update is due.)

Meta-Ridley - Metroid

Ridley, or Meta-Ridley as portrayed here, perched on a collection of his..."work". To us, this is murder. But to the Cunning God of Death, there's much more work to be done.

While "Ridley" was one of the suggestions, the version preferred was never specified. So I went by my favorite. Anyway, Ridley is a sadistic bastard. So much, that if you look closely at his cheek, you can see a minute smile curling along it.

Also that's Tallon IV in the background.

Kumatora - Mother/Earthbound

She's currently taking a break after feeding that Pigmask Colonel a PK Fire-Roasted, Five-Knuckle, All You Can Eat, Buffet! And the other Pigmasks want none of it. Haha! As if they have a choice...

I haven't finished Mother 3. But I'm willing to believe that Kumatora uses PK attacks like everyone else. But for context in this art piece, I really love this old fan idea for a Smash moveset, where she'd uses it to power up her fists and punch enemies with it.

Also, angel gloves.

Captain Falcon - F-Zero

I finish my final lap with an art piece of the man, the myth, the legend, the guy that people FINALLY give a shit about outside of Smash Bros... Captain Falcon!

Launching into action in his home town of Port Town, with the Blue Falcon and the Falcon Flyer!

[crazyk-imagine]

Stealing is Not the Answer, but It Could Be

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x Detective!reader

Characters: Shawn Spencer, Detective!reader, Burton "Gus" Guster, Chief Vicks, Carlton Lassiter, Buzz McNab

Warnings: Fluff, humor, Shawn being Shawn, Gus and reade being besties, Shawn trying to use his Shawn psych, Shawn trying to steal something, reader putting Shawn in his place, Shawn and Gus doing shenanigans

Word Count: 615

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

You walk into the department, aiming for chief Vicks office when you hear an alarming statement from your favorite chaotic duo.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier to steal something than ask for it,” Shawn blurts out.

You owlishly blink, wondering if you heard that correctly.

“That is both frightening and alarming, Shawn.”

He turns to face you, putting on an innocent face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree.”

You look over his head to see what his buddy’s expression is. “Gus?”

He nods, gesturing to you. “I’m with her.”

“What? Gus? Aw, come on.”

He shakes his head, “I am not agreeing with you on stealing. Last time I agreed with you, we wound up in jail.”

“That was here though!”

He turns towards Shawn, “Lassie kept us there for five hours.”

“Yes, but then Buzz let us out.”

Gus shakes his head, “no, I’m not going back in there.” He stands up, whispering in your ear, “I almost had to pee in front of the other people locked up. You know how I feel about that.”

You nod, patting his shoulder to comfort him. “I know, Gus. I know.”

“Well, this has been nice.” Shawn tries to slip past you, “I’ll be off now.”

You shake your head. “Not so fast.” You hook your arm in his and pull him back. “Where do you think you’re going with the chief's favorite figurine?”

He yanks his arm from you, “how dare you! How could you even- okay, that was a little dramatic even for me but look at it.” He presses his face against the fish figurine. “It’s so cute.”

You shake your head, “put it back.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “It was just a harmless little prank."

“Harmless or not, you tried to steal in a police station, how smart is that?”

“You tell him.”

“Can it, Gus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shawn snorts, “ma’am? What are in the 1950’s and you're the little harmless housewife?”

“No, it’s called I have respect for those who are in a higher power than me.”

You smile at him, “thank you, Gus.”

The doors open.

“Anything I can help you three with?”

“Actually-”

You cut the psychic off and grab his arm. “Nope, thanks, chief. Keep being awesome.”

You sit him down at his dad’s desk and stand in front of him, holding a pen and a piece of paper. “Now make with your chicken scratch and write, stealing is not the answer fifty times.”

He opens his mouth to whine.

“Whine and I’ll add twenty-five.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, patting his shoulders, “attaboy.”

Gus covers his mouth to hide his amusement.

“Come on, Gus. Let’s go make like Shawn’s humor and scram.”

-

“Hey! Where are you two going?”

“To get some jerk chicken and a pineapple smoothie.”

“I want to come!”

“No!”

“That sounds amazing,” the pharmaceutical rep adds.

“I know right.” You close the door only to be hit with a breeze before the car shakes.

“Here. Now let’s go.”

You grab the paper. “Wow, you already, did it?”

