#Wanted to draw a little tribute after watching the finale so i finished this a while ago and kept procrastinating on posting it HSAJKDHAHw

[isjasz]

Remember, there is always a great big beautiful tomorrow.

[watchmegetobsessed]

HOME

A/N: im still in denial and this is my way of coping

WORD COUNT: 1k

SUMMARY: You knew the emotions would catch up with Harry once more after the show. And you're there to guide him through these overwhelming feelings.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

 You knew it would be just a matter of time before the overwhelming emotions of the final show would catch up with Harry again once he has left the stage. The speech he delivered was just the first wave, knowing Harry, and you know him probably better than anyone else, more was to come.

The backstage was full of hugs, congratulations and promises to never forget the experiences shared on this amazing journey. Harry stayed in his show outfit for way longer he usually did as he made his rounds among his friends, family, all his loved ones who came out to support him on the end of his tour. And you stayed by his side through it all. His hand remained wrapped around yours and you silently waited for him to process it.

Now you’re back in your hotel room, it’s almost dawn, the night has stretched long, though you know Harry wished it lasted forever. You’re lying in bed, waiting for him to finish in the bathroom, scrolling through your phone, watching all the fan made tributes to Love On Tour.

You notice that the water has shut down for a while now, but Harry still hasn’t come out. Slipping off the bed you walk over to the closed door and try to listen to the voices and figure out what he is doing and then you hear it.

The sobs.

“Harry? Can I come in?” you gently knock on the door before opening it and poking your head inside.

Standing in front of the mirror, he is leaning onto the sink, his wet curls are falling ahead and you see his shoulders shaking right away.

“Oh baby.” You push the door open more and move over to him, hugging his waist from behind as you press a million kisses between his shoulder blades.

“S-sorry, I just—“ he speaks up, but his sobs doesn’t let him talk.

“It’s okay. It’s okay baby,” you squeeze him and rest your forehead against the back of his neck while you just patiently give him the chance to let it all out.

You knew it was coming, it’s no surprise. You expected him to have his emotions overflow at one point, he gave over two years of his life to this tour, it’s natural he is having a hard time dealing with letting it go.

Minutes pass by and his breathing somewhat regulates, you loosen your hold around him and urge him to move around so you can look at him. You’ve seen the tiredness on his face for a while now, but it’s screaming now, mixed with the sadness and bitterness that’s eating him away right now.

You take his tear soaked cheeks in your hands and lift yourself up onto your tiptoes so your lips could meet his salty ones.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

He just nods and lets you walk him out of the bathroom and to the bed. He takes his side and you climb onto yours and he curls against you in an instant, his head lying on your chest as you’re propped up against the headboard.

“Sorry, it just all… came crashing over me,” he breathes out, his voice croaked and low.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

With gentle fingers, you’re raking through his hair, massaging his scalp while his hands slip under your shirt, to your ribcage so he can follow how it expands with every breath you draw.

“It’s so weird that it’s over.”

“It is, yeah,” you hum. Raking your brain you’re trying to figure out what would help him and you decide to recall your favorite memories. “Do you remember the show in Nashville? When I spilled cranberry juice on your shirt so you didn’t wear one under the sparkly jacket?”

“I remember that,” he chuckles. “Don’t think the fans were mad at it.”

“They all just want to see you naked, like I do,” you tease him. “That’s why I hid your shirt on Wembley night four.”

“What?” he lifts his head. “That was you?”

“Of course,” you grin.

“You cheeky little thing,” he shakes his head before resting his chin on your chest this time so he can look at you. “I loved it when you matched your outfit with mine.”

“You remember what shows we matched?” you challenge him.

“Madison Square Garden night one and two, Denver, Tokyo, Edinburgh, Vienna…” he recites, probably better than you could have.

“My mom loves the picture of us in Edinburgh, we looked like two Barbie dolls,” you chuckle.

“Pauli said you should have gotten matching outfits with them as well.”

“I am part of the Love Band too, right?”

“Especially when Sarah teaches you how to drunk before shows,” he smirks, taking you back to all the times Sarah was your teacher even though your sense of rhythm has never been the best.

“I would make an excellent drummer, come on!”

“Absolutely,” he laughs and the tears are finally gone, it’s all just the most precious memories from the past two years.

It gets brighter outside but the two of you can’t stop talking about the best moments you’ll always remember. Harry recalls his favorite fan moments, the signs, the reactions, he tells you about how he often thinks about the pregnant women he did gender reveals for and if the babies have been born already. You tell him about your favorite shows, the best dance moves he has busted out on stage and soon there’s no show you haven’t brought up, there’s something memorable in each and every one.

It’s past six in the morning when Harry finally falls asleep, exhaustion has won and he is snoring gently, still curled up against you as you watch him for a bit, feeling like you’re the one guarding his peace.

“You brought so many people home,” you whisper and craning your neck you press a kiss to the top of his head. “Now it’s time for you to go home and rest.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[the12thnightproject]

Conditions Necessary

Ikesen Gift Exchange for @ashavazesa .

Hi Asha - I was excited to have drawn your name in the exchange, as I've been enjoying your drawings for such a long time.

Please join a Moderately Awesome Ninja in observing a rare solar event.

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Prompt: Sasuke x OC (Asaka), stargazing activity

Word count: 2724

Warnings: None; rating level: slightly spicy.

Date: Fifteenth day, eleventh month, 1582

Atmospheric condition: Clear sky, fourth quarter waning moon

Temperature: Unknown. Unfortunately, it will be one hundred and thirty-two years before Gabriel Fahrenheit perfects an accurate reading thermometer. However, surface level ice formation in ornamental pond suggests the temperature remains slightly below freezing.

His invitation was simple and to the point: three sentences written neatly and cleanly, not betraying that he had in fact labored for over a day to find the right wording. “Dear Asaka, If my observations are correct, conditions are favorable for a rare solar event. I would be honored if you joined me in an evening of sky-watching. Should you be interested, please follow the marked trail after sunset. – A Moderately Awesome Ninja.”

Yukimura checked it over for him and shrugged. “Looks fine, I guess. Why’d you ask me anyway? If you want help writing to a woman, ask Lord Shingen.” He flopped down on Sasuke’s futon, nearly crushing the letter.

Feedback results: inconclusive.

Sasuke rescued his invitation, then examined it a final time, turning it this way and that. It did look rather stark, but he’d prefer not to involve Lord Shingen. To be sure, the man would know exactly what to say, and how to say it, but the words would then be Shingen’s words, and Sasuke felt very firmly that he should speak for himself. “I needed a beta not a Cyrano.”

“Sir Who?” Yuki watched, somewhat incredulously, as Sasuke neatly folded the invitation into an origami squirrel. “What in the world is that?”

“Squirrel.” Sasuke thought that should be obvious, even to the unobservant Yuki.

Yuki turned the little animal around in his hands. “If you say so.”

As Sasuke carefully carried his squirrel shaped invitation away, he heard Yuki mutter, “looked like a dog to me.”

Perhaps he would be wise to submit the invitation for peer review…

“His ears are too small and the tail is too long,” had been Kenshin’s response when he saw the paper construct. He directed Sasuke’s attention to the garden, where three rabbits were playing a complicated game of tag across the snow-covered ground. “Look. Long ears. Short tails.”

Once apprised that the paper sculpture was a squirrel and not a rabbit at all, Kenshin hmphed in disbelief, suggested a rabbit would be preferable, then gently hinted, that in fact he himself would be pleased with a tribute of three such animals.

To be delivered to him.

Tomorrow morning.

Prior to breakfast.

Somewhat discouraged, Sasuke decided it was time to obtain the assistance of an expert, and took his squirrely rabbit to Yoshimoto, who immediately attempted to improve upon the design, which he mistakenly identified as a peacock, albeit one with a rather unimpressive tail. “Fascinating creation! You were wise to ask for my artistic opinion. I believe if you triple the folds at the base and use tinted paper, your sculpture will be both true-to-life and more aesthetically pleasing.”

An hour later, Sasuke crept cautiously out of the room, leaving behind a man surrounded by discarded attempts; a man who was folding paper with the feverish single-mindedness of one trapped in the throes of a new obsession.

By then, it was too late to change course, and Sasuke left his offering of a dog/ short-eared bunny/ skinny-tailed peacock/ squirrel on Asaka’s futon and hurried to complete Phase II of ‘Operation: Sky Watch.’

In between the time he finished laying the trail to the watchtower and the time he heard her footsteps crunching across the icy courtyard, Sasuke had had second thoughts. As well as third thoughts. To be scientifically accurate, he had seventeen point five decision reversals (the point five occurring at the exact moment he heard Asaka’s footsteps). He’d never been indecisive before. He made decisions, and stuck with them, unless new evidence prompted interim analysis.

Interim Analysis: Invitation accepted. Companion arrival in approximately three… two…

He turned to greet her at the top of the ladder and took her hand to help her over the final rung. Asaka of course, possessed superior hand-eye coordination, and she moved with a dancer’s grace, but Sasuke hoped his gentlemanly offer would be appreciated. He, in turn, appreciated the feeling of her smaller hand in his. Warmth. He always felt warm when she was nearby.

Hypothesis: Asaka may be one of the rare humans whose normal body temperature hovers above thirty-seven degrees.

“Good evening.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he inwardly winced, afraid that phrase evoked a comparison to mid-twentieth century B movies. He wanted to welcome her, not remind her of a supernatural being that could exsanguinate a victim in less than five minutes.  “Thank you for joining me in what I hope will be a moderately awesome evening.” He indicated a blanket, where he had set up the makings of a midnight snack: a bottle of Kenshin-recommended sake, and a basket of Shingen-recommended desserts.

“Wow. You went to a lot of trouble… from the Kunai shaped note,” she held up the letter, which she had expertly refolded, “to the romantic trail of ground spikes.”

Romantic trail of ground spikes? Was she being sarcastic? Perhaps the ground spikes had not been the best idea. Unfortunately, flowers were out of season, and even if he had been able to find winter peonies, the likelihood of a trail of petals blowing away due to the current wind velocity was at least ninety percent. Ninety-five percent, he mentally amended, when the breeze tossed one of Asaka’s bright curls into her face.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Anyway, I thought it was cute.” She held out a little pouch. “I, um, collected them because I figured if someone stepped on them, it would be bad. Do you want them back?”

“You should keep them. After all, you never know when a strategically deployed ground spike will come in handy.” He felt gratified when she tucked the pouch back into her kimono.

Once they were settled with food and drink, Sasuke cleared his throat, and nervously pushed his glasses back up over the bridge of his nose (they had a habit of making a break for it at the most awkward moments). “I suppose you’re wondering why we are gathered here tonight.”

“Isn’t being together enough?” She poked his side and added with a hesitant note in her voice that he couldn’t quite interpret, “friend time?”

Friend time.

Yes, friend time was what he’d had in mind – they were both so busy these days with their various duties that they were basically travelling on parallel orbits. But… hearing the ‘f-word’ coming from her lips? Something inside him flinched. He didn’t know, didn’t understand the what and the why of that flinch, and so he pushed it away, paused, reset, and turned his face to the sky. After all, it was the past week of solar observations that had led up to this moment. A moment to share with his friend. He gestured upward. “Behold, if you will, the star of tonight’s show.”

As directed, Asaka looked up. But… she was frowning. Had she not liked his joke? Usually, she at least smiled politely at his puns – on rare occasions she would even joke back. Disappointment propelled him into what one of his old classmates at Kyoto University had dubbed, ‘Mikumo Lecture Mode.’ “Have you ever seen the Aurora Borealis?”

“Northern Lights?” She shook her head. “They don’t appear in Japan at all… do they?”

“Twice in my lifetime they’ve manifested in Japan, both times in Hokkaido, so needless to say, I did not witness either one. You could say that viewing an aurora is on my ‘bucket list.’” In fact, it might be the only thing left on his bucket list. He’d discovered a wormhole, travelled to one of the most fascinating eras of history, became a ninja, and met his heroes… including the incomparable Tokugawa Ieyasu! Did he really need a bucket list any longer?

“Indeed, you are correct that statistically speaking, the aurorae rarely appear outside polar regions. But in the seventh century, all of Japan not only witnessed an aurora, but the rarer red aurora. Poets described it as resembling the tail feathers of a pheasant. As it happens, aurorae were more prevalent in pre-Muromachi period Japan, because over the course of 1400 years, the Earth’s poles shifted.”

Grabbing a pastry from the basket, he held it up to demonstrate. “Modern Japan sits at the magnetic latitude 25 degrees. However, at the time of the red aurora event, Japan rested at a magnetic latitude of 33 degrees, thus aurorae were more prevalent — especially in under the necessary condition of severe solar storms.” He tilted the pastry on the equatorial axis. “I’ve calculated that in this era, we are somewhere in the region of 28 degrees latitude, and therefore within the necessary geographic range to allow periodic observations of aurorae.” He drew an invisible line on the pastry, and then, as its role as a scientific prop had been fulfilled, he ate it.

“Is that why you invited me here? For an aurora viewing? How can you be certain that tonight is the night?” She poured herself another cup of sake.

“Unfortunately, even modern scientists can’t accurately predict aurorae. They’re caused by tiny particles from solar storms - coronal mass ejection - hitting the Earth’s atmosphere and transforming into light. In the modern age, when scientists observe the storms, they send out an alert for potential auroral activity. But here… I don’t have the right filter on my telescope to detect a solar storm. At least. I didn’t think I did. Except… lately, I’ve been noticing a bright, sharp flare of light when…” He trailed off as he looked, really looked at Asaka.

And… Asaka appeared…

…completely overwhelmed by the flood of information.

Red alert! Scientific jargon approaching critical mass!

Had he really just treated her like a first-year student? Ashamed, he could no longer meet her eyes. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to go on like that.”

Gently, she patted his arm, and her touch elevated his core body temperature by at least a degree. Maybe two. “It’s ok. You have a passion. It’s actually … attractive.” She smiled at him and it was like a sunrise.

Then suddenly, in that star filled winter night, there it was again. That solar flare.

Bright.

Steady.

Her.

Her.

It had never been a solar storm.

It had always been Asaka.

His… friend.

He’d been wrong… on so many levels. Granted, misinterpreting his own feelings wasn’t unusual for him. But he’d misinterpreted evidence… he’d gotten science wrong.

“Sasuke?” She waved her hands in front of his face. “What is it?”

“Sorry. BSOD.” He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to find the right words. He could speak calmly and confidently about the stars, paradoxical anomalies, time travel and history, and yet not be able to vocalize what was in his heart. Carrying out Kenshin’s missions and facing down his lord in daily sparring sessions was less risky than revealing these newly discovered feelings. “I was wrong.”

She simply tilted her head, as if she was encouraging him to go on, but … no, he couldn’t explain why he miscalculated. He grabbed the basket and tossed pastries and cups inside with no sense of order or care. “No aurorae tonight. Maybe not ever.”

She put her hand on his arm, pulling him back. “Wait, wait! I don’t mind that. We can still look at the stars. Together. Right? Isn’t that the important thing?”

Yes… except, now that he understood what that solar flare meant, understood what he felt, could he stay sitting here, as her friend? And yet, if he didn’t want to lose her friendship, how could he do anything else? He hesitated, still holding the basket, frozen, halfway between the stars and the earth, trapped in a paradox of quantum superpostion. “I was wrong,” he said again.

“Sasuke, no one is right all the time.” Gently, almost as if he were one of the children she used to teach, she sat him back down. The she placed a cup of sake in his hand. And when he gulped that down, she poured him another. “I didn’t major in science, but even I know that some of the biggest scientific discoveries happened when the researcher was looking at something else. Penicillin. Plastic. Um…”

“Corn flakes.” He was coming back online now. He could get through this… emotional anomaly. He didn’t have to tell her. They could go back to the way they were, and he would manage to work around his feelings. It wouldn’t be the first time. Life with his nomadic parents had given him excellent compartmentalization skills. Emotions could be locked safely away in a box, alongside the memories that went with ‘parents forgot my twelfth birthday,’ and ‘moved in the middle of the academic year again.’

“Really? Alright. Corn flakes.” She shrugged, then took his hands. “Maybe you discovered something else that will make sense later. It’s ok. I still think you are more than moderately awesome.”

It was the combination of her kindness and her touch that did it.

It sliced through that emotional lockbox like a laser, overloaded his processors, and in that blast of static and heat, he blurted everything out before he had a chance to submit everything for peer review; before he had the chance to change his mind seventeen point five times. “You’re the solar flare. The flare comes from here,” he rubbed his chest, circling his hand over his heart, “when I think about you.”

As soon as the words were out, he wanted them back, terrified that he’d ruined everything.

Then he heard the hiss of her breath catching in her throat, and a smile bloomed across her face, one of such relief, such joy, such beauty that he forgot to breathe. That solar flare radiated with a brilliance that nearly blinded him.

They gazed at each other, and a thousand stars could have been born, lived their lifespan, and gone supernova, in that long moment.

His heart was beating in his throat, the rhythm echoing in his ears.  Words failed him, but… words weren’t necessary.

A kiss. A kiss was necessary.

He carefully cupped her chin, tilting her face toward his, pausing to give her time she should she want to pull back, to let him know that he was wrong.

Nine minutes earlier, a solar storm created shock waves, accelerating electrically charged particles, sending them toward Earth’s magnetosphere. Sound and color swirled together like clouds of dust swirling through space…

She sighed against his lips, her eyes fluttering shut.

A moment of hesitant reverence--

Holding infinite fractal futures in the palm of his hand.

At speeds of 72 million kilometers per hours, ions raced toward Earth …

He brushed his mouth across hers, sensing a smile, her intake of breath.

Her quietly exhaled, “yes, please, yes,” chased away any final doubts.

Pulling her closer, he wrapped his arms around her, reveling in her warmth.

Far above them, particles from that geomagnetic storm reached Earth’s magnetosphere…

Another featherlight touch, followed by another, and another, until snowflake kisses melted together,

Merged –

lips—

mouths--

Gravitational attraction sent electrons careening toward one another…

She molded herself to him as their bodies crashed together—

The initial urge to worship replaced by need to explore, to touch, to feel—

To meld.

Fuse.

Be.

Activated ions collided with atoms of oxygen and nitrogen…

Encouraged by her passion, he nipped at her lower lip, and she moaned—

Or had that been him? Did it matter?

Teeth—

Tongues--

Energy stored in magnetic fields exploded on contact...…

He clung to her, arms tightening, hands seeking--

Frenzied bodies fell backward to the floor--

He wound his fingers into her hair,

Her hands touching, caressing—

The explosion activated the electrons, releasing light, bands of yellow, green, turquoise, and yes, even red, unfurling in the sky over Kasugayama, undulating like the tail of an exotic bird…

When they finally relaxed the embrace, panting, resting, forehead to forehead, breathing each other, it was Asaka who noticed the glowing lights and color reflected on his glasses. “Sasuke… look… the sky.”

He turned toward the heavens, where the shining bands rippled and danced among the stars. “It’s not the sky. It’s you.”

@ikemenlibrary @sunnyikemen

[bugflies00]

5. Anything you haven’t drawn yet but want to?

6. Which artists inspire you right now?

7. Favourite works of all time excluding your own?

8. What do you like most about your own work?

19. Favourite character(s) to draw?

20. What works have you drawn fanart of?

5. every day im plagued with visions i never fulfill so im just gonna unload a bunch of them onto you : finishing that clingyduo animatic, finishing the sokeefe art, maybe?? drawing roman sanders again after so long just to see??, a like proper Big dsmp tribute piece but i dont really know what, figuring out my ctechno design & drawing more c!emeraldduo and cbedrockbros, FINALLY drawing ctntduo, and a bunch of other things

ALSO specifically ANIMATIC ideas here is a list of ones that have plagued my mind for some as long as two years : burning pile (mother mother) with c!crimeboys i have had this particular one on the brain since literally early 2021 i have every frame planned out in my mind but i just cannot seem to do it, jack's lament (the nightmare before christmas) with c!wilbur THIS ONE is pretty specific but Oh it could be so cool, rasputin with c!wilbur just to have some fun, they're only human (death note the musical but specifically this version https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrZolM3uCds) with c!emerald duo, money money money (ABBA) with c!beeduo this one would be very silly just antics and ctubbo being a gold digger LMAO, hang on little tomato (pink martini) with c!crimeboys OH THIS ONE LET ME TELL YOU THIS ONE HAUNTS ME IT'S SO SWEET BUT ALSO SO SAD, and finally history has its eyes on you (hamilton) with pogtopia c!crimeboys obviously because i have the illness and i never left 2020 <3

6. this is mostly mcytblr artists and some of them havent even posted since like 2021 but to name a few @/pigsteprap @/copepods @/miniaturekeytar @/wolfythewitch @/birdiebrunch @/corph1a @/somedeimi and @/winter-mornings all have really really cool art you should check out ^__^

7. my brain is fried currently so normally i would make you a list but i can only think of like. monet's nymphéas which is basic yeah but i really really like 'em. also vermeer's milkmaid . also a lot of romantic art cause its my favourite :] but im just too tired to think of examples

and also a lot of the art of the people i just listed

8. oh this is hard i dont really. mhmmm. i guess i like? my colouring? idk man

19. ill let you take a wild guess on that one

20. oh god. well obviously dsmp. otherwise sanders sides, kotlc, warrior cats, harry potter (sorryyy haven't for years though), and probably others here and there but those were the main ones

anyway keep the artist asks coming guys i really like them cause they require like proper thinking more than the other silly asks (which are also cool !! dont get me wrong)

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (725): Tue 12th Mar 2024

Off to the town for a tattoo of my loyal companion Lucy (A loyal companion is someone whose shit you scoop off a pavement with plastic bag right?). This mutt has been a constant source of comfort for me and the family in the decade she's been with us and it's time I repaid her with a permanent tribute adorned on my body for all eternity. I've also been a fan of The Green Lantern since I was a kid and I always try to merge two or more ideas when I get tattoos to make them unique (and to save money) so I decided on getting a tattoo of Lucy wearing a little Green Lantern outfit. Green Lantern is my favourite comic character and I think if the Lanterns picked an animal to join the team they would want one who showed extreme bravery and loyalty and Lucy would be the perfect fit. I got the same artist who has done my last few tattoos and I'm glad because she's amazing and I've been recommending her to everyone who has complimented her work on my arms. The picture I sent her of Lucy when she was a uppy was what she was working from and I didnt quite realise how jet black her nose and mouth were when she was that young. It was so black that you couldn't make out her nose on the picture. I was worried that the tattoo was going to come out looking like Lucy had just been eating from a bowl of tar but the tattoo artist said she would lighten it so you could make out the nose. I wish these guys had TV's for me to watch while the tattoos are getting done because I always end up just staring at the wall for the entire session and I never seem to be able to make conversation, though maybe that's a good thing as I don't want the artists to be distracted after all. The general outline of the tattoo was fine but when she started doing the colouring in it really started to hurt like a bitch but I maintained my stoic composure throughout and didn't even feign the need to visit the little boys room in order to get a reprieve from the pain. The finished result is absolutely amazing and I immediately knew I had made the right choice. I know some people may say it's ridiculous to get your dog's image tattooed on you but Lucy has been with me for over a decade now and every day when I've come home after a shitty day at work she's always been there to sit on my lap while I watch the wrestling and help de-stress me so she has contributed a lot to my life. That being said I do like the idea of being a 90 year old man in an old people's home and my carers looking at the cartoon drawings all over my body and trying to work out what the Hell they are.