You look in the left corner, “wait- nineteen- this is from when we were fourteen.”

“You never specified when I had to write it.”

“Shawn that’s not- that’s actually really good, you got me.”

He lets out a victory chuckle. “See, Gus. I told you; it would work.”

You gasp, “how dare you. Gus, I thought we were besties.”

“Uh- you see the thing is-”

You shake your head, “no. I’ve been betrayed enough.”

You lean against your arm, watching the world go by as he drives, unable to hide your smile as Shawn tries to bug you and tell you it was all him.  

-

Tag list

@kmc1989

[sean-gaffney]

What's Left of the Looney Tunes?

So you’re a Looney Tunes fan, and you’re waiting with baited breath (Greetings, Bait!) for the cartoon list for the next Collector’s Choice Blu-Ray.  And as you wait to see if they add that 1953 Friz Freleng or 1958 Robert McKimson cartoon, you must be thinking:  Surely they’ve released every single cartoon at SOME point since the 1980s, right?  Well, except for the really racist ones.  Right?

Nah.  There’s 129 Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies that have never been officially released, restored or unrestored, on home video at all.  And, to be honest, most of them are unlikely to be on the Collector’s Choice sets.  Let’s take a look at the last bastions against having all 1000 LT/MM cartoons available.

Bosko.  Now, there are a few Bosko cartoons available.  There’s 38 Bosko cartoons from 1930-1933, not counting the weird ones like the Talk-ink Kid pilot or whatever Bosko and Honey was.  Of those, 11 have been released officially.  This leaves 27 in limbo.  This is a shame, there are some really good Bosko cartoons.

Buddy.  Even worse, to be honest.  23 Buddy cartoons were made, 5 have had some official release.  That leaves 18.  Now, there’s a reason for that.  They’re awful.  (Also, two of those 18, Buddy of the Apes and Buddy in Africa, also fall under one of the later categories we’ll get to.)

Seven B&W Merrie Melodies.  Two of these, Hittin’ the Trail for Hallelujah Land and Goin’ to Heaven on a Mule, are basically banned for content.  Those Were Wonderful Days, Why Do I Dream Those Dreams, The Girl at the Ironing Board, The Miller’s Daughter, and Rhythm in the Bow, are simply not available, possibly as they’re dull.  However, they have been restored.  (As has HtTfHL.)

Seven B&W Looney Tunes.  Mostly the same as above.  The Daffy Duckaroo and Tokio Jokio are banned for content, though we may see Duckaroo someday (Native American caricatures have traditionally been less banned than Black and Asian caricatures).  Saps in Chaps also has some Native American gags, I think.  As for The Fire Alarm, Joe Glow the Firefly, Gopher Goofy and Nutty News, they’ve been restored but never released.

The rest of the “Censored 11”, of which Hittin’ the Trail for Hallelujah Land was the first.  As most cartoon fans know, this is not a catch all of all racist WB cartoons, it’s just the ones that were owned by Associated Artists productions.  So yeah, Sunday Go to Meetin’ Time, Clean Pastures, Uncle Tom’s Bungalow, Jungle Jitters, The Isle of Pingo Pongo, All This and Rabbit Stew (a Bugs Bunny cartoon), Coal Black and de Sebben Dwarfs, Tin Pan Alley Cats, Angel Puss and Goldilocks and the Jivin’ Bears.  They’ve all been restored.

The dog cartoons.  There are a bunch of one-shots that have no regular characters but all involve dogs, and (likely as they don’t have a “star” and aren’t really great) they’ve never come out.  Pappy’s Puppy, Mixed Master, A Waggily Tale, Dog Tales.  All but Pappy’s Puppy are restored.

Miscellaneous “banned for content” cartoons.  Which is Witch (a Bugs Bunny cartoon), Tom Tom Tomcat (a Tweety and Sylvester cartoon), and two REALLY late cartoons, Hocus Pocus Pow Wow and Injun Trouble.  None of these have been restored.

Random missing 50s stuff.  A Bone for a Bone (Goofy Gophers), Sock a Doodle Doo (Foghorn Leghorn), Easy Peckin’s, Quack Shot (Daffy Duck and Elmer Fudd), Trick or Tweet (Tweety).