I watched Lenny Henry interviewed about his upcoming final time presenting Comic Relief. I wouldn't exactly call myself a fan of Lenny's but…no that's it I wouldn't exactly call myself a fan. Don't like him, think he's a bad comedian. I used to watch Comic Relief every time it was on back in the day when they would actually have people from the comedy industry hosting it like Jonathan Ross, Graham Norton, Michael McIntyre, Ant & Dec etc but now they just get any fucker to present it. This year they've got Maya Jama presenting for Christ's sake. If they started doing a telethon called "Sex Relief" where there get loads of sexy people to do sexy things to raise money then yes absolutely Maya Jama should be a presenter on that. So should Helen Flannigan, Alice Levine, Isla Traquair, Mollie King and Angela Scanlon (I'm sure the BBC would find a way to shoehorn Romesh Ranganathen into the show somehow too so it wouldn't be all sexy). The only Comic Relief I've watched all the way through was the 2007 edition which featured Ross, Norton, Paul O'Grady, Russell Brand, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost AKA actual funny people presenting a show aiming to raise money by being funny. It also featured the best comedy talent of the day including Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant, Mitchell and Webb, Harry Hill, Little Britain, Catherine Tate among others. These were the most critically acclaimed and popular faces in British comedy at the time but nowadays the sketches are made by whatever shit happens to be on the box. Tuned into tonight's Hollyoaks, the focal point of which was Romeo trying to convince Prince to help him escape. I really don't get how we were meant to sympathize with Romeo here which is what they were going for. He killed Rayne albeit accidentally but he still let his best friend Prince take the blame for it before he was eventually found to be the culprit. Now hes escaped with help from James and we're apparently supposed to feel sorry for him. This is one aspect of the show that I've always hated where they try to get us to feel empathy for someone whose actions have been reprehensible (mainly Warren). Prince cornered Romeo in Dilly's old house where Romeo gave him some bullshit apology and for some reason Prince agreed to help him get out of the country even though if it hadn't been for Lacey uncovering the footage of Romeo killing Rayne then Prince would still be in jail now. The end of the episode featured Romeo exiting the show on a horse as the police approached the house. Ah yes a horse, a perfect thing for someone with a fresh stab wound to escape on. Farewell Romeo Nightingale. The only character to ever be written out of the show because there were no more female characters for him to shag. Elsewhere Nancy was bollocking Suzanne about laying about the house all day and Suzanne fired back that she was looking for a job but things kept getting in the way. Yeah things like Ethan's dick!

[stevenbasic]

“Knock-knock!” I heard at the door of my office, startling me. I was nearly - jesus - an hour into this video call with the Study Coordinator from Evolution, and had obviously lost track of time.  “Where’s my favorite patient?!?’ called the voice. It was Vida, my Nurse Practitioner, entering with a broad smile, a procedure tray and someone else and causing me to look up from my computer screen. “Time for your mediciiine…” In place of her usual white clinic jacket, she was wearing a tailored black jacket over a black, figure-hugging, dress, cut low.

Immediately I said my abrupt goodbyes to Gianna, over chat, and shut down the window right as she was, good lord, blowing me a kiss. At the same time I looked up and gave my wan smile of greeting to Vida and the generously curvy blond woman who’d entered with her…

“This is Morgan, if you two haven’t met yet,” Vida said, as she briskly approached my desk, high heels clacking. Trailing behind her a few steps was a woman in a white blouse and tan leggings - a big woman - broad of shoulder, wide of hip, huge of chest, standing taller than Vida by five or six inches...and myself even more, “She’s a Nurse Practitioner too, from Evolution until just yesterday, when she joined us.”

“It is very nice to meet you, Dr. J…” Morgan purred, in a voice deeper, richer than Vida’s. There was a queer smile on her face and a hint of a vaguely Eastern European accent in her words, one that she was obviously trying to hide. For now she was hanging back, taking her cues from Vida as the younger but more senior woman began to prepare her tray behind my desk to my left. “Nurse Vida is training me today how to take the care of you.”

“H-hi, uh, Morgan,” I replied, immediately sensing that that was not this woman’s given name, and remembering it was time again for my booster shot. The thought, for some reason, brought me a little thrill, remembering how it made me feel last week…but was it also responsible for the 8 pounds I’d lost since then? “But, um, what do you m-”

Interrupting my concerns, Vida chuckled. “Oh, don’t get worried, doc. I just figured that the more of us that know how to do this for you, the better,” she explained, opening the strange black box in which the vitamin B12/D/K booster vial was packaged. I noticed the familiar, strange blue tint of the liquid as Vida removed it along with the pre-packaged syringe. “And Morgan here has lots of experience.” At that, Vida nodded up at Morgan; the larger woman took that as a cue to move around the other side of my desk, to my right, and come to stand alongside me there. I was flanked.

“I-is that right, Morgan?” I asked, hearing the nerves starting to quiver in my voice. I hated needles, I hated them. But this single, combination shot was much better than three separate ones. “Wh-what did you do at Evolution?” I asked, not able to recall her resume as I looked up at her; she was gazing down at me, over the shelf of her formidable bosom. I was hoping that, if she had started seeing patients today, that she had been more buttoned up during the workday. The cleavage she was showing at this moment, over the neckline of her overmatched white blouse, was vast.

“At the Evolution Pharmaceuticals?” she replied, the accent in her voice unable to camouflage itself through the words, “There, I was with research team, taking care of study subjects. But before, I was in pediatrics ward, with preemies, the NICU.” She looked down on me with a crooked smile, and seemed to be resisting reaching out her hand to me. Instead, she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blond hair. “I love holding little bodies.”

“Haha well, that’s exactly why we’re here, isn’t it, Dr. J?” Vida added, explaining to Morgan and pursing her full, plump, latin lips, “This young man has lost a few inches recently and we need to make sure he gets his vitamins.” With that, Vida beamed down at me and released  her thick mane of dark hair from the conservative bun she’d been wearing for the workday. A wave of the now-ubiquitous perfume in this place flowed over me, and I felt a stirring between my legs. I had been intermittently hard during my video call with Gianna - her tits were unbelievable - and I was afraid now that I might swell to some obvious, inappropriate monster of a boner with these women so close. “Lucky for him he has his girls to take care of him,” Vida concluded. The vial and syringe, for the moment, laid inert on the tray.

I tried to focus. ”I, heh heh, don’t know if I need someone to ‘take care of me’...” I spoke, trying to sound relaxed as Morgan’s left hand finally did come to rest on my right shoulder. I’d honestly just met this woman, but she was being very…familiar. Vida as well; she was generally a bit more aloof than she seemed today. It was like there was something weird in the air, something bringing them closer.

“That's silly,” Vida responded, “Even doctors need someone to look after them.” At that, she began to remove her black jacket, and laid it on my desk, as if preparing herself for her task. Underneath she wore a clingy black tube dress that hugged her hourglass figure and revealed her trim shoulders and the upper swells of her full chest; she watched as I struggled not to look at her body. “Who do you see for a PCP?”

“uh…” I began, trying to recall my last visit to a doctor’s office outside of this one, “…no one?”

“You mean…” Vida asked with exaggerated concern, as she herself put a hand on my other shoulder, leaning in to me and twirling a lock of thick, raven hair, “you don’t have a Primary??”

“N-no I, uh-“

”Well, that’s no good,” Vida concluded, standing straight and looking across me at her fellow nurse, “Don't you agree, Morgan?”

”Oh yes,” Morgan concurred, her dimpled smile betraying her amusement, stepping a touch closer, “You need the primary...care...provider.”

“That settles it,” Vida decided, removing her right hand from me to place both it and her left one on her broad hips, in determination, “I’m going to be your PCP from now on.” Her action had drawn my eyes to her remarkably tiny waist and shit this girl had some curves. “I’ll contact our insurance company, do all the paperwork. How does that sound?”

The big woman to my right was giggling, and her hand had begun to idly caress my shoulder.

“Uh, th-that’s fine…” I agreed.

“So,” Vida finally asked, with a wry smile, “does my patient have any questions before we get started?”

Ugh, right…the injection. “Well, um, honestly…” I began, knowing I should at least address the concerns I had over this combo B12/D/K formulation, “I’m not sure it’s working. I think I’ve lost weight since last week, and even maybe almost an inch…”

“That’s ridiculous. You must have measured wrong last time, used a bad scale,” Vida replied, trying to reassure me, “But…do you think you need to go out and get checked..?”

At that, Vida herself moved in closer, and I saw Morgan, to my right, turn her thick body more towards me. Both women looked down at me.

“Or do you want to let us take care of you..?” Vida finished. It felt like a challenge, and I sensed something, an inner struggle inside myself. The logical, intelligent practitioner who cared for his health wanted to answer one way, bring a halt to something that was dangerous, possibly ruining my life. But another part of me, the one that was feeling the cock growing once again down my right thigh in tribute to the ever-more enveloping warmth of these women, just wanted to say-

“n-no…I think I’m alright,” I answered, “let’s go ahead with the shot. I’ll be fine.”

If I had known then what I know now, that my mental capacity for rational thought in the face of arousal had been already crippled by foreign agents? If I had known that I was being purposefully enslaved, drowned more and more every day in the sea of pheromones and womanly curves in which I swam? WelI, I would have run screaming. Or, then again...would I?.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Vida assured me. Her voice had dropped low, almost hypnotic, “You don’t need to go out and see any other specialists. We’ve got everything you need right here…” She was beginning to prepare the injection, now, drawing the blue liquid from the vial up into the syringe.

“Yes, everything,” Morgan agreed, looming over me now so close to my right, her hips and belly blocking out the world behind her. Her scent was warm, earthy. Between it and Vida’s reassuring tone, I felt powerless to do anything but trust these women.

“But,” Vida began again, inspecting the now-filled glass syringe, “if you are still shrinking, lots of guys would be jealous. Don’t you think, Morgan? Here, take this-” She handed a band-aid across me to her fellow nurse.

wh-what?

“Oh, yes,” Morgan concurred, her voice husky, unwrapping the band-aid, preparing it, “very jealous.”

”What…what do you mean?” I asked, confused, looking from one woman to the next, up at them. Without even being told, I had begun rolling up my sleeve.

Vida chuckled. “Oh, you know, the whole ‘vulni-chic’ thing,” she answered, holding the prepared injection now in her right hand, “you’d get very popular if you lost another-“

“One meter?” Morgan said, giggling in her deeper, richer tone, “Two?”

“haha I’d disappear…” I joked, feeling a wave of warmth coming from Morgan’s body to my right, “just like, haha…”

“It’s not a joke, Dr. J,” Vida said, her voice plain, suddenly, clinical, “it’s a thing. Here, get ready-“

“Ouch!!!”

She’d jabbed me, in the left shoulder, with the shot.

Vida spoke as she pressed the plunger, pushing the blue liquid into my deltoid. “It’s not just a fad for women, guys these days are admitting it, too…” she said as she drew the needle out of my arm. Immediately I’d felt it entering my body, like a milky warmth. “Good boy,” she praised, “Band aid?”

“Thanks,” I replied without thinking, watching as Morgan leaned her big torso across me as I turned in my chair towards her, presenting my left shoulder. She was nearly smothering me with her big breasts as she applied the bandage, and I did everything I could not to goggle at the wobbling flesh of her full, tan cleavage. My roving eyes made me realize that this generously endowed woman was wearing a very thin bra, or possibly none at all. Somehow, though, she was still so firm, with a natural buoyancy that kept her tits high and proud on her chest. My gaze could not get enough. But then eyes fluttered as I was assaulted by both an overwhelming breath of her perfume and the first rush of pleasure from the shot. I began to lower my sleeve, rubbing my arm as I looked up at her, smiling down at me as she finally stood up and away.

“I mean it, with the shrinking,” Vida started again, watching me with an appraising eye as I recovered from my shot, buttoned my sleeve, “have you seen Melissa’s new Instagram post?”

With the butterflies? I didn’t want to admit anything.

“The guys that follow her, the simps,” she continued, “they talk about wanting to be like bugs, crawling into her breasts.” She was replacing the syringe, carefully putting it and the vial back into the box. “It’s all over the place, everywhere, though no ones really talking about it yet,” she said, as she closed the black container, “guys wanting to be smaller, weaker than us. Wanting to become inferior, more passive, more submissive.”

She looked down at me and smiled, watching as the effects of the injection began to take hold. Even more strongly than last time, I was being gripped by a pleasant wave of lethargy, relaxation.

“Guys want to be small, these days,” Vida said, “and we’d like it that way too, wouldn’t we, Morgan?””

To my right I heard Morgan purr, a little grunt. “Yes, Nurse Vida,” she said, her voice low and struggling with arousal, “we would like it very much.” I had the feeling she was holding back her true feelings, in restrained understatement.

Vida laughed, casually. “It’s weird, all these changes in gender dynamics,” she continued, brushing a lock of my hair behind my left ear, “the new thing is bigger women, smaller men. Here, look at Morgan, perfect example…”

I turned, looked up at the smiling behemoth of a woman.

“She’s probably bigger than you ever were,” Vida continued, “taller, heavier, thicker everywhere.”

“Yes,” Morgan agreed, seeming to rise up, grow bigger, heavier, right in front of my eyes, “I weigh much, much more than the you.”

“And, you have to admit…” Vida asked, watching me look up at the huge, busty blond woman, who was now absolutely dwarfing me in my seat and could probably lift me like a child, “that’s kinda sexy, right?”

“I, uh….” I began, not knowing what to say. My erection was getting painful, now, contorted as it was in my pants, trying to stretch down my right thigh.

Vida spoke again, now holding my head in place by my cheek and jaw, so all I saw was Morgan. “So, even if you are getting smaller...lots of us would like that.”

I sat there, in the building afterglow of my injection, and looked at this woman’s body. It was, in all ways, so much bigger than my own. Thicker thighs, wider hips. Her arms were stronger than mine, her shoulders broader. Standing aside her, I would look puny. Even Vida - though she stood roughly my height, maybe an inch or two more - her hourglass figure and womanly hips made her body just that much more than mine.

”Dr. J,” Vida said, pulling me from my reverie, but not releasing my face from her hand’s gentle embrace, “You look like you need to go lay down. We’d take you up to bed ourselves but we have an important girl meeting to get to, don’t we Morgan?”

“Yes,” Morgan replied, though never taking her eyes or dimpled smile from me, “Very important.” I watched as she looked down on me, regarded me, considered me. “But I promise. Next time you can go to the sleep in my lap,” she said, “I have a very nice lap.” With that, Morgan bent at the waist a bit, to gently slap her prodigious thighs. My eyes watched them jiggle, and then her hands come up to the collar of her blouse, hoisting her breasts. “Or, if not on lap, we find somewhere else…”

“Haha okay,” Vida laughed, finally releasing my head but smiling as I didn’t turn away from the cleavage into which I was now dumbly gazing, in my vitamin-fueled haze imagining myself sinking into it like a caterpillar, cocooned in womanly warmth. “I’ll get a couple of the MA’s to get you upstairs…”

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more Vida & Morgan imagery, more posts, more more more at my Patreon.

Thanks for reading, everyone.

[neon-junkie]

Duality - Chpts 1,2&3

Summary: There's a handful of things you hate, like the men who continue to pester you at the Saloon after you've told them no, or the way strangers look at you when you decide to wear pants. But the one thing you hate that most is Micah Bell. But if you hate him so much, then why are you allowing him to wrap his hand around your neck as he grinds his crotch down against yours? Is he using you? or are you using him?

Pairing: Micah Bell x f!Reader

Word Count: 8837 (ongoing work) 

Rating: NSFW Warnings: Depictions of Violence (Reader is fine)

Tags: Dead Dove: Do not eat, Fights/Arguments, Slow burn, Hate sex, Enemies with benefits, Enemies to lovers, Pity sex, Vaginal sex, Outdoor sex, Creampies, Blood kink, Knives, Choking, Breath play, Rough/Manhandling, Heists & Robberies, Nipple sucking/licking, Making out, Sloppy kisses, Dirty talking, Grinding.

Notes: This fic was inspired by the gang of children that recently decided to start hurdling abuse at me simply because I enjoy Micah character. If he bad then why he make my pussy go brr?? I ain't ever gonna stop writing for him, somebody's gotta love the ratman so I guess I'll volunteer as tribute. This piece is inspired by @deputytrash​ and their work called ‘Micah Bell is a Rat Bastard,’ that I can’t actually link here because Tumblr hates links:))) so please go stalk them for the original fic. shoutout to all the other Micah fuckers out there; we're kinda fucked up but hey, we ain't hurting anybody<3

[Chapter 4]

Some men are born with the purest of hearts; they're full of good intentions, kindness, willingness to help others. They want to see the world go round, they enjoy watching the days go by with their loved ones around them. They want nothing more than love and equality, happiness for everyone, and they strive to achieve that. Those men, such as Arthur, are ones that you obviously enjoy for such reasons, and you enjoy watching them on the sideline, smiling at the way they make everyone happy. You've tried dating those men before and something felt... off about them, almost fake; you wish to enjoy such relationships with the purest of men, but you've never been able to sit in that saddle comfortably. The leather smells off and something constantly jabs at your tailbone. It's fine, honestly, to not sit comfortably in that saddle. Others can enjoy those men, ones who deserve them, ones who are just as pure and wholesome as those men they seek out. You're happy for them, you enjoy seeing them enjoy each others company, they really do deserve it. Only that leaves you with the problem of 'who the hell am I meant to fall for?' There are others who are sometimes split down the middle, with good and bad intentions, men such as Dutch who eventually crack under so much pressure, as expected. But these men have never really taken your fancy either. You curse the Gods for creating you with no intentions to seek out those pure of heart, or even slightly pure of heart. Why can't you be considered normal? You're a good person, yet you don't long for someone as good as you. 