60s stuff that’s still actually Warner Brothers.  There’s about 10 or 12 early 60s cartoons that just aren’t very good, and that’s why they’re not out.  They’ve all been restored except Unnatural History and What’s My Lion, which are two of the worst LT/MM shorts that ever came out – not for content, they’re simply pathetically unfunny.

All the post-64 stuff.  There’s a pile, I won’t break them down one by one.  Mostly Daffy/Speedy cartoons, the nadir of both characters.  A few of the Roadrunner cartoons that weren’t stuffed onto that one DVD a while back.  They’re here as no one wants to watch them.

The post-67 stuff, aka the nightmare years.  Cool Cat, Merlin the Magic Mouse, Bunny and Claude… those.  (Though actually, both Bunny and Claude shorts HAVE been released.)  They’re here for the same reason – unpopularity.

Note this doesn’t even get into the cartoons which were fine to release in the 1980s on VHS but *aren’t* fine to release now (all the Merrie Melodies that weren’t banned but have racial stereotypes, such as the Inki cartoons, a huge number of cowboy and Indian cartoons, and Bugs Bunny’s unfortunate wartime cartoon).  Or all the stuff that’s restored and out on Max, but has never hit a DVD or Blu-Ray (half of the 30s Merrie Melodies).  Or the stuff that’s unrestored, not on Max and has never hit a DVD or Blu-Ray (the other half of the 1930s Merrie Melodies).  Or Holiday for Drumsticks, what’s up with that?

In any case, when they announce the cartoons for the 4th set in a week or so, you can look at this list and see if it has any of those.

[finniestoncrane]

🩷 Connie (OC) x Riddler x Boomerang, multi-part fic 🩷 constance dorothea drum (connie/conundrum) is my sorta self-insert OC who i like to put into situations!! i'm finally getting around to writing out her backstory and her love triangle and it is filled with fluff and angst and good old smut based in the arkham!verse in terms of character/place design, but divergent as far as the timeline goes fic masterlist • AO3 link • tag: auc fic • plushie doodles by @/march-harrigan

💚 Chapter 1: The Decision Is Made For You, word count: 2.5k 💚 present day: connie is meeting up with a friend to vent about her life (spoiler: it's not good). she has some decisions to make, which is typically pretty hard from her, so it's a blessing when the decision is made for her... right? request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: angst, career changes, kidnapping, ex-librarian is SUFFERING thanks, boomer and eddie aren't explicitly in this chapter but they will be soon!!

There was no reprieve for the wicked, and even less for the good. That was all she could think of as she looked out the window and to the sky, ruminating on the faux philosophic thought and trying to pretend that her suffering was poetic instead of just shit. Christ, even that was depressing. The endlessly grey clouds were beginning to feel claustrophobic, no longer a blanket of safety, a gothic romance waiting to happen. Now they felt like an old rug, and she was being swept up under it with everything else that was easier to forget about than deal with. Rain drops that might as well have been perpetual tears, rolling thunder like pained groans, gusts of wind a mockery of lamenting wails, and flashes of lightning that reminded her of the beginnings of her tension migraines. Gloomy. Grainy. Gotham.

“Hey! You good, Bubby?”

Despite the sorrowful mood that longed to be wallowed in, it did seem impossible not to smile when Harley spoke, her voice high pitched and lilting on the nickname she reserved for her oldest, continuing, friend. And even though she wanted to remain miserable, to allow herself a little bit of a pity party, Connie found herself smiling in response to the question, hoping that she could convince Harley not to worry too much.

“I’m ok. It’s just the same old stuff.”

Harley reached across the table, bruised fingers with red and black chipped nail polish at the ends delicately gripping Connie’s hand. 

“Y’want me to psychoanalyse ya?”

Connie almost regretted the snort of laughter, worrying that Harley might be offended, but she could see by the mischievous grin that she was happily mocking herself.

“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let the struck off criminal with no medical license poke around in my brain to see if that helps.”

Across the table, Harley shrugged and took a long sip of the colourful cocktail in front of her.

“Couldn’t hurt!”

It was obvious that the matter was going to be discussed, inevitable really. Connie wasn’t getting easily, especially not after how long she’d frowned for as the two of them sat together in the seediest bar in the most dangerous neighborhood in Gotham. “People don’t tattle in here!” Harley had said. The only reason they had to choose somewhere as terrifying, given her new career in criminality. Three very long years had passed since Harley had left the Asylum, following a love that Connie couldn’t talk her out of, chasing a dream that she couldn’t hear anything negative about. There had been apologies, of course, for the fallout of those events, and Connie had accepted them wholeheartedly, not wanting to lose the only friend she had. But it still weighed heavily on Harley, who seemed to have a compulsive need to make sure Connie was happy, or at the very least, surviving. 

“The motel. Prices went up again.”

“Well, maybe you gotta move to a worse one. No hoity-toity, upscale, fancy living conditions for you. Bed bugs a must! No view, in fact, no windows! Rooms by the hour, discounts if you clean the mess that the last person in before you left behind! And dinner on us if that mess contains bodily fluids of any kind! Dinner will be provided by the vending machines, $3 dollar maximum .”

“Harley… I don’t think there’s anywhere that shitty even in Gotham. And I really am on the lowest possible rung of the budget ladder. Work is slow, the shifts are almost non-existent at the diner, and-”

“What happened to the cafe?”

“Explosion.”

“Typical!”

Harley rolled her eyes, trying to make light of the situation, but her forced smile turned quickly into a frown when she looked into Connie’s eyes, the telltale shimmer of tears beginning to form. 

“Oh, Bubby, no! Listen, why don’t you come stay with me for a while, huh? I’m sure Mister J would-”

“No! No, thank you. I mean, I appreciate it, but I want to… I want to make it on my own. And you keep forgetting that I forgave you. You don’t owe me anything, ok? I’m just glad to still have you to talk to, when things get rough. Or rougher than they already were.”

Harley’s hand gripped Connie’s fingers, a reassuring squeeze that said she understood, but wasn’t quite ready to give up her crusade for punishment for her actions. 

“Doctor Quinzel, at your service.”

Connie raised an eyebrow, curling her lips into a silent question.

“Ok, ok! Harley Quinn, at your service . I was good, you know!”

“You were. The best. You still are.”

They kept their grip on one another, two hands reaching across the table, meeting in the middle in a firm but caring grip. They stayed that way for a few minutes, the world around them seeming to disappear. None of that meant anything to them when they could be together. They needed one another, seemingly had done all of their lives, so these moments were like a recharge for their souls. That was until Harley squealed in delight and her hands shot up, dropping Connie’s to the sticky table with a thud. Several of the more intense looking patrons of the bar turned around to eye them up, all of them awkwardly looking away when they realised who the noise had come from. 

“Hey! Oh my god! I can’t believe I didn’t think about this before, but it just. Makes. Sense!”

Connie felt her chest tighten. Anything that Harley was this enthusiastic about could only be a bad idea. That was almost a given, and Connie had known her well enough for long enough to see it coming a mile off. But rather than interrupt, she let Harley continue. 

“You should get yourself a little criminal gig! There’s always guys looking for new goons. I could make a few calls, see if there’s anything going. What kind of crimes would you be ok with committing?”

“Harley…”

“Oh c’mon! Don’t act like you’re above it. You’re in Gotham, Bubby. You gotta play the game .”

She sat with that thought for a moment. It was the last opportunity available, it seemed. And perhaps she was always heading towards this fate. Like destiny, calling her. No one survived Gotham long, and sometimes the only way to prolong your existence was to fall in with the most lucrative career going. But it didn’t sit right with her.

“Harley, I really don’t think I’m suited for a career in enforcement, do you?”

They both looked at her, sitting there in the booth. Her chubby, rounded face could provide ample opportunity for playing herself down and being an unassuming assassin, but she lacked a lot of physicality. Connie wasn’t strong, and she wasn’t quite as nimble or coordinated as was required. At university, Harley could be seen on weekends doing gymnastic training. And Connie could be found in the audience, cheering her on and managing to trip herself up while clapping. And while she was enamoured by other fat women who were athletic, attending Harley’s roller derby games if only to watch the gorgeous, large women engaging in intensely physical activity, Connie’s body betrayed her every attempt at running or fighting. She’d managed to get a bout of motion sickness from her first go at roller derby, and she couldn’t even muster the grace to walk from one place to the other without tripping or skipping. There wasn’t a lot she could say about herself that was kind, but when it came to her physical prowess, that was where she struggled the most.

“An assistant then! People are always looking for assistants. Answer the phones, smuggle the drugs, sell the firearms, sometimes, if you’re willing, they even need people to-”

“I am begging you not to finish that sentence, I don’t want to know.”