Instead, those who have only ever walked the darker path take your fancy. Those men who have no good intentions in them, who only look out for themselves and sometimes (but rarely) the few people closest to them, if you're stupid enough to get close to them, to begin with. You enjoy the challenge, you enjoy taming the beast, being the one person that someone so wild can trust. It's a generic trope that you've read in romance novels where the princess falls for the villain, but they always seem to have the happiest of endings? and the stories themselves are so juicy, so rich and full of layers. The generic happy couple trope gets so boring, nothing to read into. But if you're given a story about a well-layered villain who softens out within time then you'll eat said story off the dirt if you have to, it's always so rich and fulfilling, though you never expected to end up in one. "Which book are you reading today?" Mary-Beth asks you as she joins you on the beach, leaning back against the log you're leaning against. You do miss sitting on the cliff at Horseshoe Overlook, peering up at the landscape whenever your eyes need a break from being so engulfed in whatever book you were reading. But there's something just as good as looking out at the water, hearing the waves lapping against the shore as you read, enjoying the river breeze on a hot Lemoyne day. "The same as last time, that one centered around the villain," you tell her, your eyes momentarily peeking up to watch as she sits down beside you. "Still? Oh, you and your dark fiction," Mary-Beth replies with a laugh. She'd given your book that nickname after you explained the plot to her. Mary-Beth, as wholesome and pure as she is, couldn't quite understand why you'd get so engulfed in a book where the princess falls for the villain, completely ignoring the stud hero and running off with the bad guy instead. After explaining how layered the villain was, and how his actions were the result of past trauma, she somewhat understood but decided that she's happy with her sappy romance novels. That's understandable, your taste isn't for everyone, and you'd both agreed on that. "Like I said, I just find it more interesting," you reply, your eyes trailing over to the landscape. "Which book have you got?" you ask. "Oh, the same still. I've almost finished it! The poor man in it has finally been turned away from that woman, though they're both in love," she replies. "But from what you've told me, she's not exactly... the best person in the world?" you ask. "I guess not. Maybe I am into a little bit of dark fiction then, hm?" Mary-Beth questions with a soft laugh, finally opening her book to pick up from where she left off. "Maybe-" you begin to speak, but the sound of shouting draws your attention back to camp. You and Mary-Beth peer over your shoulders to watch the commotion in the distance. Ugh. It's Micah again, screaming at Bill for being so kind to the poor dog Jack had found, Cain. He's hollering away, something about not being soft on strays, that they'll only follow you around for food, whatever. You try to hold in your laughter when Micah does the last thing you'd expect, literally barking at Bill before storming off. "That man sure is evil," Mary-Beth comments. "I still ain't sure why Dutch allows him to follow us around, a bit like Cain really," she frowns, turning her gaze away. "He is, funny that he can't see just how much of a dog he is," you laugh along, returning your focus back to your book. "Has he bothered you again recently?" she questions, knowing that your last run-in with him was only a few days ago. "No, he ain't spoke to me, he ain't even looked at me." "Good, probably because he's still got that black eye you gave him," Mary-Beth replies, trying to hold back on her laughter. "Well, he did deserve it." Micah had pestered you a few days ago, stirring up some shit simply because he was bored. You were sat by yourself in camp, playing a solo game of solitaire whilst the wind was quiet, your cards not blowing away for once. He waltzed over, as always, looking like he owned the place; he only acts that way because he sucks up to Dutch, a bit of a teachers' pet, though he's definitely never stepped foot in a school. "Hey," Micah says to you. Well, you were unsure if he was speaking to you as your head was down, focused on the cards, so Micah quickly snapped when you didn't reply. "I said hey. You deaf?" he asks, lightly tapping the back of your shoulder. You let out a long sigh as you roll your eyes and look up. "I didn't know you were speaking to me, Micah," you reply. "Well, who else would I be speaking to, doll? There ain't anyone else around here," Micah says with a laugh, waving his hands about to gesture that nobody was nearby. "I can see that now," you sigh. You begin to put your cards away, knowing that if Micah's here then there's no way you'll be able to play this game in peace. Whatever, you were stumped anyway, considering calling this game quits, and Micahs appearance had encouraged you to do so. "What're you doing?" Micah questions. "I was playing solitaire," you reply, shuffling the cards back together and returning them to their container, an old mints tin that you found fits the cards much better than their old paper box. "And why have you packed up, hm? Is it 'cause I'm here?" Micah asks, knowing the answer. "It is," you say as you stand and put the tin in your pocket, beginning to walk off. The last person you ever want to talk to is Micah, but it seems he really wants to talk to you as he begins to follow you. "Where're you going? I ain't that bad. I know we don't exactly get along but you can't fault me for trying to right these wrongs with you," Micah begins, playing the white knight card as always, batting his lashes as if he hasn't made a handful of remarks towards you in the past, ensuring there's a thick barrier between the two of you. "I ain't interested in making friends with you, Micah. Now leave me be," you snap back, picking up the pace as you storm past Dutch's tent, hoping he'd pick up on the small commotion but his head is buried deep in his current Evelyn Miller book. "Such mean words coming from such a pretty face," Micah pouts, still on your trail, letting out his generic laugh. "Wouldn't you rather have friends than enemies?" "I'd rather have nothing to do with you, Micah," you tell him as you come to a halt, stopping in the dead center of camp. If Micah won't leave you alone then hopefully someone will step in, as their eyes had begun to peer over to the commotion; even Dutch has put his book down. "Easy there, sweetheart," Micah coos with his generic laugh. He goes to speak again but you're quick to cut him off. "I ain't your sweetheart, Micah. Quit calling me those names," you huff. "Of course, you ain't. I like a bit of fire in my women but you're just a bit too reckless for my taste," Micah tells you, his tone slowly turning to frustrated. He's quit the innocent act, lowering his hands as he had them raised as he followed you throughout the camp. If he can't win you over then he'll ensure you never even slightly consider him a friend, beginning to insult you to burn whatever was left of that bridge. "Good, I'd hate to be your taste. What an unlucky woman she must be for the likes of you to have eyes on her." Micah lets out another laugh as he takes a step closer to you, a little too close, and you're quick to cut him off before he can open his mouth. "Back off, Micah. Don't you try and get close to me," you order him. "Why not, hm? You scared someone is finally gonna put a woman like you back in her-" That's enough. Without hesitation, you clench your fist and swing for that vermin of a man, if you can even be kind enough to call him a man to begin with. You were aiming for his nose but hit his cheekbone instead, which is just as good as his eye had swollen up from the impact. Micah stumbled back and hit the ground with the most satisfying thud you'd ever heard, the sound still making you smile whenever you think about it. You didn't stick around much after that, burning the image of Micah lying on the floor clutching his eye into your memory before turning heel and marching off, wandering off into the trees so you could cool yourself off and devilishly admire your bruised knuckles. You refused to bandage them up, even after Charles had practically begged you, but you were eager to show off your trophy, even flaunting it at Micah from a distance whenever he came into your line of sight. His eyes hadn't met yours since, but you could feel his burning glare on you whenever you two were within ten feet of each other. You'd even overheard him attempting to bitch about you to Kieran, who simply nodded along to prevent himself from getting pulled into this mess. Needless to say, you and Micah do not get along. There's a handful of camp members that don't get along, but your burning hatred for each other seems to stand out the most. You're always eager to step in whenever Micahs attempting to chew someone's ear off, and he always gives you that same laugh as he attempts to mock you, but he often turns heel and storms away, calling you a bitch or whatever petty insult he has on his mind. But since that interaction, Micah has stayed well clear of you. Dutch probably told him to stop pestering you after you'd almost knocked his lights out, though you doubt that as Dutch ended up doing something that only seemed to make your 'friendship' worse. ----------- Another day, another dollar, or whatever the civilized phrase is. It's a quote you've heard within towns and cities, something bosses drill into the minds of their workers to stop them from realizing that they're being used as workhorses for less than pennies. At least out here you can work on your own terms, your only boss is Dutch and he always ensures that everybody gets a fair cut. Why slave away in a factory when you can rob some folk that needs robbing and make a few hundred off them? Dutch has a heist planned for you today, one that he says needs a woman touch. Karen is the only other gunwoman in the camp but Dutch has told you that she's a little too reckless for the job. Dutch knows that Sadie is also a gunwoman but she's still in mourning, arguing with Pearson every so often, but she isn't ready to step up to that rank yet.  "And that's why I need you for this job. It's genric and old fashioned of us, but there's a payroll heading up into Rhodes and I was thinking you could play the damsel in distress, hunched over at the roadside, pouting sweetly as you ask them for a ride into town," Dutch tells you outside his tent, a week or so after your last run-in with Micah.  "And if they don't stop?" you question.  "Why would they not stop? A pretty lady such as yourself asking for a ride? When they're already heading that way? They must be some cold-hearted folk in order to turn down such a simple request," Dutch explains.  "What will you and the others be doing?"  "We'll be hiding nearby, waiting for that opportunity to rob them. Once you're on board then they should hand over the cash, I don't see why they'd want a poor innocent woman to be hurt. Hosea will be waiting in Rhodes to bring you back to camp, and you won't need your guns for the job. A kind, working woman such as yourself wouldn't carry them anyway," Dutch replies with a grin, stubbing out his cigar with the toe of his shoes.  The plan seems simple enough, and what have you got to lose? So, you agree to the heist, heading into your tent so you can change your appearance to look like the average working woman. You dress in a simple skirt and shirt, your hair neat and your makeup simple, just how the women in Rhodes dress.  Arthur gives you a ride to the location, your horse staying back at camp, as well as your guns. You feel a little uneasy heading out of camp without them, but the boys are hiding behind what's left of a wall nearby. You overheard Arthur protesting with Dutch, saying they shouldn't be robbing folk so close to camp, but Dutch assured them that this would be fine.  Dutch has brought along Arthur and Lenny, and unfortunately, Micah, who still hasn't spoken a word to you, but his eye is now unfortunately better. Dutch didn't even mention to you that Micah would be coming along, seeing as your paths weren't meant to cross. This was meant to be a simple holdup job after all, only this gang seems to be cursed as things always go wrong.  You're walking along the road, acting as if you're exhausted. The sound of a wagon approaching can be heard, and you peer over your shoulder to see it coming into view. You begin to wave your arms, signaling for them to stop, and thankfully, they do.  "Are you alright, Miss?" one of the men questions, the one driving the wagon. There are two more men on horseback behind them, not many guns for a wagon that's carrying payroll.  "I do apologize to ask such a request but my horse bucked me a while back, I'm only trying to head into town. Are you heading that way? Would you be able to give me a ride?" you question. You play out the usual body language, slouched shoulders, batting your lashes, and pouting your bottom lip. This is a mans world, after all, but you know exactly how to play the game. The driver and the shotgun speak to themselves quietly, clearly bickering about the fact that they're carrying payroll, but they eventually come to an agreement.  "You're welcome to climb on the back of one of the horses, though we can't let you on the wagon, Miss," he replies. Well, that's good enough, at least you're still somewhat of a hostage. "Oh, thank you! I really appreciate it!" you smile sweetly, heading over to the nearest hired gunmen and climbing on the back, loosely holding onto his shirt as you get comfortable on the horse's rear.  They return to their journey, barely making it a few meters down the road when one of those slimy Lemoyne Raiders appears from behind a boulder and attempts to hold them at gunpoint. Your eyes peer over to where the gang is hiding and thankfully, Dutch steps in, one gun pointed at the driver and the other at the rival gang member. You're still unsure on what Lemoyne Raiders are. Inbred? Wannabe military? Either way, they're stupid enough to fire without warning, and completely miss Dutch, though Dutch doesn't miss him. The plan goes to shit and you're caught in the middle of the gang war, your gang and the Lemoyne Raiders fighting each other, as well as the wagon.  The gunman that you were holding onto slouches over his saddle, a bullet ripping through his side, thankfully missing you. You think Arthur had shot him, but either way, you're pushing his body off and stealing his horse, riding out from the commotion. What help are you now without your guns? It's best that you run away and fast. As you near the camp, you notice a small group of white hats approaching round the bend - lawmen, so you decide to keep riding forward towards Braithwait Manor, dipping off into the trees before they can notice you. You'll find somewhere to hide out until nightfall, riding through the thick forest until you find a shack down south, close to Shady Belle, but far enough from the commotion so the law shouldn't tread down here.  The stolen horse is hitched by a tree and you're about to head inside, but the sound of hooves approaching startles you. You hide behind the tree, not providing much cover, but hopefully enough so you can decide how to approach the incoming stranger. If it's a lawman then you can simply burst into tears whilst saying that the horse bolted and you couldn't steer it up into Rhodes, and if it's a fellow gang member then you'll be fine. Well, it is a gang member, just you were hoping for anybody but Micah. He slows Baylock to a halt as you come into his line of sight, stepping out from behind the tree looking like an angry kitten.  "You alright?" Micah asks, swinging his leg over the saddle and hopping off his mount.  "Go away, go find somewhere else to hide. Shoo," you wave your hands at him, only making Micah laugh instead. "What's a matter? Can't I hide here with you?" he questions as he approaches you.  "No, you can't. Go bother someone else, you're the last person I'd ever want to hide from the law with," you huff. Micah isn't budging, he continues to approach you until he's stood in front of you, grinning from ear to ear as he lets out that awful chuckle of his.  "You don't mean that. Besides, how're you gonna defend yourself without your guns, huh?" Micah questions, resting his hands on his gunbelt. "Well, you know that I can swing a punch, can't you, Micah?" you tease, giving him a smug smile which wipes the grin off his face, turning into a frown.  "And here I was just tryna look out for you. Nasty thing, aren't you?" Micah spits.  "I am, and I ain't welcoming to you, Micah," you huff again, resting your hands on your hips.  "Now, I'm gettin' real sick of the way you talk to me, girl. I ain't been nothin' but nice to you," Micah tuts, taking another step towards you. He's pressed up far too close to your chest, puffing his own out as his icy blue eyes scowl into yours. "You may be a big girl in the eyes of Dutch, but you ain't to me."  "I don't care, Micah. I don't need your approval, nor your company, so scram!"  This time, Micah goes for you, reaching out to grip ahold of your arm. He takes a firm grasp of you but before you can find out what he was planning on doing, you're pushing him away, shoving him back by the chest. He stumbles backwards but doesn't slump to the ground, catching his own fall as he glares at you. His death glare makes your face turn sour and you begin to foresee that one of you isn't going to make it back to camp. Micah lunges for you again, grabbing onto your shoulders as he begins to try and tackle you to the ground. You manage to shove him off and land a punch to the same cheekbone, only it's not enough to stop him. He continues to fight you, eventually managing to shove you to the floor. He tries to climb onto you, attempting to pin you to the ground but you land a swift kick to his baby balls. He lets out a choke as his body goes limp and you jump at the opportunity to shove him onto his back, pinning him down instead.  Micah attempts to grab onto you but you're quick, taking his own knife from its holster and pinning it beneath Micahs chin. He stops, freezing up and removing his hands from you, lying in the dirt with his swollen eye locked onto yours. There's silence, no words spoken from either of you, just heavy panting and the sound of the trees rustling. Micah licks his lips, tasting the blood that has trailed down from his nose, and eventually speaks.  "Go on, girl. Do it," he tells you, his Adam's apple bouncing against the blade as he speaks. You don't reply, so Micah jumps down your throat again. "I said do it! Show me what a big girl you are," he says with a laugh. "If I am to kill you then I'd rather do it with my bare hands," you spit at him, pressing the knife sharply on his neck. From the way Micah attempts to flinch back, you're certain you've managed to cut him. Good, he deserves it.  "Do it then. Go on, get rid of me already. Just do everyone a favour," Micah replies, his hands raising yet again, doing that generic innocent pose even as he has a knife held to his throat. As much as you'd love to, you know the consequences for killing other camp members. You could say he died in combat but Dutch knows that Micah can take on a bunch of Lemoyne Raiders with his eyes closed. Plus, it's far too suspicious for you to be the one breaking the 'bad' news. But you might as well scare some sense into Micah, maybe choke him unconscious then bail back to camp before he can wake. Hopefully, he'll finally get it into his thick skull to stay away from you, though you doubt it, but at least you'll have fun.  You remove Micahs own knife from his neck, stabbing it into the earth beside his head. He watches you with wide eyes, attempting to look at his knife but you grip onto his throat. You know how to choke someone to death, and you know how to choke someone unconscious, so you go for the second option and tighten your grip under his jawline, avoiding his windpipe so that he doesn't stop breathing.  He lets out a choked exhale as you begin jabbing your fingers into his throat, pushing more than hard enough to eventually knock his lights out. You know you look a mess, covered in dirt with scruffed up hair, a glare on your face that could easily kill a man; Micah looks up at you through half-lidded eyes, keeping his gaze locked onto yours as he attempts to breathe. You can hear the pressure on his throat with every breath, his lips remaining parted, blood still trickling from his nose, and his eye swelling up more by the second. His clothes are just as dirty as yours, his hat has fallen off his head a long time ago, his white pants are almost brown from rolling in the dirt, and his red shirt is missing a few buttons from where you've grabbed him.  Micahs parted lips quickly turn into a grin as his eyes begin to fall shut. You've never seen him pull a face like this, but he looks... pleasurable. He somehow has enough energy to reach up and grip onto the waistband of your skirt, trailing his fingertips along the band before settling each hand firmly on your hips. He's... enjoying this, isn't he? Your thoughts are confirmed when Micah opens his eyes again; his pupils are blown, wide and full of lust, gazing up at you like a piece of meat, ready to pounce on you (if he could.) You want to feel sick. Why don't you feel sick? Why isn't your stomach turning at the sight of Micah taking pleasure in your attempt to kill him? You push down harder on his neck, wishing you were gripping onto his windpipe instead. His smile eventually fades away, his eyes rolling shut as he lets out slower muffled breaths. His grip on your hips falls limp and you know he's finally unconscious.  This was meant to be the part where you run, heading back to camp before he can wake, praying he never even looks at you ever again. But you remove your hand from his throat, noticing how his body twitches as he begins to breaths properly again, and using the same hand that you just choked him with, you land a harsh slap right across his face. It's loud and sharp enough that it echoes throughout the forest, startling the horses and scaring a few birds away. You instantly regret your decision, your hand throbbing from how hard you slapped him, but the way Micah jolts awake gives you a sickly satisfaction.  He begins coughing, propping himself up on his elbows as he attempts to catch his breath. You don't move off him, sitting back on your knees, his legs beneath yours, watching in delight as he returns to the conscious word. Micah lies back down, his deep breaths eventually turning into a chuckle as his eyes meet yours.  "I knew you were just like me," Micah says with a sniff, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His nose is still bleeding, turning his moustache red, and now his cheek as he's smeared his own blood across his face. "I knew you were sick..." he laughs.  "I ain't sick, Micah," you frown.  "If you ain't then you won't enjoy this-"  Micah somehow has enough energy to flip your bodies over, pinning you down to the ground, narrowly missing his knife that is still jabbed into the dirt. You attempt to push him off, trying to kick him in the balls again but he's pinned you down as well as you had pinned him down. He does exactly what you feared he'd do, wrapping his own rough hand around your neck, pressing on those spots under your jawline that you unfortunately enjoy.  You try and fight it, attempting to gulp down air, attempting to push him off. But the more you fight him, the more he holds you down, and the more you find yourself enjoying it.  "Give in to it, sweetheart. Just let it happen," he tells you, the words that you didn't want to hear, but only because they're sickly yet tempting.  Micah adjusts his grip and finally hits the nail in the coffin, your mind turning cloudy, the blood pulsating through your brain. That feeling in your stomach begins to burn, trailing down your body and making your pussy clench. You hate this man so much, yet you're allowing him to do this to you. "Atta girl," Micah praises you as you stop fighting him, letting your eyes shut and your mouth part.  You're weak enough for Micah to shift his weight, parting your thighs with his knees and sitting between them after he bunches your skirt up. One hand remains on your neck whilst the under sneaks underneath your waist, pulling your hips up onto his knees. His crotch pushes against yours, his hand trailing over your clothed thigh, moving up to your knee as he adjusts your legs so they're wrapped around his waist. For some reason, you cross your ankles, only encouraging him to grind his crotch against yours, rutting his hard-on against your pussy.  The mewl that escapes your lips is definitely accidental, but Micah tilts his head up to let out a hum of approval as he watches the colour continue to drain from your face. "Such a pretty sound coming from that pretty face of yours. You're goin' pale tho, darlin'. Least you ain't still spittin' venom at me," Micah smirks. The blood from his nose drips down onto your own face, painting your cheek, and the sight of his blood on you makes his pupils turn wide again, licking his lips as he finally removes his hand from your throat.  You gasp, gulping down air, letting out a few coughs as you manage to fill your lungs back up. Micah barely gives you enough time to come back to reality before he's crashing his lips against yours, pinning your hands on either side of your head, grinding his crotch down hard against yours. You let out a whimper as he manages to brush his crotch perfectly against your clit, making him chuckle against your lips as he kisses you. Are you kissing him back? Unfortunately so, but only because the taste of his blood on his lips is making your arousal grow, and he's grinding against you far too perfectly to ignore.  You eventually lap away at his blood, his nosebleed finally coming to a halt, and the feeling of his prickly moustache becomes more and more prominent. It's far too annoying for you to make out with him and ignore it, and it eventually irritates you to a point that you break the kiss.  "What'cha stopping for?" Micah pouts, halting his grinding for the moment. "Your 'stache is too long, it's itchy," you tell him.  "Well, I'll make sure it's trimmed for next time," Micah replies as he rolls his eyes. "There ain't gonna be a next time, Micah," you scowl back.  "Oh, that so?" Micah chuckles, doubting your claim. "Well, I'll just have to make this worthwhile," he informs you.  Micah moves his hands off your wrists, sitting up on his knees and pulling his knife out of the ground. He wipes the dirt off on his jeans then grips onto your undergarments, pulling the fabric away from your skin so he can slice down the crotch, ripping apart the garment and leaving a large hole right in the middle of them. "Micah!" you snap as you sit up on your elbows. "I'll buy you a new pair," Micah monotonously replies, a large lack of sympathy in his voice. You could have sworn he rolled his eyes as well. He holsters his knife and rips apart the hole even more, almost ripping the garment in two, exposing your pussy for his pleasure. Micah hums in appreciation as he gazes at the sight, pushing your thighs apart as he dips his head down and spits onto your folds. You'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it, and Micah picks up on the glisten in your eyes as he straightens his back up and begins to unfasten his pants, leaving his gunbelt on the ground beside you.  Micah pulls out his cock, an average looking one, rock hard and flushed pink at the tip. You're surprised that his pubes are neatly trimmed, just as dirty blonde as his hair, but he keeps his pubes neater for whatever reason. He ruts his cock over your folds, slicking himself up with his spit and your juices; to say you aren't wet is also a lie, you've been soaking the second he put his hand around your throat.  Micah finally pushes into you, slow and steady, letting out an "ooh" once he's fully sheathed inside of you. "It's always tighter if I don't finger you," he comments, licking his lips as he moves his hands underneath each knee, spreading your legs apart as far as he wants. Why are you allowing this man to fuck you? You're not sure, though you don't regret it, especially when he begins to thrust into you, surprising you with the way he rolls his hips, the tip of his cock hitting that spot inside of you with every thrust. If someone had told you this morning that you'd end up spending the evening with Micah Bell thrusting inside of you, after the two of you had had a fight and ended up aroused by it, then you probably would have punched them too after informing them that they're drunk. But here you are, allowing Micah to fuck you senseless, pounding you into the dirt as he lets out surprisingly pleasant sounds. "Shit!" you gasp as Micah shifts his weight, moving his hands off your knees to wrap around your waist. He pulls you up into his lap, lifting your ass off the floor and angling your body perfectly so he's directly hitting your g-spot with every roll of his hips. Micah's fucking you like a rabbit, fast and unforgiving, eager to make your walls tighten around him so he can fill you up with his cum.  Micah begins to bare his teeth, hissing through them as he pounds you. You're a moaning mess beneath him, not holding back on the volume of your moans as nobody is nearby, and your volume level is filling Micahs ego more and more by the second. "That's a good girl," he tells you, his hazy eyes meeting yours. "I always knew you'd be a good fuck, the feisty ones always are," he chuckles.  You roll your eyes at his comment, making him laugh instead. Ugh. That stupid laugh of his, the one he always drags out only because he knows it gets on everyone's nerves. You think fast, moving one hand back onto his throat to cut that dreadful sound out. His lips remain parted, slightly smiling as he continues to fuck you, enjoying that irritated glisten to your eyes. You tighten your grip on his throat, forcing a choked moan from Micahs lips. Micah's already hunched over you but you pull him down to your level, speaking right against his lips as you order him to "fuck me harder." "With pleasure," Micah manages to reply, gasping and straightening his back the second you let go of his throat. Micah keeps one arm underneath your waist, holding you firmly on his lap, whilst the other moves between your legs. His hand rests on your stomach, his thumb moving down to begin massaging your clit, flicking the bud in circles, his cock throbbing every time your muscles begin to shake. He's returned to letting out moans, followed by the occasional grunt through gritted teeth. You've seen Micah come undone before, you've seen that feral look in his eyes as he loses his cool and guns down an army of people. But this? This was a different look, just as feral but fueled by a mixture of lust and spite. Is he just using you for a fuck? Yes, but you're doing the same with him. And do you think you'll end up fucking him again? Possibly, but only if you can watch the life drain from his face again. It's sickeningly arousing, but Micah seems to enjoy it too. "You're gonna make me cum," you sigh, your thigh muscles beginning to shake, your eyes scrunching shut as your head rolls back in the dirt. "I know," Micah confidently replies, rubbing his thumb even firmer against your clit. What a cocky piece of shit, though you admire the confidence. You can't believe you're moaning his name as you orgasm, panting and shaking, wrapping your legs even tighter around Micahs waist as he pushes his cock deep inside of you and earns his own release. His hands grip onto your hips, his forehead eventually slumping on your chest as he pants and groans, filling you up with god knows how many months worth of cum, maybe longer, depending on whoever else has been stupid enough to sleep with him.  Micah eventually straightens his back and pulls out of you, letting your legs slip from around his waist as you untangle your body from his. He looks debauched, his hair and clothes scruffy and dirty, not to mention the dried blood smeared across his face and moustache. You're certain you look just as bad, spending your evening rolling about in the dirt with the man you hate the most. Hate? Or hated? as you somewhat like the sight of Micah like this. Maybe you could tolerate him under these terms, and only under these terms. You attempt to sort your appearance out as you stand up, stretching your legs, hearing your knees click after being bent for so long. Micah does the same as he pulls himself up, tucking his cock away then picking his hat up. He whistles for Baylock who had wandered off into the forest, probably not wanting to be around... that. The horse you'd stolen has managed to unhitch itself and disappear, and you honestly don't blame them, but that means the only way back is hitching a ride off Micah or walking for an hour.  "Looks like you're riding with me," Micah tells you. "I don't want to be seen trailing into camp with you, not when we both look like this," you tell him as he mounts Baylock.  "How's about I drop you off on the edge of camp then spend a few hours away? Would that make you happy?" Micah offers, holding out his hand at the same time.  "It would," you tell him, swatting his hand away and climbing up onto Baylock on your own terms. "So, you'll let me fuck you but won't even take my hand?" Micah chuckles as he clicks his tongue, letting Baylock go at a soft pace as you ride side-saddle.  "Yep, and don't forget that you owe me new underwear," you remind him.  "Oh, I won't forget to buy you some new panties, Miss. I'll buy you a whole set of lingerie if it means I get to cut it off your body," Micah teases but you know he's serious.  "If that's what you want," you reply with a shrug.  "You'd let me?" he questions, peering over his shoulder at you.  "I would," you reply. For some reason, you lick your thumb and attempt to wipe some of the dried blood from his cheek. Maybe the sight bothers you, but Micah doesn't seem to mind as he lets you clean him up, his eyes occasionally flicking onto the road.  "You wanna give me a kiss when you're done with cleaning me up?" Micah asks with a smirk.  "No," you frown, pushing his face away from yours. He laughs as he looks forward, returning his focus back to driving.  You and Micah don't speak another word on the short journey back, apart from a "thanks," from you as you slide off Baylock. He drops you on the edge of the forest, letting you walk down the path back into Clemens Point. You manage to sneak back into the camp; the only person who saw you in your state was Charles who simply said "I won't ask," when you gave him a look that said 'please don't.'  You feel much better once you've cleaned yourself up and got cozy in bed, though your body aches from fucking in the dirt, and you're almost certain you're going to have bruises around your neck by the time morning is here. But the fresh memory of having hate sex with Micah only seems to arouse you again; just like Micah said, you are sick, just as sick as him. But if this unspoken arrangement is a good way of letting out anger then why not continue it?  --------------- It's been a week since your accidental encounter with Micah. He's still not replaced your underwear, nor has he spoken a word to you, but you've picked up on those disgustingly arousing glances he sends you from across the camp. You've been tempted to chew his ear out about not paying you back yet, but he's not been in camp often, and when he has been in camp, it's been during the day and around others. The bastard knows what he's doing, and he definitely knows that you're still angry that he hasn't repaid you yet. You've been assigned guard duty tonight, doing lap after lap around the outskirts of the camp until 3am, which is when you can tap Bill awake and send him on his way to take over. Well, 3am is here and that's exactly what you're doing, prodding Bill awake and handing him the shotgun.  You somehow didn't notice that Baylock had appeared amongst the horses, but you do notice that distinct white hat on the edge of camp. Micahs stood on the beach, looking out at the water with his arms crossed, a cigarette between his fingers. Finally, the opportunity to chew his ear off. You stroll over, ensuring nobody else is awake, not wanting to question why you're eagerly approaching the man you despise.  "Micah," you greet as you stand next to him.  "There she is, just the girl I was looking for," Micah greets you as he exhales his cigarette smoke.  "You ain't looking for me, Micah. You're stood here having a smoke," you roll your eyes.  "I was hoping I would have fucked that attitude out of you. Seems I ain't fucked you hard enough," he says with a laugh. You peer over your shoulder, reminding yourself that nobody is awake, nor nearby, but you don't want to risk your chances. "We don't talk about that in camp, alright?" you threaten. "Fine, whatever you want," Micah shakes his head as he finishes off his cigarette, flicking it onto the floor and stomping it out. You're about to begin questioning him on your missing underwear but he begins to walk off, heading further along the beach.  "Where are you going?" you scowl as you follow him.  "Over here so I can sit down. Was gonna ask if you're joining me but it seems you are," he says with a laugh, leaning back against a large boulder. You frown at him but settle beside him, turning your attention to him again.  "I only came over here to ask you-"  "-s'on your bedroll," Micah tells you.  "What?" you question.  "That new underwear I promised, I've just placed it on your bedroll whilst you were on guard duty. Plus a little something extra to make up for how long you've waited for it," Micah answers, his eyes fixated on the water.  "Hmm..." you ponder, unsure if you believe him.  "What? Don't you trust me?" Micah questions as he finally looks over at you.  "Not at all," you scowl again.  "Well, you'll see that I'm telling the truth sooner or later. Go check now if you want, I don't care," he shrugs.  You stare at him again, trying to look for any signs of lying, but he gives you none; his nose doesn't twitch, his eyes stay glued to yours, he doesn't rub the back of his neck. Micah is probably telling the truth, knowing that you'll whack him over the head with a bottle next time you see him if he lies to you.  "See, told you I ain't lying," Micah snickers as he looks back out over the water. You don't reply, you just lean back against the rock and turn your attention to the landscape. Your brows remain furrowed, arms loosely crossed, enjoying the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the moonlight only just providing enough light as you're far enough from camp.  A few minutes pass and Micah turns his attention back to you. "Why're you still here?" he bluntly asks.  "I ain't sure, I'm going to bed," you shrug. You begin to stand, barely getting off your ass when Micah reaches out and grabs you by the waist, pulling you back down onto his lap with a slight thud. "What do you want?" you snap, picking his hands off your waist in disgust, making him laugh at the sight.  "Just wanted to spend some quality time with my favourite camp member," he replies, though you're unsure if he's being sarcastic. "Well, you ain't my favourite," you huff.  "Always so feisty towards me, ain'tcha? What's wrong? You still hate me even after you let me fuck you?" Micah questions with a throaty laugh, grinning from ear to ear.  "I hate you even more now," you tell him, shuffling about on his lap until you're straddling him, one leg on either side of his hips, your chests almost touching.  "That'd explain why you've just got comfortable on my lap rather than walking away," Micah chuckles again, knowing he's damn well in the right. He slips his hat off his head, placing it on the ground beside him, not wanting it to get in the way. You let out a sigh as you roll your eyes. "Ain't I allowed to just take some attention from you, Micah?" you question, batting your lashes and removing the frown from your face.  "You're allowed to take whatever you want from me, s'long as I get something in return," Micah tells you as he wraps his arms loosely around your waist. "So it's agreed? That we'll just... enjoy this pity sex? But only because it lets off some steam," you place the offer down, finally trying to decide on this agreement.  "It is agreed, sweetheart. You can call it pity sex or whatever else you want, but maybe I'll just fuck you so good that you'll end up likin' me?" Micah chuckles, pulling you onto his lap more as he speaks to you in a husk tone. "I ain't your sweetheart and I ain't ever gonna like you, Micah Bell," you spit. "Sure you ain't," he grins. So, this is what it's come to. You're sleeping with the enemy, pity fucking the man you hate the most, allowing him to pry into your private life and between your legs just for a little bit of satisfaction. Do you care? No. Should you care? Probably. But you're getting pleasure, finally, after waiting for so long. The gang is always on the move, running from the law and whoever else is chasing you, depending on where you are and who you've pissed off. You've flirted with other gang members before but it's never escalated anywhere, so if sleeping with Micah means you'll finally stop humping your pillow every night then why not?  And maybe you can fuck some sense into him, maybe a bit of kindness of basic respect? You doubt it, but it'd be nice. A life where Micah isn't chaotic would be perfect, or one where he entirely didn't exist. But this is the way the world currently is, so you'll just have to make do with what you've got.  You're still going to bark back at him whenever he kicks up a fuss in camp. If anything, you're eager to put him in his place. Maybe you can punish him every time he steps out of line? Maybe this... enemies with benefits, or whatever you want to call it, could whip Micah into shape and prevent him from being such an annoyance towards everyone. Probably not, but you can still hope.  Micah tightens his grip around your waist as he lets out a pleasing hum, tugging you down to his level so he can kiss you. You're reluctant as his moustache was so irritating last time, but to your surprise, Micah has trimmed it to prevent the irritation, his 'stache brushing against your upper lip rather than prickling it. Micahs kisses are a lot more tender this time, not covered in blood and heavy breathing, not battling for dominance whilst both your minds are hazy from all that choking. Micah moves one hand up to entangle his fingers in your hair, cupping the back of your head.  Your lips soon slide open, your tongue greeting Micahs. He bites your bottom lip softly, letting the skin slowly slip from his grasp before kissing you again, earning himself a soft moan as you shuffle onto his lap more. Things are slowly turning heated, Micahs kisses getting sloppier yet firmer by the second, drawing more moans and whimpers from your lips as he continues to make out with you.  You pray that nobody has woken up, not wanting them to see... this. How would you attempt to explain this? Could you say you tripped and fell into Micah after not seeing him sat there, and you'd just accidentally kissed him on the way down? Could you say this way a new way of fighting, to show him what he's missing out on if he'd just be a good boy? Yeah, those excuses are rubbish. But you're sure you'd hear anyone approaching, not unless they're stealthy.  Micah moves his hands to your chest, unbuttoning your shirt, stopping at your lower ribs. He breaks the kiss so he can pull your shirt open, cupping each of your breasts and leaning his head into them. His mouth latches onto one of your nipples, sucking at it surprisingly gently, flicking his tongue over the nub, tenderly kissing it. His hand massages them, kneading them softly. Micah moves onto your other nipple, repeating the process, sucking on your tits as he lets out a satisfying hum.  "I ain't sure what my favourite part of you is, these things, or that nasty bite of yours," Micah says with a soft laugh between kisses. "Oh, you have such a way with words," you roll your eyes. "You know, I think we'd get along much better if you'd just tease me with these things in camp," Micah replies, returning his focus to your breasts. "I'll remember that in the future," you say, making a mental note. Maybe you could find a way to manipulate him? Using your womanly charm to tame this beast? It's a push but it's worth a try. He continues to suck at them, making your arousal grow, and you know he's getting aroused as you can feel it pressed against your thigh. Micah moves off your breasts and gently pulls your head down, enjoying another kiss, still tender, not the style you expected a man such as Micah to have.  Micah breaks the kiss, urging you off him. "Now, come on. Before I start thinkin' with my dick and fuck you right in the middle of camp. But you'd like that, wouldn't you, you whore?" he questions, buttoning up your shirt for you.  "You admit to thinking with your dick, yet I'm the whore?" you smirk, pointing out the flaw to his logic.  "Real smart, ain'tcha girl?" Micah mocks, shooing you off his lap once your shirt is fastened. Micah stands first, pulling you up afterward. His hand lingers for a little too long in yours, though you don't move your hand away either. He begins walking with you back to camp, readjusting his hat as he walks. Micah dips before you approach camp, not wanting to risk anybody latching onto your agreement. Thankfully, nobody is awake, but you head straight to your tent anyway. You fasten the tent flaps behind you, lighting your lantern, and begin getting ready for bed. You notice the tailor box on your cot and open it up, revealing the replacement underwear, as well as the 'little something extra' that Micah had promised you. It's a full set of lingerie, an expensive-looking set too, a frilly white chemise, corset, and stockings. The chemise is definitely that short for a reason; you wonder what Micah's planning, though he did say that he wanted to cut it off you. You hope to at least get some use out of it before he does that.