“Alright, alright. But it might be your only option, that’s all I’m saying. I mean, I did, and look at me! I’m… well, I’m doing alright, is the point I’m trying to make! Maybe you should do what I did?”

“What? Fall in love and become a criminal sidekick? Ouch!”

Harley kicked Connie under the table, laughing as she did so, immediately forgiving her for teasing that sensitive spot.

“Not quite , but…”

“Harley, did you learn nothing from our course?”

“I learned plenty, Bubby. And look where it got us.”

There was no arguing with that. Years of hard work, masters, doctorates, the professional progress between them impressive on paper before everything that happened. And yet here they both were. A criminal clown’s chew toy and a soon to be homeless loser. Gotham State University should use them both as success stories in their next newsletter, she thought, managing to find a smile for her own joke.

“Ok, I’m sorry to have to break us up, but I gotta be going. You gonna be ok?”

“As ok as I ever am.”

“And you’re gonna be fine walking home?”

Harley raised an eyebrow this time, aware that while she had a reputation, and her baseball bat, Connie was a fairly easy target for the thugs that lurked around every corner between the bar and the motel. 

“I’ll be fine, you go do your thing, but be safe, ok?”

With a gleeful wink, her tongue sticking out of her mouth, Harley got up from the table and left the bar, hood up on her black jacket as she retreated into the cold, wet night. And before anyone could say anything to her, crowding around her either for conversation or cruelty, neither of which she was particularly open to, Connie left the bar as well. 

Her coat barely kept the wind and the rain from her, cheap as it was, and it was around two sizes too small, so there was no point in trying to pull it around her for extra warmth and comfort. Her face was damp, the freezing cold gusts biting at her cheeks and nose and lips, the almost frosted rain only salt in those wounds as she tried to keep herself sheltered and covered, foregoing her usual attempts at staying alert and vigilant. She wondered why that might be? Had she given up entirely? Probably. Inconsequential, that would be the way to go. She wasn’t out looking for her exit, not actively anyway, but it happened upon her she doubted she would put up much of a fight. 

For the briefest of moments, she considered standing there in the street and yelling to the skies “Just come and take me then! I won’t even make the papers! I won’t put up a fight! I’ve got less than five dollars in my pocket and I’m worth more dead than alive! Come on and put me out of my fucking misery!” but she stopped herself, if only because she knew she would barely be heard above the wind and the rain. And there was also a little part of her that worried who might hear. A claim like that might merit her a little vacation to Arkham, and it was far better to rot in the cold of her shitty motel room than be cooped up in there. She’d witnessed it first hand, it was not an option. Never an option. 

As the thought of what it might be like to truly succumb to either death or the asylum, a cheerful focus for her on this dreary night, she had all but given up on watching out for those that lurked. So invested in her own little “this or that” hypothetical was she that she hadn’t heard the faint footsteps behind her. Boots on gravel, the light clanking of metal, the shallow breath of someone trying to conceal their nerves. 

Even if she had noticed, even if she’d had time to react, it would have made no difference. Her screams would have gone unnoticed against the driving rain and the background cacophony of the myriad other yells and cries of the streets. And whatever weak puns she could throw at her attacker would have likely missed anyway, a lucky one that landed offering no more than a mild irritation to the situation than a deterrence. 

No, it was just Connie, oblivious to everything but her own misery, suddenly experiencing true darkness, before she had even registered the pain at the back of her head, the dull thud almost fictional as far as she was concerned in her unconscious state. And she drifted in and out as she was transported by her assailant until she blacked out entirely. 

Her first thought upon waking was disappointment that she wasn’t actually dead yet. It felt like a waste of her time. Her bleary vision steadied, focusing in on the view immediately in front of her. A room lit with almost clinical lighting, but it wasn’t clean and it certainly wasn;t somewhere to receive any kind of treatment. It was damp, worn, clearly long abandoned before Connie was left in here. There was a switch on the wall labelled with a piece of paper, and as she stood up to take a closer look she realised first of all that she was seated, and second of all, that she was tethered to the chair she found herself on. Wrists and ankles and her waist, all bound by leather restraints that were a little too tight for comfort now that she was paying attention to them. 

“What… the actual fuck?”

If they weren’t going to kill her, she assumed they were going to torture her, and the thought alone was so absurdly perfect. Of course this is how it would go. Of course her life would end in drawn out, pointless agony. Just like how she’d been living it. And with that thought, she laughed out loud, either trying to find the humour in the situation, or finally losing her mind, she couldn’t be sure which and she suspected it might be both. 

“This really isn’t funny, you know. Although, you’ll realise that soon enough.”

The voice surprised her, cutting off her laughter and making her sit up straight, back tense against the chair as she strained her neck to see where it might be coming from, and who it might be coming from. There was something familiar about it. Not a known person, not someone she felt she had heard physically. Something she recognised from a recording, perhaps on the news or from her studies. 

Footsteps approached from directly behind her, just out of her line of sight with her neck turning both ways, and as her captor continued speaking, she began to place the elements of speech. The tone, the words, the cadence, the dictation, all of it so obvious when she could dedicate her brain to that alone instead of fear and panic and pathetic self-pity at her less than ceremonious end. 

“Allow me to introduce myself, only polite after all. Although, I would expect you would know who I am, after all, I make no enigma of myself.”

[tea-cake-and-sarcasm]

☆ TEA'S NEW AND IMPROVED INTRO POST ☆

Hello! You can call me Tea or Albert. Other nicknames are cool too! I'm a rather private person so neither are my real name. My pronouns are She/Her/They, and I am one of them queers. I mainly reblog, but on occasion you may see some of my incoherent ramblings, or even some of my art. I promise I will get to tagging all of these one day, but for now it will be like a fun little surprise whenever you find something of value here

Some quick and important notes:

I've had a major bot problem recently, so when following me please know that if you have no description, profile picture or title etc. I will block you. Even just one of these tells me you aren't a bot. Make a little post that says hello, and that's good enough:)

I will not be answering any donation asks

Here's why:

-I am a minor and therefore cannot support your cause even if I want to

-I'm literally broke

-My follower count is too small to argue I could promote the cause by answering, and many are in the same situation as me

-It sounds mean, but if I answer one, my inbox fills with 5-10 new asks, and I can't do that.

Tl;dr: I don't have money, and no way to give it if I did.

My interests!

Some favourites:

-Jujutsu Kaisen

- Moriarty the Patriot

- Death Note

-Persona (currently playing through 4)

-Ace Attorney

-Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint (though I haven't finished it, so no spoilers please)

-Totk/Botw

-Saiki K

-Attack on titan

-Alien Stage

-Cult of the lamb

-Sky: Children of the light

-Neon Genesis evangelion

-Howl's moving castle

-Tokyo Ghoul

-Sherlock (The ACD books, though I've watched some of the BBC version)

-Portal

-Many many more, if you ask there's a good chance I will have at least heard of whatever you're talking about :)

Some Favourite Characters:

-N Harmonia (Pokemon B/W)

-Howl (Howl's moving castle, especially the books)

-Suguru Geto (Jujutsu Kaisen)

-Gojo Satoru (Jujutsu Kaisen)

-William Moriarty (Moriarty the patriot)

-Era of the Wilds Link (Botw/Totk)

-Misa Amane (Death Note)

-Luka (alien stage)

Favourite Music artists:

-Malice Mizer

-Kikuo

-Maretu

-Cö shu nie

-Österreich

-All the persona osts

-Alnst ost

-Miracle musical

-Yaelokre

-bbno$

-Radiohead

-Giga

Progress on watching/reading things etc (LAST UPDATED: 22/5/25):

-Orv : roughly chapter 70, up to date with the webtoon

-Aot : early s2

-Persona 4: Naoto's dungeon

- Bsd : S3 ep 4

-The Case Study of Vanitas : Episode 8

-ENA : episode 4 (I believe)

-Arcane : Just into s2

-JJBA : I think episode 11 or something of battle tendency

Some mutuals I care rather a lot about:

@sssssaaaaaaammmm - Evil Wizard @wondersoftheimagination - Parent of my late slug son (Rip Ryuzaki)

@y0url0calcryptid - Silly clown

@fearofgodandtolkien - someone I cannot imagine as a person, only as a whole forest

@mehtoohardtofindasuitablename - the owner of the most darling cat in the world

@liquidpaperfoundation1 - A guy who for some reason is like a lot of peoples mutual like I see my friends blogs and they're just there which I think is very neat

@numberoneah-duofan - I have never been bribed quite so much in my life as I have by this person in the last two years or so

@lara-prim07 - Satorboo <3

If you aren't tagged here I still love you I just don't want to be yapping too much, or I'm not sure about your thoughts on being tagged in this way :) any mutuals who wish to be added (or removed!) Js let me know!