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Read into Me Chapter 11: Love Story

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 4,771

Warnings: fire, injury-all end of season three things!

Author’s Note: Happy belated Strangers Things 3 Day! I wanted to get this up yesterday, but I didn’t have it in me to work. This is the end of the series, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was a fun little ride!

Series Tag: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @jisungiesluv @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @peterparxour @linkispink1995 @a-big-ball-of-idk @used-avocado @mochminnie @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @ggclarissa @voidnarnia @anonymousonion33 @awkwardnesshabitat @darkcrystal-wolf @hannahrisacher

Paris was a lonely city. You’d arrived alone, having not seen Steve since prom and still desperate to see him one more time. You’d selfishly kept his sweatshirt, wanting a piece of him to take with you to a different country. Your mother hadn’t picked you up from the airport, having sent a car instead. She didn’t seem much interested in speaking to you after months apart; she was much more interested in redecorating her new condo and talking about her fiancé. You met him, a French fop named Jean-Pierre at least fifteen years her junior. He was nice enough, although a bit fruity for your liking. His interests were more on the modeling jobs your mother was getting him. She had no time for you, which was fine since your lessons at the salon began immediately.

You and thirty-five other young hopefuls spend your days locked in a studio with abundant resources and endless models and objects to sketch. And you hated it. You hated the long, rambling lectures from the artists who came to the salon to preach the values of the school and the importance of French art. They alternated between speaking in French and English without explaining themselves as they switched tongues. Your French language skills were nonexistent, so the lectures were exhausting and endless. The only time they ever seemed to help was when they brought you all to the Louvre to examining the long dead French men who’d made the museum possible. There, you could at least sketch out the greats and enjoy the beauty of the art. Inside the studio, you felt as though your head was going to explode. The lectures spoke too loudly and loomed over you without warning or word, you weren’t allowed your headset or Walkman in the studio to combat them, and the smell of various paints and clays made your stomach churn. The girl who’d taken up the easel next to you, a little German named Lisle, had taken to making clay pots and sculptures and the sound of her pottery wheel mixed with her incessant humming made you want to commit manslaughter. It didn’t help that the smell of the brown clay invaded your sinuses and made you sneeze violently. You dreaded the salon. But you dreaded being at home more.

Your mother had hired you a French tutor, utterly horrified by the fact that you hadn’t been practising. You tried to tell her that, despite her assumptions, Hawkins High had stopped offering a French elective two years before you started there.

“You cannot live in Paris without speaking French! It won’t do!” she moaned. Jean-Pierre was already on the phone, speaking fast into the receiver. You didn’t see what the big deal was. Everywhere you went, people spoke enough English to communicate with you fine. It didn’t occur to you till after dinner that if you were to study in the country, you’d need the language to understand your lessons.

So you got a French teacher, a short tempered older man who insisted on being called Monsieur Bérnard. His greying whiskers moved sharply as he spoke and he often spit on you as he taught proper pronunciation and conjugation. He ranted and raved all afternoon, disgusted by your apparent lack of an ear for languages and your doodling on the edges of notebook paper instead of working. You’d go from sensory overload in the salon to being bullied by a Freud-looking asshole each day with no room for a break or a breath.

You lived for weekends. Rest was very well thought of in the city so the hell spawn tutor didn’t work and the salon locked its doors. You were allowed to wander the city at your leisure, your mother glad to have you out of the apartment. You’d spend most of your days sat at a café near the Eifel Tower, a prime spot to tourists. Every day, you’d bring your sketchpad and try to draw out the profiles of those you passed you by. You spent two weekends working on a sketch of people sunbathing on the lawn in front of the tower. But it seemed you left all your talent in Hawkins. You’d spent so long drawing familiar faces back home, now that you were away from your nest, you found yourself without the skill to capture the faces around you. It occurred to you that you knew the faces of Hawkins far too well. They were engrained in your mind, your hand working like a stamp to put them on the page. France was full of strangers. You didn’t know how to understand them like you understood Hawkins. France wasn’t home. You couldn’t work out in a world of strangers.

You couldn’t work in the salon either. It was too much. Everyone was constantly showboating and trying out-do one another. You couldn’t work with people spying over your shoulder. You felt judged and insecure about what you could do. You didn’t want to be watched as you tried to make art. It didn’t help that you had no idea what to make. The closest thing you’d gotten done is that sketch of the Eifel Tower and that wasn’t something you couldn’t buy on the streets around the monument. You’d tried all the things that you couldn’t in your bedroom-paint splatter art, pottery, carving, paint pulling, mosaics. You never finished anything. The drive to push through wasn’t there.

When the loneliness and fear became too much to bear, you held Steve’s sweatshirt and cried. It still smelt like him; Irish Springs soap and Fabregè Organics shampoo and hairspray and a bit like sweat. It was nice though. You missed him. You tried to write him letters, but you knew that they wouldn’t get home before you did. You’d made up your mind that whatever the answer was, you were going home. Whether that meant deferring a semester or missing the first week of school you would go back to Hawkins. Still, you’d written over a dozen letters, all crumpled in your waste bin.

You waited until the last minute to finish something for submission. You’d tried to sketch your mother, to find who you knew in the fancy woman in front of you. With her bleached blowout and designer clothes, thirty pounds lighter and yellow gold jewellery glinting in the midday sun. She looked like the epitome of elegance, straight out of a magazine. The woman you remembered had greying roots and love handles, her only jewellery the wedding rings your father had given her. Europe had changed her into someone who you didn’t know and who didn’t seem to want to introduce herself to you. Nothing you drew seemed to capture the middle between who she was and who she is now. You realized in her profile that you weren’t a part of her life anymore, that she didn’t want you there. You were as strange to her as she was to you. You passed each other like ghosts in the hall, almost recognizable but hauntingly foreign.

The day before your final piece for submission was due; you got a letter from Steve. It only had one sentence.

“I should have asked you to stay.”

It was all you needed to hear to be inspired. You made your final project a tribute to him, mixing memories with unfinished letters building into his face. You used plain black ink to sketch his profile on the surface of the mess, building him into your loneliness. You only had your memory to recreate his face and your own letters to fill the canvas. Still, it was the only thing you’d done the whole time you were in the country that you were actually proud of. You didn’t finish it until the sun rose and you handed it off to be judged without a second thought, bleary eyed and exhausted.

You were on a plane home by the wee hours of July 4th.

Hawkins was a depressing place. After graduation, Steve found himself listless and at the hands of his father. He was a failure, a disgrace of a son. He was unready to start into the family business. His grades were pathetic. He had to get a job. Of course, with no job experience and late to the game, no decent place wanted him. The new mall only offered him one place of employment, Scoops Ahoy. And the uniform was embarrassing. Stupid sailor shirts and matching shorts, fucking knee socks and a corny paper hat. He looked like a certified geek. And his co-worker was a freak. Robin fucking Buckley did nothing but bug him all shift. It didn’t help that he had no friends without you, even Dustin had left for some nerdy science camp after the school year ended.

He was alone and lonely.

He tried to write you a half dozen times. But nothing seemed to make sense, nothing was worth telling you. What was he supposed to tell you? That he had become an even bigger loser overnight? He felt so utterly pathetic. He just wanted things to go back to the way things were. But what did that even looked like anymore? It wasn’t a life with Nancy, she’d dumped his ass, and it wasn’t a life with you, you’d left him for a different continent. He didn’t have a clue where he was going anymore. So he did what any lonely, practically friendless teenager did-he worked his ass off. Eight hours every day in the mall with smart ass Robin Buckley, waiting for the ground to suck him up. And sure, he tried to hit on the girls his age that came around. It was a good distraction from his broken heart. He’d made up his mind that he was ready to move on and try to date again. That he needed a girlfriend. That he needed to be cool again.

And then, Dustin came back and Hawkins started acting up again. He thought it was over. Those damn dogs were gone, the thing was closed, the kid was safe and acting like a kid. Everything had gone back to as close to normal as he’d seen it in awhile. But Dustin just had to find a secret code and Buckley just had to decode it and Lucas’s bitchy little sister just had to be small enough to fit into the vents and find a secret Russian elevator. And they just had to get stuck in it.

He couldn’t keep that damn kid from seeking out trouble. And yeah, it was kind of fun in a scared shitless kind of way, but it wasn’t worth getting drugged and beaten up and nearly dying for. And it certainly wasn’t worth getting tricked into thinking that he had feelings for fucking Robin. He could murder that kid for getting it in his head that he liked that girl. Robin was cool; he wouldn’t pretend that she wasn’t a decent friend to have at the end of the world. But he didn’t need the embarrassment of trying to ask out a lesbian. At least the reason for her rejecting him wasn’t that he was unattractive or lame, just that she didn’t dig dudes. He was cool with that. And at least he got to punch out a communist. If he could tell his father that without going to prison or being murdered by a Russian goon, he’d be proud. Fuck that, he was proud. He won a fight! He beat up a Russian spy! More than one, he beat some up while drugged out; at least he thought he did. He couldn’t remember much, other than watching Back to the Future with Robin. That movie was too confusing. And then he stole a car, he saved Nancy’s life, he set up that weird tower thing for Dustin-there was too much going on to even recognize how crazy he sounded. How crazy all of this sounded.

And then, the mall was on fire.

Your flight landed on the fourth of July at about ten fifteen in the evening. It took about forty-five minutes to get from the Indianapolis International Airport back to Hawkins. You were buzzing. Seven words had given you all the hope you needed to push you back to the states. Every fibre of your being was alive with energy, with excitement. You couldn’t wait for your grandfather to park the car, you jumped out as soon as you were settled in the driveway.

“Don’t you want to go upstairs and unpack?” your grandmother called after you as you booked it down the driveway.

You turned back “No, I’ll be back later!” you called. Steve’s car wasn’t in the driveway but you figured if anyone was home they’d know where he was. You bounded up the stairs, ringing the doorbell twice.

Mrs. Harrington came to the door in her bathrobe. “Oh, hello there…” she trailed off, obviously unable to remember your name.

“Y/N, hi it’s nice to see you, do you know where Steve is?” you asked, bouncing from your heels to your toes.

Mrs. Harrington narrowed her eyes “He’s at his job I assume. At the mall.” She said slowly.

“What mall?” you demanded. Mrs. Harrington’s eyes blew wide open and you realized that you were probably coming off like an insane person. “Sorry, I’ve been out of the country for about a month.”

“It’s where the Hawkins Laboratories were, off East Wood Road.” She pointed out the door towards the roads. You knew instantly that the fastest way to get there was through the woods. You ran through the backyards of your neighbours and into the woods. You didn’t like the Hawkins forests. They were dark and dim and poorly maintained. The county hadn’t been out to cut down potentially problematic trees on the few hiking paths in the woods.  Burs caught your socks and twigs scratched your legs as you hopped logs to try to get there faster. They’d carved a road through the woods, you’d found it halfway to the mall, deserted and blocked off. You could see the bright orange flames from a mile away.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest. Steve was in there. You could cry.

Instead, you hopped the blockade, running down the road despite the calls of passing fire trucks and police. You didn’t care if they tried to arrest you, although you doubted that they could. It would be a waste of time to bother with you during an emergency.

The parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles. Massive streams of water were attacking the building. Luckily, it seemed the mall was closed, judging by the few people who were milling around not in uniforms. You sprinted into the crowd, looking around frantically.