Some trivia under the cut! (Idea from @y0url0calcryptid)

-My favourite colours are purple, red and blue (gojo refrence)

-I LOVE BUGS

-I love steam trains <33

-My current manga collection consists of all tokyo ghoul, tokyo ghoul:re, volumes 1-17 of mtp, 1 tpn, 1 Mr villains day off, all death note, 5 jjk

-I'm stereotypically english, in a sickly victorian child kind of way

-my favourite animals are giraffes and crows

-when I was younger I really wanted to be an author, but I haven't written anything substantial for a good while, aside from assignments

-growing up I developed an obsession with poisons and diseases that was pretty cool

-chat I love trains

-I'm awful at all sport, but I do aerial hoop and silks, and i love swimming

-I love forests so much

-I play piano (~grade 3-4), but I've been meaning to learn electric guitar

-My spice tolerance (in a metaphorical and literal sense) is negative (stories or food)

-My MBTI is infp (tragically the same as Shinji from nge)

-clouds <33333333

-I'm a yapper :(

-I'm planning to make an oc masterlist soon!

[seventeenlovesthree]

I also believe it's "Taichi cherishes the people he cares about way too much for him to handle" o'clock again - and even though I would argue that this applies to a huge BUNCH of people, I shall focus on two characters in particular, since this has been quite a topic recently:

Yamato and Koushirou are among those characters who have quite an impact on his mental and emotional stability.

Again, this is not going to be a full-blown analysis, but they're easily the ones he consults first and foremost when he's in a pinch, either (accidentally) emotionally, or because the world is at stake.

Yamato is someone who's way more similar to himself than he's capable of realizing sometimes - which, funnily enough, this may be one of the reasons why they're butting heads so much AND why they're such good partners in combat. Yes, they have a contrasting theme going on - orange vs. blue, fire vs. ice, brunette vs. blonde. But they also both have similar familial traumas, are both stubborn as heck, are both overly protective brothers - and sometimes, they even have their little role reversals: Where Taichi can be quick to act, Yamato may want to contemplate - where Yamato gets emotional, Taichi may want to de-escalate. Even if they may not be able to open up emotionally towards each other all the time, Taichi genuinely wants Yamato and Takeru to get along, because his brotherly instincts are just like that - and even if he wouldn't admit it (and neither would Yamato), he can relate to him big time. And he actually enjoys the casual bickering with Yamato, he absolutely adores teasing and fooling around with him, he knows he can be his dorky self with him, even - or especially - if it grinds Yamato's gears, knowing that he's not a very people-y person. And all that is exactly why Taichi shrivels whenever they are not on good terms. It makes him overthink and get quiet, asking himself if he could have done things differently... Which in itself is a good thing, because it helps him to see things from a different perspective as well. And he means it when he says that he believes in Yamato - because he knows he can rely on him, knows their friendship, their bond will prevail, even if they don't always agree with one another.

Speaking of relying - if Yamato is the one he turns to when it comes to going for the final blow, Koushirou is the one he turns to when he needs to know where to aim. Whether it's about solving card riddles, finding medicine for his sister, finding a way to deal with a mon rampaging through the net or moping about having quarrels with other friends... Taichi may not open up to him easily (and vice versa) and keep Koushirou at arm's length here and there, but he actually knows that he can count on him whenever it matters. The once anti-social boy from football club Taichi took under his wing to invite him to go to Summer Camp together grew into a loyal friend and partner in crime, thus they complement each other as brawns and brains - that's the dynamic Taichi is used to and comfortable with, so he cannot really deal with them being at odds either. Koushirou slowly but steadily becoming a person who opposes Taichi and calls him out on his recklessness may differ from the way Yamato confronts him - but it doesn't hit Taichi any less hard, so he usually backs down and apologizes whenever he crosses a line with Koushirou. He trusts his judgement, his plans and gadgets 100% - and even if the emotional part doesn't come easily to either of them, the bickering (and the lack of awareness of what personal space means) is a sign of mutual comfort and familiarity after all.

Where Yamato is his copilot, Koushirou is his navigator - and they're both pretty damn important to him. One may also say: Taichi is the sun that both melted the ice and made the bug come out from under its rock.

(And that was mainly the platonic angle, because you can basically spin both dynamics into a romantic angle PRETTY easily as well - friends/frenemies to lovers, opposites attract, jock/nerd, choose your favourite trope! Plus, this was just from Taichi's perspective - maybe he just really likes introverts, huh? I feel like it's a lot easier to read Yamato's and Koushirou's perspectives towards Taichi as romantic than the other way round, since they're both so fixated on him in different ways; Yamato's sense of growing closer and more comfortable with other people is seen mostly through him interacting with Taichi and he constantly has him at the back of his mind, first as threat to his way of being a brother, later as a foil and even later as... You know. The closet is an uncomfortable place. And Koushirou, who wouldn't have gone to the Digital World and somewhat resolve his adoption trauma if Taichi hadn't invited him to camp, basically dedicates his entire life to both exploring the whereabouts of the Digital World AND supporting Taichi in every possible way by making goggles and sacrificing his life for his sake, so... There may be a second part soon??? I could also go on a tangent about how Yamato and Koushirou may also represent different layers of Taichi's role and behaviour towards Hikari, but that goes too far right now.)

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Commissions are open

If interested, contact me through braiworms@gmail.com (the "n" is missing) with all the important detail in your order (the pose, expression, colors and even the general vibe it should have)

Payment via Coffee

Details and additional notes bellow

Will:

I am mainly a Sonic artist though I will do my best with other subjects. Your OC's are very welcome here and I'll hopefully do them justice. Comprehensive reference for the angle you want me to draw them from + flat colors will be needed Light gore and blood is along the lines of a lost limb or a deep cut, or just an allusion to a severe injury and I am fine with drawing that I know most people want to get their cat or dog drawn, but please if you have a more exotic pet or an animal you care for, like reptiles or bugs, feel free to contact me And I am not the best at symmetrical detailed lines, but I think I could draw Metal Sonic and the like just fine

Won't:

"Character design" is pertaining to ME being the one to design a character, I can't do char design to save my life, sorry NSFW encompasses sexually explicit, hateful or fetish art. Heavy gore is a bit over my comfort zone, and that I just don't think I could draw it well enough With humans there could be a loop hole where I don't have to draw the face, unfortunately that's like, the main point of human art

Moving on to some additional notes

Prices add per character by 50%

Say a half body sketch of two characters would be 10,50€ or a full render would be 52,50€ (not sure abt other currencies but I go off of euro, since I live in the state of Europe). This is of course not counting in a potential background

Payment is upfront before I start drawing, just to save me potential trouble.

Refunds are a thing, but only in case I cannot finish the commission.

I am going to be suffering the beginnings of adult life extremely ail prepared, so drawing time is around a month and I'd appreciate to be not rushed. I will not keep the money for an unfinished service though, so after 31 days since I started drawing, a refund partial to the amount of work I have already done will be issued. (the percentage will be derived from the type of art and how far into the process I was)

After the sketch is done, I will sent it over and we can discuss whether I can continue on. If something is not to your liking, or you'd like max 3 major changes made without additional charge, this is where you say it and spare both of us any endless back and forth.

Minor changes should be relevant to the stage I am at, so change in color or adding a detail I might've forgotten is fine on the color and sketch stages. With rendering it is different as I would have to remake larger parts of the drawing to do so. For example, if you'd want to fully redo the whole expression at the end of my process, that would be considered a major change and an additional cost.

Simple background such as a gradient, flat color geometric shape(s) or a full canvas is free of charge. I'd rather draw more character focus but if provided a reference, I could do a more complex background that will add to the final price.

Of course i can decline any commission sent my way without providing a reason.

My art is still my work even if you paid for it and you are not allowed to pass it off as your own or erase my signature.

I would like to post any art I make, but if you'd rather I don't, please let me know

And I will find you if you put my art anywhere near AI or NFT (even if the latter is almost dead lmao)

To not cause any confusion with the examples given here, Rough Colored Sketch has the same pricing as the Polished Flat Color, and lineless as the full render.

Big thanks to anyone who read the whole way through and or decided to commission me!!