Steve had been ushered into the back of an ambulance and draped in a bright orange emergency blanket. It wasn’t that cold but he felt as though he was freezing. The EMTs had checked his vitals and disinfected the wounds on his face and knees. As for the remaining drugs in his system, he chose not to mention them. He knew that the high would wear off eventually. Robin was sat next to him, equally bandaged up and silent, save an uncontrollable shiver. Wordlessly, Steve took the blanket off his shoulders and placed it over hers. He wasn’t that cold. Moreover, he just felt numb. He’d had this happen so many times; his face beat in, an otherworldly thing trying to destroy his life and hurt his family, a major building destroyed-it all felt familiar. It made him sick to his stomach to know that it was familiar. If he had anything left in his stomach he would’ve thrown up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something running towards him. At first, he tensed. He didn’t know what it was and it could probably kill him. His heart stopped and then raced wildly. He held out an arm to protect Robin and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Steve!” you cried. He was in an ambulance. He was hurt. He was alive. You felt as if you could cry. In the span of fifteen minutes he’d gone from working to escaping a fiery building to missing in a fire to simply hurt. And hurt was just fine, you could handle hurt.

“Oh my god Steve, are you okay? Are you alright? I love you so much…”You grabbed his face, examining the bruises. You pulled him tightly to your chest, trying not to cry or freak out. You knew it wouldn’t help.

“I love you too…” he breathed into your ear, pulling you close to him. He recognized you by the smell of your hair, the feeling of your arms around him. He could cry. He didn’t believe you were real. But when you pulled away and his hand came to your face. You were real. And you were here. And he was safe. He was safe and alive. Feelings of relief rushed through his body. He wanted to cry, but the shock was too overwhelming for a tear to even drop.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper and hoarser than he’d ever felt it. “I thought you were still in Paris.”

“I came home early,” you chuckled, pressing a kiss to his jaw bone. “I didn’t get in.” That was the nicer version, the judges laughed at your final piece, they called it pedestrian. You should’ve been more upset, your mother was furious, but you couldn’t have cared less. You were free to go home. You could’ve thanked them for rejecting you.

Steve pulled away, looking you squarely in the eye. He wouldn’t have you give up on school to hang out with him in bum fuck Indiana. But you were telling the truth, it was written plainly all over your face. “Those bastards…” Steve murmured. You laughed, your eyes watery and throat thick. You were overwhelmed. You expected to come home and just see him in his element. You expected him to not necessarily want to see you. You didn’t expect a fire or Steve being injured or Steve to even be there at all. You pulled Steve back into your arms, you didn’t want to let go.

“I missed you so much…” you whispered. Steve’s arms came around your hips, pulling you in between his legs. He needed you here, to keep you in place for awhile.

“I missed you too…” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Did you get my letter?”

You looked up “Yeah I did…” you said “I wish I had written you, I tried so many times but I couldn’t find the words and-” Steve kissed you hard, stealing the words from his throat. He didn’t care if you didn’t write him back; this was the best thing he could’ve gotten from you. A letter wouldn’t do it justice.

You were lit up by his kiss. This is what you needed. No words could do the feelings he expressed in his kiss justice. You felt alive. You felt at home. Steve tried to pull away, but you pulled him back by his shirt, kissing him as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did. You couldn’t be sure anymore.

A loud clearing of one’s throat interrupted you and you pulled away to see Robin waving awkwardly. “Oh hey Buckley…” you muttered awkwardly. “How’s Samantha?”

“No clue, she never called me back.” The younger girl shrugged nonchalantly, hopping down from the ambulance deck. “I’ll catch ya later, Harrington.”

You turned your attention back to Steve, looking down at the material still in your fists. He looked ridiculous. “What the fuck are you wearing?” you asked with a laugh. Steve’s hands settled on your lower back, holding you in between his knees as if you’d run off if he didn’t.

“Oh this? This has been my whole summer.” He groaned “I’ve been captaining a boat on an ocean of flavours.” You couldn’t help but cackle, you had no idea what he was talking about but he seemed so serious.  

“And by that you mean?” you lifted the fake red neckerchief attached to his shirt, running the material between your thumb and forefinger.

“Ice cream store in the mall,” he pointed to the embroidered Scoops Ahoy logo on his breast.

“You’re kidding…” you shook your head as if to shake the idea out of your mind. Steve’s fingers trailed the raggedy edge of your sweatshirt. Well, his sweatshirt, his last name and basketball jersey number were embossed on the back; he could feel the textured design on your lower back.

“I like my sweater,” he chuckled, reaching up to adjust the length of the drawstrings on the hood. You looked away, a bit embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to keep it I just…missed you,” You replied “You can have it back.”

“Nah, it suits you,” he smirked “Besides, I want my girl in my stuff, it’s cute.”

“Your girl?” you grinned giddily, elbowing him in the ribs. “Since when am I your girl?” You liked the idea of being Steve’s girl. It had a nice ring to it.

Steve smirked, squeezing your hips in his hands. “Oh come on baby, you’ve been my girl for awhile…”

“Oh really? Well, I wouldn’t know since you’ve never asked me…”

You heard a loud yell and turned to see a set of paramedics carrying a stretcher towards you and Steve. They were sprinting and bringing a badly burnt and unconscious Billy Hargrove towards the ambulance you sat on. You quickly moved out of the way. Steve grabbed your hand, allowing you to tug him from the ambulance’s deck.

You only got a brief look at the teenager, but it made your stomach churn violently. You felt ill. You felt Steve squeeze your hand. You turned to look at him and saw how hollow his eyes were. You wrapped your arm around his middle. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, trying to stifle a yawn. You were exhausted from your flight and your run here and the trauma that had smacked you across the face.

Steve noticed anyway “Did you just get here?” he asked, lifting your chin.

“My flight landed at ten, I came to see you as soon as I could.”

“You should’ve gone home to rest, I wouldn’t have been mad at you.” You looked absolutely exhausted. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like.

“I missed you too much to not see you. And what if you had gotten hurt, if you hadn’t made it out then I would’ve never forgiven myself…”

Steve wrapped his arms tightly around you, shielding you from the scene, as more mangled people were brought out. The beast must’ve fallen apart once the brain was destroyed. It looked as though a bomb had gone off. Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to leave, but he knew that the FBI would be called and he’d have to talk to them again. He wanted you to go home, but that didn’t seem like an option now.  Selfishly, he liked having you there, it was comforting to have you in his arms, squeezing him under his ribs and keeping him calm.

“I’m not gonna get hurt, I’m okay…we’re okay…” You nodded roughly against his chest. You felt as if you were burning up and freezing at the same time. You saw blinks of red flashing lights and sirens as one of the ambulances sped past. You were so thankful that he wasn’t on that ambulance.

“Yeah, I know, I’m not gonna let you out of my sight ever again.” Steve lifted up your chin, raising an eyebrow at you. “What? Last time I did you nearly died and for what? A shit job in the mall?”

“Well, not just for a job, I was helping Robin and a couple kids who were with us,” That wasn’t the whole story. Steve knew he’d have to tell you eventually about everything, but for now he was more than comfortable ignoring the looming problem beneath their feet.

“What a hero…” you giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Something had been bothering Steve for awhile now and he determined now was the best time to tackle the subject. He turned away from you, folding his hands in his lap.

“Did you mean it when you said that you loved me?” he asked quietly. Truthfully, he wasn’t certain that you meant it. Or if he had even heard you correctly. After Nancy, he wasn’t sure if anyone actually loved him back. He’d given so much of his heart away only to have it tossed to the floor and tread upon like it was nothing more than a cigarette butt. He wasn’t sure if he could trust that you meant it.

You let out a small sigh through your nose, crossing your arms over your chest. You were a bit embarrassed. You were half hoping that he would forget about it. Your response brought all of Steve’s hopes crashing down. “Yeah, yeah I do,” you admitted, rubbing your arms, having suddenly gone cold. “I will admit, I hadn’t planned on saying that this early, feels a bit middle school to say that you love someone before they’re even your boyfriend.”

Steve turned to look at you once again, a bit surprised. Your face had gone red, adorably red, but still very red and your gaze had turned down to the asphalt at your feet. He reached out and took your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Good,” he said with a smile. You turned up to look at him; brow furrowed “I thought I had like imagined it.”

“Oh…no you’re good.” You said slowly. He looked like a little puppy dog, his whole face was radiating sunshine; it was almost hard to look at. It was harder to not match his energy, to get drunk off it. Then again, no one was stopping you from just enjoying the moment. You let out a small breath, not so much heavy with sadness or regret, but simply exhaustion. You let your head rest on his shoulder, smiling softly despite the scene in front of you. If it weren’t for the smouldering building and the emergency vehicles surrounding the pair of you, it would almost be romantic. The fact that you were even trying to find romance in the scene felt a bit silly, but maybe that was what this was supposed to feel like. Finding love in a burning building was a bit dramatic, it certainly not what you’d expected for your life, but you determined that no matter what you’d keep Steve safe. You had no idea what was going on at this scene, you had no idea what happened. But no matter how scared you were, you knew that Steve must’ve been even more scared. You knew that you couldn’t protect him, the same way that he couldn’t protect you, but maybe together you could keep each other safe for awhile.

“I love you too, you know,” Steve said quietly, his gaze trailed on the smoke of grey smoke coming up off the extinguished fire. The front of the mall had crumbled and the giant neon ‘Star-Court Mall’ sign shattered on the pavement. You hadn’t seen the mall before the fire, you didn’t know what it was supposed to look like, but a cavernous jagged mouth probably wasn’t the design goal. Still, you turned your attention to the side of Steve’s face. He couldn’t face you, the tips of his ears bright red underneath his flat, sweaty hair.

You swallowed hard “I know,” you say softly. Steve turned to look at you, examining your face with a nervous expression. You smiled and nodded reassuringly “I know.” Steve smiled and laced his fingers with yours. He squeezed your hand tightly in his and you squeezed his back, the feeling of his hand squeezing yours the only feeling left in your body beyond the giddy buzz. You didn’t know how any of this worked, you didn’t know if you were doing this right, if there was a right way to do it. The buzz under your skin was two parts anxiety and one part excitement. But you didn’t pull away. You were glued to his side.

“You know, I think that was one of the first normal conversations we’ve ever had,” Steve mused.

You scoffed loudly rolling your eyes “That was not normal.

Steve shook his head with a small laugh “Yeah, I know…”

[thatmomentwhen345]

Ok ummmmmmmmmmmmmm

These last two weeks have been very emotionally exhausting because of finals and what I’m about to tell you and I don’t really know how to sum it up so I guess you’re getting the same treatment as my Facebook (this is copied directly from the post on there and was posted on December 12th for context)

(This is the beginning of the Facebook post)

You guys, I don’t know what to do.

You might have gathered from my last few posts, but I’m not okay. And it will sound like such a stupid reason to the majority of you. But I made an irreversible mistake back in 2019 that has been haunting me for the past week. This is the first time that I can remember regretting a decision this much. Was it my stubbornness, my closed-mindedness? Was it my see-it-to-believe-it tendencies? Was it my inability to learn from my mistakes?

For those who don’t know, on November 13th of this year, the YouTube channel Unus Annus was deleted from the platform forever. After one year of daily videos by Markiplier and CrankGameplays, it was all gone. The point of the channel was to remind us to use our time that we have alive wisely, because Memento Mori. Remember that you must die.

The channel started on November 15th of 2019, and, well, I don’t know anything about their beginnings. I just saw their introduction video in my recommended or on trending or something and thought, “Is that Markiplier? Shouldn’t he be focusing on his own channel? Who’s this other guy?” and moved on without a second thought. I occasionally saw their videos in the trending tab but ignored them. I didn’t even know they had such a big following. I thought it looked stupid and didn’t think about it until, well, the end.

A few weeks ago, my brother was watching the final livestream that would mark the day that the channel was deleted for good. I was in the room with the livestream on the TV, watching their final hours tick by, still not thinking about the channel at all. Just like, oh hey that thing that people were talking about, wasn’t it like, a cult? I didn’t think about it at all until... the fifth of December? Was it really only a week ago? That feels like a lifetime away now...

The YouTuber FootofaFerret released a video called “Pretending Unus Annus Isn’t Over” and I saw it in my reccomended. https://youtu.be/8SMpCbI9U00 I was like, hey, yeah, I remember that thing that ended. I trusted Foafy’s judgement because of his previous videos about saying goodbye to Steven Universe. So I watched it and don’t really remember how it made me feel. I just remember him saying that the Unus Annus fandom was in mourning and I was like “aw poor guys I’ve seen on TikTok some people are sad about it”. Foafy also suggested that people who were wanting more of the Unus Annus vibe to watch Mark’s Markiplier Makes playlist. I watched some of them and, again, moved on.

The timeline is fuzzy from here on. I’m still processing it, honestly. I think I might have looked up the Unus Annus theme (Turncoat by Michael Rothery) first? Then I think I found some compilations or clips from their videos and was like wow this stuff is funny. And then I realized that there are archived versions of all of their videos (that’s against the rules of Unus Annus for those who don’t know) and... don’t hate me... went looking for them. I watched two in full. I won’t say which two but just know that the second one I specifically searched out because I knew that they did a lot of random stuff on there and that there was a chance that they would do it too. And they did! It was a funny video. I realized how much of a fun dynamic that Ethan and Mark had and looked for more compilations. The more I watched, the more I realized that I had made a terrible mistake in 2019.

I had missed out on so much. And I couldn’t take it back without breaking the rules. The concept of Unus Annus intrigued me so much, all of the people involved on the channel worked so well together, they were all so funny, but now I could never experience it in full because I was stubborn and, well, thinking about other things this year. I could have jumped in at any point between then and November 13th of this year but I chose not to.

Monday was a rollercoaster. 1st stage: denial. I was like well this doesn’t matter, I’m not even in the UA fandom, it’s gone and I don’t care. But it wasn’t that simple of course. I kept watching the Markiplier Makes videos and the UA compilations and became particularly interested in Ethan. He seemed very genuine and sensitive and his on-camera chemistry with Mark was really entertaining. 2nd stage: anger. I was furious at myself for missing out. Those two videos I watched in full were just small teasers for what the entire channel was like. I hated that I couldn’t take it back. And I hated that if I did, I would’ve broken the rules and gone against Mark and Ethan’s wishes, which I also wouldn’t be able to take back. I was horribly conflicted. 3rd stage: bargaining. I desperately went after any content surrounding Unus Annus that I could without breaking the rules, and was still considering watching the illegal archives. I haven’t watched any more of them in full, but sometimes I watch parts of them in incognito mode when it becomes too much to bear.

Tuesday was... Tuesday had to have been the longest day I’ve had the entire year. 4th stage: depression. It was slowly sinking in, the gravity of my mistake. I was starting to realize how much of a phenomenon Unus Annus was and that it was so unique and had such a cool message and that it made so many peoples’ 2020 just a little bit better, but not mine. I then did what I always do and found my comfort in music. I put on a bunch of good songs that I hadn’t heard in a while and just... sat there painstakingly doing my math homework. I couldn’t concentrate on anything the whole day. Monday, either. The song Goodbye to a World by Porter Robinson came on and I was like hey, this song perfectly suits the way I’m feeling right now. I wondered if anyone else had made connections between this song and Unus Annus and looked to see if there had been any AMVs (animated music videos) about the idea and the end of UA. Lo and behold, this popped up and I watched it! https://youtu.be/-q-oByQWdlM It hit all the right spots and I just started bawling. What had I done? Why had I missed this opportunity to improve my 2020, just a little bit? Why had I missed this opportunity to get to know Mark and Ethan better? Everyone who had watched all of their videos could feel peace after the end, like Mark and Ethan. But I couldn’t. I could only forever regret my mistake. MY mistake.

Terrible things have happened this year, but all of them have been out of my control. This, however, was my fault. And I can never take it back. And I am having a very hard time handling that.

I don't know how many times I cried on Tuesday. The next song to come on after I watched the AMV was As the World Caves In by Matt Maltese which of course broke me even further. This song also perfectly encapsulated my dilemma. Later I finished my tribute drawing of the channel logo and felt the smallest bit better. The rest of the day is a blur.

Wednesday was better, I guess? I thought I had made it to the 5th stage: acceptance. I was still very sad and mad at myself but I was starting to realize that there was nothing I could do. I subscribed to Ethan’s channel and started getting to know him better. He’s so sweet and talented ☺️

But no, acceptance is still far away. Thursday and Friday were barely better than Tuesday. I painted my nails black and white as a way of coping. I went to a livestream on Ethan’s Twitch and it was really fun! I started watching more of his streams and on one of them he mentioned that his Twitch chat mods had TikToks. So I wondered if he also had a TikTok, which he does! I looked to see if he posted one on the day UA ended. The answer was no but he did post one the day after asking if someone with the skills required could make a mashup of the song Cancer by My Chemical Romance and As the World Caves In. https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMJqgyrkR/ I was like wowie this guys got taste! And so I looked up if there was a mashup. As a matter of fact, there was one by Clem Turner on YouTube that came out only three days after the end of Unus Annus. https://youtu.be/a5RTVoreSAY I cannot express how much I love this, what it made me feel, and how much it hurt/helped. So I commented on Ethan’s TikTok about it and only a few hours later a new comment appeared on Clem’s video. Ethan had seen it! So I’m just gonna assume I was responsible for that... not only that but half of the comments on the mashup were about Unus Annus as you can see below. I realized how big of a following UA had and felt bad (because of course the people who had actually been with UA the whole way would be grieving a lot more than me), but also, comforted by the fact we could all connect over the loss of something important to them, if in a lot of different ways.

I’m far from getting over this. I’m far from being okay. I’ve never really felt like this before. I feel like a different person than I was last week. But I wanted to write all this down to let it out, process it a little bit, and maybe get some comfort from you guys. It’s completely understandable if you didn’t read this all the way through so...

TLDR: Memento Mori.

(This is the end of the Facebook post)

What I just described really shifted a lot of things in my head in a way I didn’t expect and in a very short amount of time. So, long story short, my Steven Universe hyperfixation ended very suddenly because of an outside factor and I probably won’t be posting a lot about it anymore. Hope you understand.

(art by me but I used the official UA logo as a reference)

[missing-fanfics]

A Tribute

A/N: Sarah here, hello. Ky is in love with Finneas so she mostly wrote this, I just did a lil bit. Based on Finneas’s Bill Withers cover for the April 20, 2020 tribute. Link here ;)

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: grief, fluff, sadness

Finneas x fem!reader

~~~~

He sat at the piano, unmoving, for what seemed like hours. His hands ghosting over the keys, back straight, staring into the abyss. She stood on the final stair that led to the basement of the house, watching him, wishing so badly to take away his pain. Finneas always took everything to heart, especially when it came to music. When they got the news that Bill Withers passed away, she knew immediately that he would take it to heart. That had been a few days ago, when Finneas insisted that he film a cover to honor the man’s life. He had just found the courage to sit down at the piano bench an hour ago, yet not a single key resinated off of the basement walls.

Y/N walked behind the pale boy, trying to make her footsteps as loud as possible to snap him out of his trance without scaring him. Once she was in arms length, she tried calling out to him.

“Finn,'' she tried, her voice coming out hoarse and hesitant. She reached her hand out, placing it on his shoulder, he had no reaction, just kept his head straight. She took that as her que to move closer. Wrapping her arms around his back, Y/N moved so her lips were right next to his ear. The collar of his denim jacket scratched against her cheek.

“Finneas,” she tried again with his name, hoping to draw him out of his head, he turned his head just enough for her to see him. Tears sat at the edge of his eyes, killing her heart. She backed her face away looking at him fully.

“I can’t do it.” A single tear glided down his face, catching at the end of his nose, a weak smile formed on the edges of the mouth. She untangled herself from his back, moving to sit next to him on the small bench. Her body facing his side, slowly bringing a hand up to cup his face, thumb catching the fallen tears.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do it today.” She said with a smile, thumb still lazily swiping against his tear stained face.

“It’s okay to take some time to finish mourning, no one would be mad.” He nodded his head against her palm. They sat like that for a while, slience filling the room as Y/N wiped away the sea of tears that fell out of Finneas’s blue dull eyes. She moved to cup his cheek and rested her forehead against his. His eyes were always so bright, electric even. She had never seen them so close to grey before.

He pulled away gently and brought his hand up to cover hers, his hand colder than expected. He removed their hands from his face and brought it to his lips kissing the center of her palm, she felt the scruffy beard against the bottom of her palm, it ticked and contrasted against the softness of his lips. He moved their hands away, finally linking them together.

“I love you.” He whispered, moving his face forward until their foreheads rested against each other again. His face hot against hers, the tears leaving a sticky feeling against her skin. He moved to rest his lips against hers. They shared a short kiss, before disconnecting.

“Will you stay here while I play?” He asked, voice still not going above a whisper.

“Of course Finn.” She moved off the bench, placing a kiss to the top of his head before going upstairs.

Finneas stared at the keys, inhaling a huge breath and holding it until his lungs burned. Before slowly letting it escape his mouth. He suddenly heard the scrape of a chair against the stairs as Y/N's face appeared again. She was carting down one of the wooden chairs from the dining table, dragging it behind her like a rollie bag suitcase. A weak smile plastered on her face as she lugged the chair across the room. Finally placing it behind the camera. She walked back over to him.

“You don’t have to do this.” She said again, placing her head on top of his.

“I know, but I want to.” He kissed the back of her hand one more time. Y/N walked away with a gentle smile and moved to sit behind the camera.

He began to play then. Softly pressing into the keys, looking down in his hands. She knew that he didn’t need to watch them to play the right cords. He knew this song and he knew how to play it, but he just wanted something to ground him and his music. The music that his idol made was the only way to connect them, even after his passing.

She be lying if she said that she wasn’t a little mesmerized watching him. Finneas looked so sad and his voice was so clear. To others it might seem that he was simply enjoying himself and his music. But she knew that he was losing the battle to not cry.

With every verse he hit the keys harder, his voice screaming out, the vibrato punching the air, and he kept hitting the keys harder still. He was suddenly small. He was a small boy hitting the keys with a grin on his face as his favorite singer played on the radio. Trying to learn the melodies his mother showed him. She pulled him onto her lap and covered his little hands with hers. He was a teenager turning up the stereo in his car that he finally got to drive. His new license sitting in his wallet. The feeling of freedom he never knew and as he shouted the words with a loud laugh. Whooping as he sped down that road. He was a young man humming to his lover the sweet music of his youth. She was wrapped in his arms as they laid on the couch in their new home. The housewarming gifts splayed all over. A gentle smile spread across his face as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. He was a sad man playing the piano to tribute to the legend that shaped him. Choking on the realization that the music that made him who he was, was fading out. Nothing more would be created from the soulful man he cherished. His heart ached in his chest painfully and he moved his head sharply as a tear won over his will and hit his hand that was slamming on the piano.

Finneas’s left hand pressed one final chord out from the instrument. Y/N didn’t realise she was crying until the song was finished, the last dark note ringing in the air. Finneas moved his hands off the piano quickly and just stared at the wood in front of him. She moved slowly, not wanting to disturb the quiet that settled. She sat next to him on the bench and rested her head to his shoulder.

“That was beautiful, Finn.” She whispered and he closed his eyes at her voice. Bill Withers was dead, this was something they both knew. But with his legacy and with his music, he wasn’t gone. Finneas sucked in a breath and nodded to her. The memories involving the blues and the passion seeped into his bones and he felt another tear fall down his face.

“My favorite.” He mumbled pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes. He smiled pitifully at her, his voice wavering.

“I bet he’s smiling down on all that he inspired.” Y/N looked up at him then and brushed the hair from his forehead.

Finneas looked up at the ceiling. He had never been a religious man, but the thought that Bill Withers was somewhere else in this life, looking down at the music he inspired and the people’s lives he touched granted Finneas some calm. Finneas smiled at Y/N and moved to press a gentle kiss to her mouth.

For the first time that evening, he felt happy.

Music has always been universal and he was glad he got to share in the experience of millions of others. Finneas was happy he got to love a legend and feel in his body and mind the soulful sounds that were created from a man born in another time. He looked up at the ceiling again and felt another tear fall from his face. It streaked down his cheek and was stopped by the fold of a grateful smile.

[soyouareandrewdobson]

Charles Schulz vs Andrew Dobson: What a Blockhead!

There are certain things about Dobson’s behavior and particularly his approach at being a nerd and presenting himself as someone who enjoys the art of storytelling that I have issues with. Issues I want to tackle on in more detail within later entries quite a bit.

One such tendency is, that he mocks directly or indirectly the work and accomplishments of others.

See, if Dobson doesn’t like you as a content creator because he does not like something you work on, he will try to show it. He will make stupid assumptions of you (like how he accused Kojima of being a sexist creep because of Quiet and how he deals with “male gaze” in MGS compared to Death Stranding), half heartedly mock you (look at anything he makes about Ethan Van Sciver) or he will call a piece of work boring and dull based on a minor element instead of overarching problems (calling Batman the character a white supremacist based on the dumb work of only one author).

By doing that he also tries indirectly to insinuate that he is better in some manner, though most of the time it really just shows his own ego and that his pet peeves are rather petty compared to the overall quality of the work he criticizes as well as its flaws.

One such sight of ego boosting while mocking the work of his better is in my opinion to be found in this comic he uploaded sometimes around 2016/17 randomly online.

This comic in my opinion is both laughable and insulting. Why? I will explain soon.

First however I want to clarify that I get that this comic is supposed to be a joke mostly. The old “What others expect, what I expect” thing, where the punchline is supposed to be the discrepancy between the two fractions and what they expect, mostly by making one of the expectations come off as worse than the other. However, I find the punchline to be Charlie Brown (and as such what Dobson seems to see as something he does not want to be favorable compared too) quite insulting. Why, as I said, will be elaborated on sooner.

First, let me just get on the part I find laughable: The fact that Dobson in his own head seems to believe he can be even remotely compared to people like Paul Dinni, Bruce Timm, Greg Weismann, Justin Roiland, Miyazaki, Shigeru Miyamoto and all the other character creators and animators whose creations we see in the first panel.

 Dobson, don’t make me laugh. Putting aside the fact that those people are animators more than cartoonists, what makes you even believe in your wildest dreams you are on the same level as them? The fact you too are an animator, seeing how you graduated from an art school with a degree in that field? I have seen your contributions to the field and honestly, I would expect a bit more. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0tdWNCrIxo

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps6PfiUCxHQ

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PyonOqClf8

 I give you credit, you can animate. Which is more than I can say for myself when it comes to the arts. But when you look what other freelance animators can do online, some of them younger than you and NOT with a degree in animation…

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=64&v=FmkAcGz1BJk&feature=emb_title

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=97IfPfjSaDg

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEUoxQ4qSfs

 Viviepop’s demo reels alone are just gorgeous to look at and more fluid than what I have seen of you. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFlha-KOKCc

 And it is not just the technical quality, Dobson. It is also just the overall “originality” of your work. Cause this is the thing with those animators hinted on in the first pic and even many, many freelancers/fanartists as well as webcomic creators online: They have a spark of originality in presentation and storytelling that you lack. I will one day go more into detail for that, but here is the most brutal thing I can say at the moment: I know shitty porn fanfictions, that have more plot development and character growth than all of Alex ze Pirate.

Your characters and stories tend to be derivative and you barely take any risks in telling a story. Neither in your fanbased work (like the Miraculous comics) nor your original content (mostly because you take comfort in four panel strips anyway)  and when you have an idea for something on which the basis idea actually sounds good, you screw it up by a lackluster execution. One example I want to give for that, would be this fanart of yours in regard to Steven Universe.  

(I apologize for not getting one in better quality) This pic was something Dobson created around 2015 for Steven Universe. The picture is supposed to show Lapis, trapped under the ocean following the events of the season 1 finale of the show. A very emotional situation if you are aware of why Lapis sacrificed herself and was “banned” to the ocean floor. Short explanation: Fused with Jasper and then took primarily control of the fused being they became (Malachite) by using her water powers to bond it with heavy water chains on the ocean floor, so that Jasper would not hurt Steven anymore.

 How much of that was even an emotional strain on her and her psyche was in one episode of season 2 even a theme, as seen here.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SK3l8mGNhMg

 I am not even a fan of the show and I get the emotional weight and impact of Lapis actions.

So… why is that not conveyed in the artwork? If you are so talented Dobson, why is none of the strain and despair on the character? The idea of a pic showing Lapis under water, longingly looking up, even in despair is a good basis for a fanart. But the execution lacks any emotional detail. You want to know how I would execute the thing if I had the artistic talent? Make the picture a huge horizontal pic, where we slowly decent from water surface down the ocean. The light getting dimmer. Blue turning into dark. The silhouette of a hand and an arm similar to Malachite’s in the background, trying to travel up, the fingertips barely touching the surface. Heavy chains around the flesh. Symbolic of the fusion trying to break free and cause havoc. And down on the dark bottom, beaten and exhausted Lapis with tears in her eyes and chains all over her body like she is Jacob Marley, desperately trying to keep Malachite at bay for the sake of the only being on earth who ever showed just a little bit of kindness towards her.

 Why can’t we have something like this here, Dobson? If you were even remotely as original as the creators you want to be compared with, I think you could come up with something like that and perhaps even draw it.

But you know, his delusions of being as good as them is one thing. It is even funny.

Pissing over the Peanuts is another. Dobson, what are you trying to hint at?

That people comparing you to Charles Schulz and his creation is in your eyes automatically a sort of insult? That it is something that should at best only be a mockable punchline in a comparison?

Just to clarify a few things: I am NOT much of a fan of Charlie Brown and the Peanuts as a property. As a child, I was just not very entertained by them. Yes, I saw animated movies, episodes and specials of them here and there and my grandparents gave me volumes of them to read, but as a whole I never thought them quite as entertaining than other comics or cartoons I watched. Some parts of Peanuts animation felt to me often times like just dead air (especially parts of Snooby dancing with Woodstuck, as they had no function to move the plots forward) and I really could not stand how some characters treat Charles on a regular basis. I mean, we all agree that Lucy is one of the worst female characters in fiction and that even while we hate Family Guy, this clip likely gave some of us some sort of satisfaction, right?

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZkJAx8FycI

 But before the Peanuts fan out there go and want my head on a silver platter, let me make one thing clear: I may not like the Peanuts franchise… but I respect it and the man behind it.

 Charles Schulz drew the comic strip from October 1950 till late 1999 (the final strip being finished months before it would be published on February 13 of 2000, one day after he died of colon cancer) , creating a total amount of 17,897 Peanuts’ strips. His work marks a major impact in the nature of newspaper comic strips and inspired many people out there, including Bill Watterson, to create comics or be in the field of animation. His achievements include among other things, that he created what many people consider the first animated Christmas special ever. The names of his creations became nicknames for the Apollo 10 command module and its’ lunar modul. Four of the five Peanuts movies in existence (animated made for tv specials not withstanding now) were written by him. And the fifth was only not by him, because that one came out in 2015, a decade and a half after he died.

And speaking of things Schulz wrote for the Peanuts, let me mention two things. Two things that though I am not a fan of the Peanuts, I have mad respect for existing in the realm of animation. Two animated specials that stuck with me ever since I was eight.

 “What have we learnt, Charlie Brown?” from 1983 and “Why, Charlie Brown, Why?” from 1990.

 In the first special, which functions as a semi sequel to the fourth Peanuts’ movie “Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown”, the characters actually travel across France and after ending up on Omaha Beach and Ypres the special turns into a tribute to the soldiers who fought in World War 1 and 2, elaborating on the sacrifices made during the war by showing actual footage of fights, recordings of Eisenhower and reciting the poem “In Flanders Fields” among other things. Do you know how impactful it is to learn about the world wars as a small kid, by being reminded of the actual sacrifices others made in order for your own grandparents to survive?

 And speaking of grandparents, I lost my grandmother as a child by cancer. So when I saw the second special I mentioned, you can bet it stuck with me. After all, of all the things in the world, the Peanuts addressing the seriousness of cancer by having a story where a friend of Linus is diagnosed with leukemia and we follow the emotional impact it has on Linus and the girl? Again, I may not like the franchise, but I am not ashamed to admit I think the special treats the subject with a lot of respect and dignity while telling a good story. You bet your ass I get a bit teary eyed when the little girl survives her leukemia treatment and finally gets on that swing again. Those two specials alone are more mature than ¾ of the shit Dobson likes to gosh about, including his oh so precious gay space rocks. And just for those things existing I have respect for Schulz, his creation and the impact it had on so many people. As such, Dobson “belittling” the Peanuts, at least for me, is a freaking insult. The only way Dobson could have been even more insulting is if he called Schulz something derogative.  Dobson should be glad if his life’s work in total could even amount to 10% of what Schulz has done and achieved.

 Cause Dobson, you are NOT a Charles Schulz. Schulz served during the second world war on the front, fighting actual Nazis instead of calling idiots on the internet fascists for not liking Star Wars. He had integrity and work ethics that drove him to draw and write over 17.000 strips, while you can not even finish one FREAKING story. He knew how to tackle a mature subject, while you make shitty shipping jokes involving Ladybug and Cat Noir and claim Steven Universe knows how to be about psychological trauma, when it just romanticizes abuse. He may have drawn simplistically, but at least he could tell a joke instead of constantly berating others for not sharing his opinion. He did all of that and more without having graduated from college.

 And what have you done, Andrew Dobson?

If Dobson reads this, there is one thing in my opinion he should take away from more than anything else: That if people compare him to Charles Schulz’s work, that it means a) he should not be ashamed of it and b) they overestimate him.

[ghostofgnasha]

↕ - a memory that may or may not have happened

A wise Opradush never kept all their Nyarlagroth eggs in one nest thus it was no surprise that the Gumm-Gumm army were frequently spread over vast distances with Generals entrusted with the upkeep and to carry out given orders. This continent of land they called home was a vast one and while the churning seas were impossible to tread by any of their numbers, their race had more than enough patience to march the long way to find all the nooks and crannies fellow trolls tried to hide in when they attempted to refused to pay tribute or make themselves useful in serving their Warlord who protected all of their kind. Warriors could be lost during travel, battle or even sickness which made keeping their numbers healthy important and Gnasha was the type that should respect be served and the signs true, chances would always be offered. Why waste the energy razing to make a point unless it was absolutely necessary? Sometimes a bit of careful nudging would be all that was needed to bring them into line or even provide unexpected boons.

Any stupid enough to claim any of this was done out of softness would be relieved of their heads before their words were finished.

With the latest rise of Klokaron’s might the ruz begin to rise grumpily from their slumber having not particularly enjoyed this particular General’s keenness to abuse every drop of light while it was in their favour. While they were ready to depart immediately, as long as their dawdling did not interfere with their duties they could allow it as it would be ignorant to assume all were carved from the same stone after all just meant some were a poor fit to be under their leadership…. Though if they burned much more Kloka it would be a very different story, there had already been one accident occur almost a season ago and a second was not impossible. Still if they were starting to get restless perhaps an alternative for them to sink teeth into may be wiser and could there any greater joy in hunting for fresher meat after a diet consisting largely of deer and bear for the past fortnight? Stragglers found on the roads were rare and through their status they took priority on the prime food source, this was likely an overdue turn.

Thumping their tail to gain attention with the minimal of noise they watch over the party of seven who swiftly scrabble to attention saluting with the hand not holding a weapon.

“Tell the walkers to gather our supplies, we move out to follow a trail that has presented it’s self upon the bramla. If they are slow do not harry them, they have not been trained in the ways we have and should not be treated as such,” they say with a snort, gold eyeing one in particular who had touched the line though had yet to cross it. Lucky for them.

“They are with us until I choose otherwise but I do not expect any further dawdling than you have already cost us. Dismissed.”

The lot of them scatter like rabbits eager to get moving as much as not wanting to cause any further annoyance proving exactly why none of these will ever stretch beyond their station here, it was simply beyond their ability. At least they are not left waiting long and the march can begin with Gnasha at their head choosing a route that coasts the treeline to give their tag-alongs cover should it be required and would help break up the silhouettes if any if the watch’s the fleshbags sometimes employed carried torches of flame or mystery lights. There would often be an issue with the creatures called dogs being a noisy nuisance though they are wrapped in a reasonably edible form and ill suited with dealing with the issue of roaming trolls.

When checked again the scent whispered that they were not far and behind them they can hear how the nearest were already itching for the tantalising glimpses that lay ahead in in little shelters made of wood and stone where they were perfectly exposed to all and sundry.

What a pity

Knowing the temptation to break rank risked getting the better of the ruz if they wait much longer they order them to attention immediately then send the walkers into the trees where they are to stand by until given the signal to join them for fleshbag or not until they were certain of the safety of the area lest an ambush be waiting. Despite the grumbling from the weaker members of their party a glare quickly sets them right with the reminder that insubordination would be acceptable by no one. Quickly they take their things and melt back into the shadows where it would be impossible for those without the gift to see them. With another thump of their tail, they descend onto fours to help mask their much larger build and launch straight into a charge as eager as the rest for the soon to be carnage and oh what one it would be!

Foolish things that they were no alarm could be sounded for their watch had retired to bed early much like the rest had expecting a quieter night and by the time the dogs started to raise the alarm the village was already filled with hungry trolls with even more coming when the bellow is sounded. The death trap is further emphasised by the screaming of those snatched from their beds or farm tools wielded in a poor attempt to drive them back shattering upon stone and the sobbing tears. With such easy pickings it is rather tame prey for their liking but it would at least keep the lot of them sated for a good while and not a trace would be le-

The General lifts their head with a maw well-stained catching a fleeting glimpse of one of the small ones bolting beyond the walls likely hoping to be spared. Flashing a grin they tilt their head left, right, left again as though counting before perusing this little thing with such an incredibly indulgent gait that it gives it more than an ample opportunity to escape for it’s daring. By intention or not they only becoming more delighted each time it looks back in terror until it finally is able to dive into the now unguarded woods and the visual is lost. With a long hummed sound as they approach their movements become more akin to a languid cat in how they sniff the air curiously pretending to truly have no idea where it had fled. The mystery of whether it would chose to run or to hide intrigues so they decide to play with it a little more by aimlessly wandering or deliberately rustling branches above as if to shake them of their spot. The act is kept up perhaps too long but they felt in too good a mood not to.

“Such a clever little rodent,” they say with an almost sing-song tone while slinking it’s direction.

Finally they zero in on it’s hiding place and press their armoured snout against the trunk that hid the child given away easily by how with each draw of breath spoke so or the noisy whimpering. How easy it would be to simply rip the trunk aside and pluck them from the splintered remains like that of fleshy fruit that had turned just ripe but they decide they shall not do so, instead they give it a chance to choose a fate it felt most fitting to have... With a little incentive of course. A pair of claws begin to scrape erratically down the bark far higher up while wondering if it would decide to leap straight into their jaws or would it manage to hold it’s nerve as the sound grows ever closer and closer to the tiny hole that must have been used to squeeze inside?

 Click

 Crack

 Click

 Crack

 Hm.

The boy is left alone.

[ravenwolfie97]

2020 Art Summary

Yep, it’s 2021 already. 2020 is finally over. It felt like it lasted forever, and it felt like the end would never come, but here we are. Crazy how the time flew by.

I felt like I didn’t get much art done this year because of Current World Event, but I made a lot more than I thought I did. Even some of my new favorite pieces came out of this year, so I think that’s worth celebrating and looking back upon!

I was insanely productive during the first month of 2020, and looking back I was surprised at all the stuff I did, but then I remembered that that winter season was actually one of the best times of my life! I started being more socially involved, and I think my newfound drive at the time translated into all the art I pumped out this month. This is just a small fraction of what I made in January, but I only have so much space. Quite a few complex pieces in both style exploration and polishing my own style.

Apparently February was a rather intimate month. Things began to slow down in terms of my own art here, with me spending more time in social settings and school work ramping up, I didn’t have as much time to coop up in my room to draw. I did wanna do something for a friend’s Valentine’s Day OC art challenge, so I drew my lovey-dovey couple from Dance of 1000 Words havin’ a dance. Nothing actually came of that challenge, but it was fun to do regardless.

One of the things I was most proud of in the winter season was making more friends, and one of the closest friends I made was completely coincidental. I met a person named Kiri on the bus one night I decided to volunteer somewhere by myself, and we ended up chatting and getting along. They quickly told me their tumblr username, and I shot them a message immediately after they left. A couple days later, we met up for brunch, and we started becoming really close friends and creative partners!

Not much else happened in March cuz that’s when Current World Event started becoming an issue, but Kiri and I still kept in close touch and we randomly started developing a concept for a Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Galar Edition. These are a handful of characters we thought up, with Skipper the Scorbunny and Dross the Dreepy as the main characters, Morgrem as the main antagonist, and some shopkeepers such as those of the Greedent Bank and the Indeedee General Store. This was also my first time drawing all of these Galar Pokemon (except Scorbunny, but I also made Skipper a bit more unique than a regular Scorbunny).

Lots of events happened this month. First of all, Steven Universe Future ended, one of my favorite and most influential shows was no longer continuing. I had to do something as tribute, both as a send-off to one of the greatest cartoons in the world and as a cathartic release for my feelings towards it.

A while later, I got the opportunity to start playing an MMO in beta called Fer.al, by the same people who made Animal Jam, which coincidentally I had also beta tested for back in the day. I ended up getting really attached to my first character, a Senri I named Sasha, and though I’ve made more characters than them since, they’re still my absolute favorite. Though I haven’t touched the game in a few months, I was really engrossed for a long time and enjoyed playing through the beta and early access phases.

At the end of the month, some friends of mine invited to a roleplay group with some mutuals, and we all played characters in a crime syndicate. Just a bunch of ragtag thieves and criminals who ended up together in order to protect an artifact called the Crown of Thieves, which was essentially a flag to be taken by other groups to prove that they are the best thieves in the land. My character was based heavily on my sona (if it wasn’t obvious) and was also influenced by Cloud Strife, since the FFVII Remake had just come out and I was super into watching the cutscenes at the time. My character’s (code)name is Valkyrie, and they are a mercenary, going between multiple different employers to carry out whatever duties they need to do. They have a more complicated backstory, but presently they were recently hired by recommendation of their friend Shark (played by @shmoots-universe​ who is also My friend now ily maya) who works with a group called the Court Cards who are currently in possession of the Crown of Thieves. Valk never really had a place to call home, but staying with this group of people had to be the closest they could get to that feeling. They still sleep with a knife under their pillow because of trust issue but that’s okay.

Okay, so technically these examples started in April, but I continued making content with them in May, and the month was just pretty void of art in general, so here I am addressing them.

There were two main things I worked on this month: a Steven Universe AU of my own and the whole #sixfanarts thing that kicked off around then. Let’s start with the fanart bits. I did two and a half of them (six in April and nine in May), and it was so much fun to be able to draw stuff I don’t normally do! My personal favorites are shown here: Blake Belladonna from RWBY, Roll from Megaman, Yuki Konno from Sword Art Online, and Link from The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. The other thing I’d been planning for a while was a Steven Universe AU, probably to cope with the show being over but also because I was inspired by a lot of those SU AU artists I started following at the time. I won’t share the details here because it’s gonna have its own blog at some point, but the example I’ve shown here is of a comic I made loosely in order to introduce a divergence in the plot of the story as well as introduce a character unique to my AU. It was a lot of fun figuring out how to draw the characters and get a feel for the style.

As the year progressed, my amount of art I made per month began to dwindle, this time mostly because school was kicking my ass especially hard with finals. However, I took what time I had to get some backburner pieces finished, like the Tigerlily picture which I sketched out a couple months back, and the Gunvolt picture which I started working on SIX YEARS AGO. I don’t quite know why I got the urge to work on it again after so long, but it was nice to finally realize. The other drawing for DOTS was done in the dead of night but I was really happy with how it came out.

Despite only having two summer classes left of school, this month was really rough because they demanded a lot of my time and attention. I did not have the gumption to do anything digital, so I stuck to my sketchbook to get out what I felt like getting out.

My friends and I did a stream of the game Helltaker, and I really enjoyed the concept, so in following my friends I made my own Helltaker demon OC named Raksha the Ravenous Demon (it’s a pun but also got mythical insp). I also got super into Hazbin Hotel at this point, mostly because the Addict music video dropped and I couldn’t get enough of it, so I doodled Angel Dust cuz I felt like it. The other drawing I did was actually a free commission I gave a friend of mine as a prize for a trivia game show I ran back in June. He along with a couple other friends got some free drawings from me for getting the top three scores, and this one in particular was fun because of how interesting it was. He wanted me to draw a video game reviewer called the Irate Gamer from a specific moment, and I decided to go ham and just make it as dramatic as possible.

University classes finally wrapped up and right after that I was in the process of moving out of my apartment and getting adjusted to living with my parents again. I did a couple of agg.io drawing sessions with my friends from the Court Cards group as well as a new Dungeons and Dragons homebrew group I had joined. I drew some more of Valkyrie and came up with a design for my DND character Qakuqtuq (or Kai for short). He is monkey grandpa and I love him.

My main focus was on finishing a polished piece for my friend Cake, whose birthday was in the upcoming month. I wanted it to be as amazing as possible, so I put a lot of time into getting more detailed and making them look good. In addition to that, I did a few TOME doodles just for fun. The creature on the bottom was for this month’s art challenge on my Discord server where we made original TOMERPG monsters, and I created Hundylow, a Crystal-element monster based on the Grindylow from English folklore.

This month was a lot more productive than the past few had been. I tried to do a 31-day art challenge called Creatober but failed to get past the third prompt because I was still swamped with other work. I’m still happy with what little I did, including the piece with my characters Kyle and Guarudan from DSWD.

I don’t remember how, but I also suddenly rediscovered an old Flipnote Hatena series called Tales of LostClan, a Warriors fan series that I would say was the most obscure thing I’ve ever been super invested in. It was what got me into the actual Warriors books, and I liked it so much I redrew the animations into a comic... twice. Didn’t get nearly as far the second time but clearly my love for this little fanfiction had not waned after nearly a decade. I felt like drawing a book cover/movie poster for the series, just to get it out there and see how much I’ve improved over all that time.

Also I felt like making a vampiresona just before Halloween because I never dress up for Halloween in art (or real life anymore, for that matter), and I wanted to do something like that for once. It was short-lived but I really liked the design!

The focus of this month was definitely on Pokemon stuff. As per usual I contributed to the current Gotta Draw ‘Em All collab, and I was tasked to draw Regieleki. It was really fun to figure out how to make it stand out and look like it was made of electricity.

I also committed a lot of my spare time to my Fakemon Gym Leaders, as I had been working on bringing them to life in the past year or so now. As of this post, I’ve finished rendering their full body poses and gym badges, but I’m still working on completing all eight VS portraits, the first half of which are shown here.

I... didn’t draw anything this month, actually. What I’m showing here was worked on in the last few days but has actually been in progress for a couple of months, and I just finished it earlier today, in 2021. But I needed to show something off, and it’s also about time I mentioned it.

Back in October, I kept seeing people rave about this game called Genshin Impact, and I was interested but not so much as to start playing it... until my friends started playing and I was like “fuck it, let’s download it”. Since that day, I have been super immersed and in love with this game, to the point I came up with my own canon based on my gameplay experiences. This also included the creation of an original player character: Astra, the non-binary Traveller. And now, I’ve finally drawn them and brought them to life.

It has been one hell of a year. I had some of the highest highs and lowest lows in 2020, lots of changes, and I have now officially moved onto the next chapter of my life now that my time at university is finally over. I’m very excited for what 2021 has to offer, and I’m going to go forward with great ambition.

[skinsharpenedteeth]

Trope: Stuck Together

Ship: Malex

3kish, uhm... PG with a butt load of adult feels.

                “Honestly, I’m beginning to get tired of secret, underground lairs. I mean, everyone we know has an underground bunker but not one fuckin’ swimming pool? Waste of funds if you ask me,” Michael grumped as he slowly descended into the room under Alex’s cabin.  Alex, who was already waiting below rolled his eyes at him as soon as he saw Michael looking over his shoulder for a reaction.

                “Get down here, brat,” Alex responded, sighing heavily through his nose as he waited for Michael to finish climbing.

                Jumping off the ladder a few feet from the bottom, Michael turned and clapped his arms to his side.    

                “Sir, yes, Sir!”

                Shaking his head, Alex grinned and rolled his eyes again.

                “Come on, show me the big surprise. With all the lights off, I’m beginning to think you’ve just lured me down here with hopes to chain me up and make me your sex slave.”

                “Like I’d have to force you for that,” Alex responded, turning and walking to the side of the ladder to begin turning on lights. He felt Michael come to stand behind him, so close he could feel the heat from his body pushing against his back.

                “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Maybe it’s my chance to chain you up instead…” Michael’s voice trailed off. Alex could feel the brush of Michael’s curls against his ear and his entire body tensed in anticipation of Michael’s hands or mouth touching him. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he felt Michael pull back from him. Slowly letting his breath out, he tried to quell the buzzing under his skin.

                “Right,” Alex said to know one in particular, his voice catching in his throat. Clearing his throat, he threw on the light switches and turned around to watch Michael’s reaction.

                “Oh, wow!” Michael exclaimed on a breath, drawing out the word ‘wow’ as he let his eyes trace over the rooms transformation.  He turned after letting his eyes scan over it twice and grinned back at Alex, “Well, it’s no sex dungeon, but I could call it home.”

                “Jesus, Michael...” Alex chuckled, hand coming up and covering his face in affectionate embarrassment.

                The underground room which has once been set up to be a detox bedroom for Rosa had transformed under Alex’s vision. He’d gotten rid of most of the furniture except for the bed. He had no idea how Mr. Valenti had gotten it down into the bunker and had no good way of getting it back out.  He’d created a studio for himself. He’d added strings of lights around the room and brought down his guitars and keyboards. He’d set himself up a desk for his computer and mixing equipment. He’d even improvised a sound booth for vocals. The middle of the room held a couple of chairs on thick rugs to help with sound absorption.  The aforementioned bed had been shoved into a neglected corner of the room and set up almost like a large daybed with pillows against the walls to create the feeling of a couch. He’d kept all the colors muted to browns, blacks,  and reds and if he was honest with himself, he felt like the room was a tribute to his Emo/Goth high school self. The way Michael was staring around in fascination made him feel like he’d almost gotten away with it.

                “I see you kept the bed down here. Planning on bringing home loads of groupies?” Michael jested, though as with every mention of Alex loving or fucking anyone else, there was a bitter bite at the end of it.

                “I mean, I guess I could, but honestly I just couldn’t figure out how to get that giant mattress out of that little opening,” quickly holding up a hand, Alex interjected at the quick inhale from Michael, “no innuendo! Besides, between the two of us, you’re the one more likely to bring home casuals than I am. I just wanted a place to get away and play music without anyone interrupting me. I wanted an escape like what the shed was before…my dad ruined it.”

                Alex watched Michael swallow and obstinately not look at him. Alex knew he’d hit a nerve and cringed inwardly as he went back over what he’d said to take bets on which nerve it was.

                “Maybe…” Michael started, still not looking at him, but not really seeming to see the room anymore either. “Maybe I wouldn’t need ‘casuals’ if the person I loved would quit treating me like a dirty secret?”

                Alex flinched inwardly. He deserved that. He deserved it because he knew there was some truth in it and he still wasn’t sure how to change the parts of him that were broken by his father into feeling like his love was ugly and dirty and to be hidden.  That wasn’t fair to Michael though.

                “So why did you bring me down here, Alex? Wanna ‘jam’?” he asked, turning to finally look at Alex with a wry, self-deprecating smile on his lips.

                “No I…” Alex started, but faltered. Why had he shown this to Michael? Did he want this to be their new shed? Their new secret room where they could finally be themselves? Breaking his gaze from Guerin’s, he finished, “… I don’t know. I just wanted you to see it.”

                “Well, I’ve seen it,” Michael responded brusquely. He started to shoulder his way past Michael to the ladder when two things happen.

                The first thing to happen was all the lights went out in the room. What they didn’t know is that all the lights went out in Roswell too. The second was that the emergency generator kicked on and with a deafening clang, the trap door at the ceiling slammed shut and locked itself. The emergency back up power kicked on, leaving the room brighter than pitch black but nowhere near where it had been.  Both of them stood still in shock, waiting to see if another shoe would drop before they reacted. After a moment of silence, Michael looked over his shoulder down at Alex.

                “I’m going to fucking kill Max. What the actual fuck?” Michael grumbled, starting back up the ladder. When he got to the top, Alex watched as he groped for a handle that wasn’t there. Then he watched what he assumed was Michael trying to use his telekinesis to open the lock mechanism.  Growling in frustration, Alex watched him try three more times before he swayed on the ladder and half hazardly lowered himself to the ground.

                “Why isn’t it opening for me, Alex?” Michael asked, his eyes glaring accusingly. Alex, for his part, was dumbstruck.

                “I have no idea, Michael. I didn’t even know it had an emergency shut down.” Alex was staring upward thinking, trying to figure out why Jim Valenti would have installed the door with an emergency lock. Oh right, aliens.

                “It probably won’t work for you. It probably won’t work for me. I bet it has to be opened from the outside,” Alex said calmly. He knew he was supposed to feel freaked out and trapped, but instead he just felt resigned. “Let me see if I get any cell service down here. I haven’t really tried to call anyone from down here before.”

                Michael rushed over, looking over Alex’s shoulder as he pulled out his phone and opened the home screen.  One bar.

                “I’m going to send Kyle a text. He’s got the spare key to down here. He’ll come get us,” Alex assured Michael, trying once again to ignore the heat and magnetism of having Michael’s body so close to his.

                “Sure, okay…” Michael stalked away, obviously still irritated. “Guess we can still have that jam session while he wait for Dr. Douchebag to come rescue us.”

                Alex ignored him while he typed out his text to Kyle. Pocketing his phone he turned and walked further into the room and picked up his guitar from it’s stand next to one of the chairs. Sitting down, he cradled the guitar on his lap and let his fingers strum and listened to see if it needed any tuning.

                “What are you doing?!”

                “I’m getting ready to play some music. If you want to join, there’s another guitar and chair. If you don’t, you can take a nap or something,” Alex replied, not looking up from the guitar as he slowly plucked and tuned an out of key string.  He heard Michael groan and all but stomp over to the other chair to pick up the second guitar.

                “What are we playing?” asked Michael, beginning to check and tune his own guitar.

                “I dunno. What are you feeling?” Alex asked, finally looking over. He tried and failed to keep his heart from cracking open a little at how perfect Michael looked holding his guitar in the low lighting of the studio.

                “This is your show,” Michael replied, still an edge to his voice.

                “How about we dive into a guilty pleasure and do an old Dashboard Confessional song? You know ‘The Good Fight’?” Alex asked, grinning as he watched Michael remember the old emo tune and start shaking his head while laughing quietly.

                “Yeah, I remember it, Manes. Jesus, next you wanna do some Damien Rice and then go to separate corners to masturbate and cry?” Alex laughed loudly at the jest, catching Michael’s eye.

                “They don’t have to be separate corners,” he flirted, starting the song to cut off any reply Michael might’ve given.

“Consider the odds

Consider the obvious

The martyr is meaningless

The campaign has died

In the planning stages

And the fallen faces

Are the singular proof

That it was ever alive

This purchased rebellion

Has been outbidded

Denounced and rescinded

And left to die championless

Championless, championless

I begged you not to go

I begged you, I pleaded

Claimed you as my only hope

And watched the floor as you retreated

Hope has sprung a perfect dive

A perfect day, a perfect lie

A slowly crafted monologue

Conceding your defeat

This purchased rebellion

Has been outbidded

Denounced and rescinded

And left to die championless

Championless, championless

I begged you not to go

I begged you, I pleaded

Claimed you as my only hope

And watched the floor as you retreated

Does it comfort you to know you fought the good fight?

Basking in your victory, hollow and alone

To boast your bitter bragging rights to anyone who'll listen

While you're left with nothing tangible to gain”

 

                The men’s voices merged as they hammered out the chords and sang. Alex couldn’t stop the smile that stayed on his face when they’d reached the end of the song. Michael immediately suggested doing some more Dashboard Confessional to which Alex agreed. Three songs later they were practically parched from the singing and dancing around they’d begun to do with their guitars.

                “Oh man, it’s been awhile since I’ve played like that,” Michael commented, setting down the guitar and looking around the room, “Do you have anything to drink?”

                “Yeah, over by the sound booth there’s a mini fridge. Grab me a water?” Alex croaked, clearing his throat and setting his own guitar to the side. He dug his phone from his pocket to see that Kyle had texted him back.

                “What did Kyle have to say?” Michael asked, sitting back across from Alex.

                “Ugh, apparently Max blew out all the power in town and Kyle’s stuck at the hospital for awhile until they get the power back. He said it might be awhile. Want me to get him to see if he can get Isobel or Liz or someone to come up here?”  Alex asked, looking up from his phone to see Michael smiling at him softly.

                “Nah, I think we’re alright, don’t you? I mean,” Michael smiled wider, leaning forward and bringing the bottle of tequila that Alex had put in the back of the fridge out in front of him, “there’s plenty to drink down here.”

                “Jesus, Michael,” Alex laughed, blushing at the look in Michael’s eyes as he opened the bottle and took a quick swig of the clear liquor. It was a good, moderately expensive brand meant to be savored, but he needed a little liquid courage if Michael was going to continue looking at him like a surprise meal.  He handed the bottle back over to Michael who took his own swig from the bottle, watching Alex as he licked his lips. Alex was starting to feel drunk and he knew that one swig of tequila didn’t have anything to do with the way he could almost feel himself swooning towards Michael as he recapped the bottle.

                “Come on,” Michael said, standing suddenly and breaking Alex out of his trance. Alex’s eyes darted up towards Michael’s eyes and then down to the hand he was offering him. Alex knew it was dangerous to touch Guerin. It always felt like he’d die if he let go everytime their skin pressed together.  Swallowing thickly, Alex stood up without taking Michael’s hand. Michael shrugged it off and walked over to the bed, turning and throwing himself across the mattress onto his back. Furrowing his brow, Alex watched as Michael arranged himself up against the pillows and then toed off his boots onto the floor.  When he finally turned to look back at Alex, who hadn’t moved, he grinned cheekily. “Don’t worry, Manes. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. I’m all about enthusiastic consent.  But this is way more comfortable than the chairs and if we’re going to drink we might as well do it where we can sleep it off.”

                “Why does this feel like a bad idea?” Alex asked rhetorically as he climbed onto the bed next to Michael.

                “If you don’t want to, that’s fine.  I promise to stay on my side of the bed, though,” Michael answered, passing the bottle back over to where Alex was laying on his side, propping his head up to stare down at Michael’s supine form. They shared a couple swigs apiece, watching each other in silence.

                “So is this all we’re going to do? Drink and watch each other?” Alex asked, hoping to break some of the tension that was building between them.

                “No, I mean… building on the high school nastolgia theme we could play truth or date, never have I ever, spin the bottle… seven minutes in heaven?”  Michael waggled his eyebrows at Alex comically as Alex choked on his swig of tequila at the suggestion.

                “Jesus, Michael,” he complained, coughing once the liquid was safely in his stomach. He was beginning to feel the velvet edges of a buzz from drinking the tequila so fast so he shook his head when Michael offered the bottle to him again.  Sitting up, Michael placed the bottle on the floor next to the bed and then rolled to his side to mirror Alex’s position. The roll brought his body closer and while there was a safe almost two feet between them, Alex felt the tequila urging him to swoon forward and close the gap.

                “Truth or Dare, Alex,” Michael started, eyes intently trained on Alex’s.

                “Uh… truth,” Alex replied.

                “Chicken,” Michael teased, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling while he thought of a good ‘truth’ for Alex to tell. Alex watched as the cords in his neck stood out against his tan skin and felt like Michael was intentionally setting a thirst trap for him.

                “Where do you see this thing with Forrest going?” Michael asked finally, quietly.  Alex’s gut clenched and he rolled onto his back while his brain scrambled for an answer. Of course Michael would go from light to heavy in the space of a breath.

                “I don’t know,” Alex replied, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to stop, but his mouth kept moving. Tequila was showing his secrets. “I don’t think it’s going anywhere. But I’ve got to try? You can’t be the only person I’ve ever been in love with. I have to know I’m capable of caring for someone besides you and he… he doesn’t feel like if I fail at loving him, it will break me.”

                Alex was conscious of Michael scooting closer, the ever present pull of his body thrumming a little brighter with every inch that closed between them. Alex shut his eyes, waiting to see what the next move was.

                “Okay,” was all Michael said from where he lay next to Alex on the bed. “Your turn.”

                “Truth or Dare” Alex asked on reflex, not sure if he wanted to face coming up with a task or question for either of them. His heart felt like a lead weight pinning him to bed while he waited for Michael to choose. He kept his eyes closed and counted the breaths between them, his nose starting to pick up the spice, dust, and soap smell of Michael’s skin.  He smelled like all of good memories Alex had.

                Michael waited a beat to answer. His fingers tapping between them on the bedspread in his nervous rhythm that said he was nervous. Alex took a small comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one left unsteady.  The tequila in his cut was sending warming tendrils through his veins, but his head wasn’t ready to shut down yet. He started to shift restlessly on the bed, tired of the waiting for Michael to answer. He opened his eyes and looked over, catching Michael staring at his mouth while his fingers continued to move. Michael’s eyes flinched away, a guilty flush tinging his cheeks as he hastily chose his task.

                “Dare.”

                “I dare you to kiss me,” Alex said before his brain screamed at him. Michael looked over at him, shocked, and Alex knew he was mirroring his own expression.

                “Are you sure?” Michael asked even as he moved his body even closer, his hand moving from the bedspread to Alex’s chest to finally stay still over his heart.

                “Yeah, that’s your dare,” Alex whispered, sounding hoarse and hopeful. Michael stared at him another minute before slowly propping himself up on his hand so he could look down into Alex’s eyes. His other hand that had been resting on Alex’s chest smoothed upwards over his collar and around to the back of his neck where it cradled his head. Lowering himself slowly, Michael tilted his head and pressed the barest kiss on Alex’s lips. It was almost like they were sharing breath by how gentle the press of skin was between them. Alex tried to stay still, tried to enjoy that Michael hadn’t pinned him down and taken all that Alex was offering, but he couldn’t. His limbs were starting to shake with the toll of denial and all he wanted was for Michael to close to last centimeter between them so he wouldn’t have to.

                “You okay?” Michael asked, pulling away to look into Alex’s eyes as his hand roamed from his neck to his arm and then hand, pulling it and holding it between them. Alex felt bereft from the safety of having Michael hold him.

                “Do it again,” he said, eyes starting to feel tight with incipient tears. Michael swooped down to kiss him again, this time crushing their hands between their chests while he pushed and pulled Alex’s lips between his. Alex wanted to bury his hands in Michael’s hair and keep pulling him closer until they dissolved into a single entity, but Michael had both his hands trapped so all he could do was whimper and try to match Michael’s fervor with his lips alone.  After a few minutes, Michael pulled back with a gasp and laid his forehead against Alex’s, eyes shut as he panted softly. Alex tried to calm his thundering heart and ignore the almost swollen feeling of his lips. Michael had kissed the bloody hell out of him.

                “Truth or dare”, Michael whispered, breathing still elevated and eyes still closed.

                “Truth,” Alex chose again, needing the time to get his body under control. He pulled his hand out of Michael’s to finally run his finger through Michael’s curls. Michael canted his head towards the pressure of Alex’s fingers and then turned to kiss Alex’s wrist softly.

                “Why did you want me to kiss you?” Michael asked softly, lips still whisper soft against the skin of Alex’s wrist.

                “I always want you to kiss me. I always want to drown in you. My very soul feels misshapen and empty when you’re not touching me,” he answered, moving his hand to run his fingers through Michael’s hair again.

                “Then why do you want to love someone else?”

                It wasn’t an accusation, but it sort of felt like one. Alex let his hand drop and his eyes look away from the dips and planes of Michael’s face. He didn’t know if he could put into words why he wanted to stray.

                “It’s too much pressure, loving you. I keep waiting for you to realize that I’m not worth all this love that you keep throwing at me. I keep waiting for you to see an easier option and run towards it. I keep wondering I’m being saved or smothered with the weight of these feelings we have for one another. You’re worth my entire being, Michael, but I’m not sure I measure up. And maybe that’s just my father in my head telling me I’m worthless despite all the things I’ve done and seen to prove him wrong, but that’s what I’m running from. I live in mortal terror of disappointing you by being nothing but myself,” Alex sighed. He felt like he’d said the entire thing on a sigh. He felt like every inhalation cracked open the armor he used to protect himself with. Every long, slow exhale pushed more and more of his fears out into the open. Tequila really was a better truth serum than anything Caulfield had made in their labs.

                “Okay,” Michael said again, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Alex’s lips. “You’ve got to work on yourself.  I understand that. But that feeling you were talking about? The one where your soul feels misshapen? I feel that too. I feel like every odd angle with a piece missing is just another part of you that fits with me. I can’t shut your dad up in your head, though, and I can’t fix the parts of you that you’re responsible for. But I can give you all the time you need because you’re it for me. You’ll always be it for me.”      

                “Michael, I l--“ Alex cut off abruptly as a grinding creak came from the trap door.

                “You losers have pants on?” Kyle’s voice floated down the shaft into the room. Alex sighed through his nose and Michael shifted to stand up.

                “Yes, Kyle. We’re perfectly respectable… and a little drunk, shit” Michael called out as he tilted a little upon standing straight. Alex sat up and found that he too was feeling a little spinny.

                “And clothed, right?” Kyle asked again.

                “For fucks’ sake, yes!” Alex shouted in exasperation. Standing up, he let the fluidity of his inebriation roll his feet forward towards the ladder. He wanted to get out of here before he did something stupid like agree to marry Michael at the courthouse as soon as they opened for the next business day.

                Michael followed him as they climbed back up into the living room of the cabin. Kyle waited expectantly with his hands on his hips.

                “So what did I miss? And how the hell did you end up locked down there?” Kyle’s gaze switched between Michael and Alex as he waited for a response.

                “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I need something to eat,” Alex deflected, moving towards the kitchen.

                “Yeah and I better get out of here. Max may need some help fixing EVERYTHING, as usual. I’ll see you later, Alex,” Michael called, walking out of the cabin and to his truck. Alex didn’t turn to watch him go. He didn’t want to chance that he’d run after him.

                “Uhhh…. No thank you for the big rescue?” Kyle asked and Alex turned to see him looking incredulously between him and the door where Michael had disappeared. Alex smiled and came over to pat Kyle on the shoulder.

                “Thank you, man. You came just in time. We were about to finish all the tequila.”

               

                Fin

[babieyangyang10]

violent ends (chapter 12)

(chapter 12)

series masterlist

genre: hunger games!au

pairings: huang renjun x oc, na jaemin x oc

warnings: lots of kissing, mentions of killing, description of injuries

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Athena's POV

It took a while for Jisung's quiet sniffles to fade the night of Chenle's death. By the time Mark and I had made our way back, Jaemin and Jisung had found out the news after they saw his face among the dead in the sky. Honestly, it was almost easier for Jisung to find out that way. I know Mark was in too much pain to tell him. As for me, I don't know how I could bare to look him in those innocent eyes and tell him either. As expected, he took it pretty hard. I mean, he was his best friend. He literally cried so much, that he eventually became exhausted and fell asleep.

I took the first watch, since Mark looked like he needed rest as well. The only other person who was still up was Na Jaemin.

"What are you thinking about?" Just like when we were alone in the first days, his head was resting on my lap.

"Jeno, Renjun, and the District 5 girl are the only ones left other than us." I point out.

Focusing on the positives, he replies, "Okay, well I'm guessing they'll go after her for us, since she's alone. Hopefully, they'll kill each-other. If not, we'll do it."

My voice was in a small whisper, "And then?"

He's silent.

I know District 2 is watching me right now. The same district that attachment is only necessary when it pertains to something you need. Once you have gotten what you've needed, you have to detach yourself. Almost like how a leech sucks enough blood until their fulfilled, then falls off on their own free will.

These people have given me my fill. Mark and Jisung took Jaemin and I in, even after Jaemin was injured. However, now we are both healthy as can be. As they sleep in front of me, what is stopping us from running away or even just killing them? Friends. Something I never had before. I never understood it until now. How it means that even though I'm full, I feel obligated to them too. To give just as much as they gave me.

But they are right. This is what they warned us about. This obligation will keep me captive. Let's say that we do all make it to the end together. Even so, the games will continue until a single victor. It happens every time.

The longest was the 25th games, it lasted for a total of twenty-seven days. This year the Districts had chosen the children of their mayors. Because of growing up wealthy and sheltered, none of the kids knew anything about fighting.

So they didn't. Half of them were wiped out by vicious mutations on the third day, then eventually others by starvation. However, the Gamemakers had a twist this year. Instead of the parachutes sending things to help and aid you, they sent down things like tracker jackers and acidic rain. No longer did the tributes have to survive eachother, but instead the sponsors.

Three weeks later, only two managed to do this: a brother and sister from District 9. Hopeless and broken, they decided to draw straws to see who would survive and win. The brother ended up getting the short one and gave his sister a kiss on the cheek before she stabbed him to death.

This just proves no matter how much you care for the other survivors, the Capitol won't give up until you kill the other.

The long silence was interrupted, "You know you're my priority. Ever since the beginning, only you."

"You know what I'm saying, what I'll do if I need to." Jaemin whispers sincerely, "I know you wouldn't like it, but we promised it would be me and you in the end, right?"

I knew exactly what he was alluding to. It doesn't matter if it's Mark or Jisung, he would kill anyone so we'd survive.

"I know." I speak even through the lump in my throat. There's no point in pretending or acting like things could never possibly come to that. I mean, it's not like the games are a place where you make friends.

Jaemin is sensitive to my discomfort, "Hopefully, it won't come to that, okay?"

All I could do was respond with a nod. Let's hope it doesn't.

It's almost natural the way I once again played with his hair to calm down. I noticed that since we've been separated, time had caused his nearly-black roots to appear, fading nicely into the frosty blonde. His eyes were more sunken in and tired, but still held the same old light as he peered up at me with interest, "You really have no shame, Athena."

"What do you mean?" I tease, playing innocent like I wasn't obviously checking out the beautiful boy just seconds earlier.

Then, in a burst of affection, the boy literally almost tackles me. My elbows brace myself up on the ground, as he leans over me. Alarmed, I turn my head to see the boys fast asleep, a good distance away.

When I look back at Jaemin, I feel my head start to buzz. It's seems like so long since I've been this close to someone. A someone who is somewhere far away in this arena. Someone, who in was in this same position with the night before I came here. In a soft voice, Jaemin's voice brings me back to the present, to him.

"Please."

Not long after I nod, I feel his lips softly brush over mine. Almost as if he's testing the waters. The kiss that follows is soft and delicate, yet brief. It's like I'm a piece of glass, that he is trying his best not to break. When, he backs away to see my reaction, I nearly chase after his lips. He just laughs to himself at the display of eagerness. I move back, so I'm entirely laying on the grass.

I try to be patient, not wanting to overstep our boundaries. However, when he looks down at me with absolute adoration, I didn't stop myself from grabbing his shirt with both my hands. Once I pulled him down into an bruising kiss, I could hear him let out a content sigh.

I get lost and entirely forget where I am. Instead of in an arena, it just feels like we're two young teenagers making out under the stars. It feels normal and completely right. Out of breath, he is now laying on top of me. My mouth is open in awe, while I marvel at the feeling. Relaxing, I could feel Jaemin smiling into my neck. Even in the dark, I know the cameras can see me also smiling like a fool to the sky.

After that, Jaemin decided to take his watch and let me sleep. It was the first peaceful sleep I have had until forever. That was, of course, until a young boy named Park Jisung ruined it.

"We need water!" Beside me was a knocked out, Jaemin. He was leaning against a tree, while my head was leaning against his shoulder.

"Okay, fine. Just shush." I was trying to be wary of Jaemin, who stayed up for both of our watches.

Grabbing my stuff, I say a brief goodbye to Mark. Jisung happily follows me like a little puppy, probably glad to finally get out of the camp again.

The fresh sun illuminates the water of the lake. Birds are singing good morning to one another.  I hand my bag to Jisung, as I take out my bottle. The tiny fish quickly swim away as I fill Mark and I's bottles up with water.

I feel a tug on my leather jacket.

"Athena." Jisung was pale, looking behind me.

My head snapped around to automatically meet eyes with Lee Jeno. Across the lake, he had just arrived with Renjun.

I don't waste any time before grabbing Jisung and running into the woods behind me. However, we could only get a small distance before Jisung fell to the ground, clutching his bad leg, "I can't."

"You can. Come on." I tried to hold him up like I did during the forest fire. I could hear the two Careers just around the corner.

"I'll slow you down." Jisung begged, "You gotta go without me." 

Not even having it, I grabbed him and sat him down behind a nearby bush. Since the bush was fairly small, I had to go to the only other one across the clearing.

"Let's split up." I hear nearby.

Through a gap in the branches, I see Lee Jeno come around the corner. My heart pounds with each of his steps. Jeno gets closer and closer the bush Jisung is hiding behind. I violently curse in my head as I realized Jisung was carrying my backpack with all of my weapons in it.

I guess we're gonna have to do this a different way.

I dart out of my bush and begin running in the opposite direction of camp. That way, Jisung could hopefully make it back undetected to get help.

I don't look back at all. I just keep running until I get back to the lake. Before I can change direction, I feel someone jump on me.

Crashing down, the side of my head collides with a large boulder. At first, it's completely numb and I'm able to push the tall boy off of me.

However, once I push myself up, I start to see black and fall back to the ground.

"Hey, I got her!" Jeno yelled out to Renjun.

"We've been looking for you, pretty girl." His arms have mine completely pinned to the dirt. The more I struggle against him, the more the white dots fill up my vision.

Renjun's POV

When I run towards Jeno's voice, I eventually found the two of them.

Jeno was holding the small girl. Lee Athena's face was as white as a sheet. Blood was pouring out of her head, falling in thick drops down the side of her face. I couldn't even tell if she was even conscious at this point.

She was completely limp as the boy sat her up on her knees, "Why don't you finish her off?"

"Look who came to join us." He cooed, grabbing her hair to make her look up at me.

Her half-lidded eyes recognized me right away. Although, there wasn't any signs of fear or sadness for what she knew was about to happen to her. She almost looked like she was challenging me. You wouldn't.

Would I?

"Do it." Jeno urged me. Her chin was tilted back by his hold on her hair, neck entirely on display. My hand was tightly wrapped around the familiar blade in my hands.

I tried to quickly come up with an excuse for my next actions in my head. I mean it would have to happen eventually. At least, it would be somewhat quick.

Then, I did it.

[you-guys--are-losers]

Can you pls do prompt 66?

//Absolutely! Ooh… This is gonna be fun. Turned out angstier than it was supposed to, but oh well. 

66: Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In

Better This Way

Summary: Moving on is hard, but it’s a little easier with Michelle Jones by your side. 

Characters: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones

Wordcount: 3,383

Warnings: Grief, Touch of Angst, Michelle Being an Incredible Human

Peter has been anticipating something like this for a long time, but that doesn’t mean that he’s prepared when it happens. 

Pepper gives him plenty of time to prepare, of course. In fact, she gives him almost an entire year of warning, letting him know of the plans for the event at Christmas. Peter even manages to convince himself that he’s alright with it. The months fly by in a blur of managing his own business, stealing MJ away from her own work to walk the streets of New York with street food in their work clothes, and darting to the new headquarters to address each new challenge that comes with being an Avenger. Peter appreciates the busy nature of things, just as much as he appreciates returning to his fiancee after each challenge and holding her close, more grateful each time for the snarky comment she greets him with and the way she let him hold her until they are both asleep. It helps him forget, helps him to keep telling himself that nothing will change when it’s time.

Every thought of preparedness deserts Peter completely when he begins to see the announcements on social media: “First Annual Stark Charity Gala.” 

Tony’s name is everywhere again; not that it ever stopped circulating, of course. But it had quieted to a steady buzz up until the announcement. Now, the tributes explode across Peter’s feed. There is art, poetry, thousands of stories of all the ways that Tony left his mark on the world. Peter only manages to resist the urge to read every single one when MJ persuades him to delete his news app, reminding him that it’s only the manufactured reality that the government wants him to subscribe to. 

Peter appreciates the intervention; it does help, and for a while it pushes the date farther and farther into the future. 

But the articles grow even bigger than the internet after a while, and Tony Stark is not the only name on everyone’s lips. It’s the first real, major appearance that Peter will have made as himself, at least since the address to the public following Mysterio’s reveal of Peter’s identity. But that was different– it came in the wake of an acquittal, and with a promise to the public. That was “Avenger stuff,” as May likes to call it; it was an acceptance of the mantle that had been passed onto him with the allowance that he was not Tony Stark, and that he would make it his own.

This isn’t “Avenger stuff.” This is Peter Parker stuff. People aren’t asking about Spider-Man, they’re watching him.

And even though it’s better, the loss of Tony still weighs down on people, almost as heavy as the responsibility of carrying on for him. 

The reporters call the apartment he shares with MJ, leave May voicemails, and linger on the doorstep of the building where he lives. MJ has gotten pretty good at dealing with them; ever since she learned that the press can’t use anything with swearing in it, she’s actually been enjoying herself. On other days, she wears t-shirts with the names of various non-profits scrawled on the back in hand-lettering. It lifts Peter’s spirits, and he even begins to join her (in the charity endorsement, not the profanity) when he’s on his way to his tech startup or when they’re going out together. 

Still, even that isn’t enough. Peter can tell MJ notices, and he manages to explain enough of what he’s feeling that he knows she understands. Just telling MJ makes it more bearable, because she does what she always does when he needs support: she doesn’t try to fix the problem, but she does make sure he knows that she’s there. 

In the days leading up to the gala, Peter begins to notice the little ways she is taking care of him. When he gets back from work, it is to an empty apartment; something came up with her current project at work, so she was called in with the entire team of animators she supervises to address it. However, though there is no MJ, he does find a cannoli from their favorite bakery waiting for him in the fridge with a purple sticky note on the cardboard box. Her scrawl, spindly and neat and angular, causes him to grin for the first time that day. 

Couldn’t think of a pun. First one to come up with one wins. 

He tucks the note in his bag for the rest of the work week. 

The Thursday night after that, their favorite books have somehow found their way to the coffee table in front of the sofa. They spend the night curled up under one of May’s attempts at quilting, each with their own novel and a cup of tea that MJ refills when needed. She somehow always manages to make the perfect cup of tea. The chamomile in his mug and the scent of her lavender shampoo are exactly what he needs. 

Over the rest of the week, they don’t breach the subject again. There’s no need to. What Peter does need is a liberal amount of snuggles, sarcastic banter, and the feeling of her curly hair brushing his cheek as he rests his head on her shoulder. MJ is more than willing to provide all of these, and she does it like is the most obvious thing in the world. 

That’s what makes the day of the gala so much harder. 

It feels like he is sleepwalking from the moment he wakes up. Peter rises long before MJ, though he does take a moment to appreciate the soft breathing of the firl he loves beside him. Her curly hair tickles his cheek from across his pillow as she shifts her head slightly, and Peter can’t resist the urge to lightly stroke her cheek in a gentle caress before he rises. She’s been so intentional about loving him, so willing to show the same quiet, steady flexibility that she always has. 

That only makes Peter feel more guilty. For all she’s done, it still feels like he’s drowning. 

It’s a Saturday, and Peter has already informed everyone at the office that he won’t be be coming in today. So, instead of heading to work or lingering around the apartment, Peter heads to the compound. The lab is there for him, the way it always is. 

It’s his, something that Pepper consistently reminded him of once it was rebuilt where one of Tony’s favorite places had been in the old compound. It has a lot of Stark tech, certainly, but in the time since Peter has left his mark on the place. It’s where he’s done a lot of innovating for his own startup, a lot of the brainstorming and experimenting that has led to great advancements. But that’s not what Peter thinks about today as he looks around the work space, where the various machines on standby glow dimly and gleam on metallic counter-tops. 

He’s thinking of every wrong attempt, each scrapped failure that his successes have been built on. This is the place where it is okay not to be okay, because if he isn’t now, he will be. He needs that. 

Peter isn’t sure how long he spends in the lab, fiddling with the various machines and working on the designs of a few abandoned prototypes that Pepper had sent over to him. They were some of Tony’s “works in progress,” all those years ago. The things he had started and dropped for various reasons, always with the understanding that the work he began could be finished by someone else. 

Peter appreciates the work, but more than anything, he appreciates the proximity it creates to Tony. It’s been so many years, and so much has happened… Peter has gone to college, graduated, proposed to MJ, become everything that Tony told him he could be. But that ache is still there, arcing through his chest with every new milestone that Stark isn’t there for. And at times of stress like these, Peter misses the feeling of knowing that there was someone waiting to catch him when he fell. 

He isn’t sure how long he stays at the lab, but the sun rises and is beginning to descend from its climb when Peter is informed by F.R.I.D.A.Y. that someone is entering the compound. Peter figures it’s probably one of the other Avengers; Sam is staying for the weekend in order to attend the gala, and Bucky has taken to staying in the area every so often in order to be available for Avengers business. T’Challa is in town for the gala as well; perhaps he has returned to fetch something from the compound or to access one of the Avengers databases. 

Whatever it may be, Peter figures that if he is needed, F.R.I.D.A.Y. will let him know. Peter continues to work, adjusting the hologram he is attempting to replicate and raking a hand through his mess of curls that have not been brushed yet. A bit of grease has smeared on his other hand, but he does not pay it the least bit of mind as he lightly brushes sweat from his brow, leaving a black streak in the wake of his fingertips. 

“Placement’s wrong.” 

Her voice, quiet and simple and truthful, drifts across the lab and over Peter’s shoulder. He pauses for a moment, letting out a breath and letting the flat cutter he’s holding drift to the counter as he closes his eyes, not turning. 

“I can’t figure it out.” The admission is tired and accepting from his lips, and he hears the clicking of heels across the lab floor as she draws closer to him. 

“You’re preoccupied.” Peter closes his eyes, simply drinking in the feeling of her shoulder lightly knocking his as he listens to her pick up the flat cutter. The quiet, familiar whirring of electronics, and then he can tell she has corrected his error for him efficiently. 

“Yeah,” he admits, exhaling as he finally turns to face her. “I just-” 

All thoughts vacate his mind when he looks at her. 

She’s dressed, ready for the gala; it must be later than he thought. Deep, dark eyes find his, lashes long and dark as she searches his face with them. Her brown eyes are piercing in the light of the lab, illuminated by the glowing hologram before them as she looks in every line of his countenance, gauging his emotional state. 

Her hair has been straightened and curled, and it drifts to the shoulders of the dress she wears. It reminds Peter of the flappers that she loves so much, glimmering in the artificial light of the lab as it swishes to her knees in shining fringes. Everyone else tonight will be wearing glamorous, floor-length clothing, black tie and red lipstick. The sharp wing of her eyeliner, the wisps of hair that frame her face like a halo, the cut of her clothing… All of it will be striking, out of place, offbeat in the glamorous room. 

She’s going to be by his side, and she won’t be pretending in front of the cameras and the reporters. And because MJ is by his side, he won’t have to be either. 

MJ’s lips part slightly, and for a moment Peter thinks that she is going to take a step closer. Then she blinks, shaking her head slightly, and glances him up and down. “I think you should go like this,” she murmurs, a gentle, hesitant smile edging onto her parted lips. “I like it better than a suit, and it’ll give the tabloids something to talk about.” 

Peter winces as she mentions the tabloid, but an ironic grin rises to his lips anyway as he leans back against the counter-top, studying her. He can tell that she is caught off-guard by the gleam of wonder in his eyes as he looks at her, the woman who is so unapologetically herself in contexts that might terrify other people. 

“I thought you hated the tabloids.” 

MJ tips her head slightly to the side, contemplating her answer as she gazes into his eyes. “They’re awful writing, and they profit off of violating people’s privacy,” she decides, brown eyes filled with a pensive sort of intelligence that sparks adoration in Peter’s chest where before there was only dread. “But so does the government. At least the tabloids don’t try to hide it.” 

There is a moment of silence as each takes in the other. Peter can feel MJ’s eyes traveling his countenance, and his cheeks flush. His hair has gone unbrushed all day and is a mess of lumpy curls. His t-shirt is stained with grease, as are his hands, and his clothing is creased and rumpled. She looks like an angel, and he is a mess… And yet, somehow, she looks at him with the same admiration that he does her. 

She steps closer, and Peter is reminded unavoidably of her words when she showed him the broken necklace he had given her all those years ago. She’s never been one for whole and complete. She likes what’s broken, what’s twisted. 

She’s not scared of a little darkness. 

“I should be over him by now.” 

Peter swallows as the words leave his lips, and his eyes flicker to the ground. There is quiet for a moment, and then he hears the sound of her slipping her shoes off. Bare feet brush the lab floor as she approaches, slow and sure. Peter doesn’t look up, but he feels her arms loop around his waist, gentle and comforting. There is a lump in his throat. 

“That’s not how that works.” Her words are whispered against his forehead, and Peter slowly tips his head up to face hers. His eyes sting as they land upon her black-lined ones. 

“It’s been years.” 

“Time is relative. You can’t assign it to something like losing someone.” 

“I just… They’re gonna ask me things tonight, about everything.”

“You’re used to questions.” Her thumb gently strokes his lower back as she pauses a moment, then nestles closer after a moment of thought. This is one of the things he loves about her more than anything; even after years of dating and a promise to marry her, she’s cautious. Careful. She makes sure that he’s comfortable with everything she is doing, makes sure that if he wants to pull away, he can. 

“You answer them all the time. You’re good at dealing with reporters with the Avengers, and you have no problem navigating the press at work.” Peter exhales softly, moving to rest his head against hers. However, she pulls back slightly, leaving a few centimeters between their faces so she can look in his eyes. 

For all her care when it comes to intimacy, Michelle Jones does not shy back from the ugly truths. 

“You need to say it, Peter.” 

Dark eyes linger on his, and a few strands of perfectly curled hair have escaped their neighbors, glowing in the soft light emanating blue from the hologram. She does not look away, does not shrink back from the unspoken words that linger between them. She is still waiting for him to say them. 

“I can’t… I’m not ready to answer questions about him.” 

MJ blinks, and one of her hands gently rises to cradle his face. Still, she says nothing, and Peter knows she is leaving him room to continue. 

“They’re all going to be looking for quotes, for little tidbits about… About Mr. Stark that no one knows. And they’re going to be looking for them from his replacement. But I don’t want to give away any more pieces of him.” 

Peter lets out a sharp exhale, looking away. “I’m selfish.” 

Her thumb thoughtfully travels along his cheekbone, and she sighs. “You’re a lot of things, Peter,” she murmurs. “For one, you’re sweaty, and you look like hell.” 

He lets out an amused huff, lips relaxing into a slight pout as he looks up into her tentatively playful eyes. “Don’t worry, I like you better this way. Suits are boring.” 

Peter closes his eyes and leans into her touch, letting it spread warmth through him when all he feels is cold. She indulges him for a moment before letting her hand drift to where it can rest at the nape of his neck. 

When he opens his eyes hers are ready. They have been waiting for his, and they pierce into him, dissecting his sorrow like scalpels through scar tissue. 

“You aren’t selfish. And you never have been.” 

The breath that leaves him relieves the ache in his chest, but it also catches in his throat. Her fingers press slightly harder at the back of his neck, letting him know that she is still there. 

“There are things that aren’t meant to be given away, not to the wrong people. There are answers that are only for you, and maybe for Morgan when she’s old enough to ask the right questions. But they don’t have a right to them, and it’s okay.” 

Peter tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes, and he offers her a slightly shaky smile. She returns it with her own lopsided grin, lips soft with the beeswax lip balm that she likes so much. “I don’t… You are so much more to me than I ever thought anyone could be.” 

Michelle freezes, and for a moment Peter feels that same, terrifying rush of panicked nerves that he felt all those years ago when he told her that he liked her. Somehow, she is capable of inducing it in him even now, and he finds himself resisting the urge to apologize. 

She lets out a shaky breath, and then the corner of her mouth tips up as she tilts her head slightly. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Peter laughs quietly at the words, and then she is laughing too, inching closer. The soft laughter drifts off, and Peter’s gaze lingers on hers. MJ purses her lips as his eyes rest on hers, and then they part slightly as her eyes wander his face, every line and crease and smudge. 

They flicker to his lips, then, and Peter feels his breathing halt as his do the same. 

“I want to… But you’re all ready.” 

“Right.” 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“No… Yeah. Definitely. Terrible idea.” 

His eyes flicker to hers, which are filling with amusement. Then those full lips are twisting into a smirk, and before Peter knows it she is guiding his mouth to hers with firm fingers. 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

When they show up to the gala roughly an hour later, they’re barely on time. It’s as Peter predicted: the cameras are flashing, illuminating Peter’s slightly rumpled tux and the hair that will not quite smooth over, though someone has clearly tried. The voices overlap, shouting their names. Peter doesn’t look to them. 

Instead, his fingers lace with MJ’s and his eyes linger on the little trace of grease that his fingers brushed along her cheekbone, the one she decided not to wipe away. 

I actually like it better this way. 

The mischievous gleam in her eyes as she had said it in the lab remains as Peter looks at her, dropping behind slightly just to take her in. She is standing a step ahead of him, at the doors, waiting for him with a raised eyebrow. Her curls are a bit messier than they were before, something the tabloids will almost certainly pick up on, as well as the fact that his jacket has a few wrinkles. 

Peter doesn’t care. 

As he joins her, Peter can’t keep the grin off of his face. She glances over at him conspiratorially as they enter the venue, shoulder bumping his. “What?” 

“I was just thinking…” 

“About using this opportunity to scope out the level of corruption in all of these local politicians? Yeah, me too.” 

Peter grins, hand squeezing hers slightly. 

“…He’d be proud.” 

“He was always proud of you, Peter.” 

Now it’s Peter’s turn to smirk. “I was more referring to the whole, ‘making out in the limo on the way here’ part.” 

The punch to his bicep doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should, especially not when paired with MJ’s disbelieving grin.

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