#sorry for poor quality but as i mentioned these were all drawn by hand first and then scanned onto my computer

[mysticmoondancer]

Mecha Dragon

He is a machine that looks like a dragon and has an artificial intelligence, making him super smart. He can fly in space and has rockets hidden in his back. he has an attack called Dagger Claws, where his claws are able to detach themselves like missiles and fly around freely under his control, as well as reattach themselves back to his toes/fingers/digits again. He is capable of hacking into computers and can also fire a laser beam from his mouth. You can ride inside him just like a spaceship (which is pretty much what he is) by entering his mouth when he opens it. His head is the cockpit/command center.

[lacontroller1991]

Is She Mine? (Negan x Wife!Reader)

Anon Request: can you do a negan imagine where the reader was his real wife before the walkers came and after he starts getting more wives and kinda forgets the reader, she leaves in the middle of the night. Then maybe a year later, Negan finds out about another community and tries to take their stuff but he and the saviors get captured and they find out that the reader is the leader? (Optional: maybe the reader was pregnant and Began didn’t know and finds out about the kid)

A/N: Ok I will always associate Negan with Denny Duquette because I watched Grey's before I watched Walking dead and it’s just so weird seeing Jeffrey in a completely different setting.

Warnings: Normal TWD gore, language

You watched from the back as your husband, Negan, pressed another iron to a poor man’s face, causing you to wince as the screams of pain and smell of burnt flesh invaded your nostrils. You looked toward the other wives who looked just as disgusted at what your husband was doing.

You were his first and he was never like this. Always kind and compassionate but then the dead began to rise and he felt the need to grow a shell around his personality, forming an alter ego that everyone knew. No one knew the real Negan, only you, and it made you sick to your stomach watching him turn so sadistic. Shaking your head, you walked away from the group of people that were watching the poor torturing of another worker who dared challenge Negan’s authority. Making your way to your room, you were soon joined by the other wives who ignored you for the most part. They sat throughout the room and talked amongst themselves, reading books or downing drinks that stocked the bar. 

“Well would you look at this, all of my wives are looking so divine tonight,” Negan stated as you all looked at him, waiting for his next pick. Whenever he complimented his “collection” it always meant he was wanting sex and would choose one of his wives to satisfy his needs. For the past three months, it hasn’t been you. It’s never you anymore. It’s always one of the younger and prettier ones who weren’t “forced” but were forced to marry him. Swinging his baseball bat around, the girls ignored his eagerness as his eyes surveyed the room, purposely skipping the corner in which you stood, crossing your arms over the small bump that was beginning to form.

“Tina, come with me my dear,” he spoke out after a moment of silence as Tina nodded and followed him out. Once the pair left, you turned around, hiding your face from the rest of the girls before a pair of heels clicked their way over to you.

“How are you?” Sherry asked as you looked at her with an exasperated look.

“Sick, morning sickness is no joke, and he doesn't even know,” you mumbled as she grasped your shoulder in a comforting way before pulling you into a hug.

“You need to get away,” she whispered in your ear as you nodded with a frown.

“I know.”

You sat in your room, hoping Negan would join you tonight like he did when he first started the Sanctuary. As the clock ticked, however, you realized he wasn’t going to join you, again. Sighing, you sat up and tore off the black dress that hugged your figure and traded it for a pair of jeans and a hoodie, making sure to pack a bag of food and water before sneaking out of the compound and into the neighboring woods, never looking back.

That was years ago and you had joined a small community after journeying into the woods for a couple of days. Sooner than later, after their leader fell ill, the people had decided that with your knowledge and natural leadership qualities that you would be the best fit for the role. You insisted that you wouldn’t take the role, but they were insistent on the job as you had caved in. You sat peacefully on the steps of your hut as you heard a sequel from behind you, watching your daughter run out of the house, being chased by another one of the communities kids. Smiling, you were suddenly pulled out of your thoughts by the bell ringing throughout the community.

“What’s going on?” You asked one of the guards as your daughter joined your side, clutched to a scarf that you had tied around your pants for her to cling to.

“Our Ops surrounded a group of men. They demand that they speak to the leader of the community,” one of your men stated as you grabbed a walkie talkie.

“Tate, how many?” You asked and waited for a reply.

“15, they call themselves the Saviors. We have them surrounded,” Tate replied, however, you didn’t hear the rest after the mention of the Saviors.

“(Y/N)?” Earl asked, looking you over as you froze in shock. Feeling the tugging at your waist, you looked down and saw your daughter who had his hair and eye shape stare back up at you.

“Mommy, you okay?” She asked as you smiled down at her and pet her hair, smoothing out fly aways.

“Mommy needs you to stay here okay? Don’t come out until I come and get you,” you stated, motioning for one of the other mothers in the community to watch over your kid. Walking away, you grabbed one of the rifles and followed your group out to the woods to meet the man who forgot you.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” You asked from behind the line of men that barricaded the group.

“We are here to hopefully discuss trading opportunities,” Negan stated, not picking up on voice recognition.

“And by trading opportunities you mean pillaging and plundering.”

“If it comes to it, yes.” Simon spoke as you rolled your eyes, making your way through the crowd to the front to face your husband.

“Not a fan,” you spoke with rigor as you saw Negan stiffen, finally comprehending who was behind him.

“(Y/N),” he whispered, straining against the rope around his wrists.

“Hi honey. Miss me?” You asked with spite as you circled his group, coming to face him.

“As a matter of fact I do,” he admitted and for a second your face softened before turning back to a shell.

“We don't want to trade with you.”

“Babe, you should, I wouldn’t want to use force on you,” he replied with a sick smirk as you let out a laugh.

“I don't think you're in much position to bargain right now, sweetie,” you spat out as he growled and tried to launch forward to you, only to fail.

“Mommy!” Your daughter called out to you as you froze, Negan noticed and looked at you quizzically before turning his attention to the little girl who ran toward you.

“Baby, what did I say?”

“To stay back.”

“Now why are you out here?”

“I don’t have my doll,” she spoke softly as you sighed and ran a hand through your hair before pulling out her doll from your pocket.

“Is she mine?” He asked, earning confused stares from everyone in your group and his. Both groups knew that you are married, they just didn't know that you were pregnant or that your kid was Negan’s.

“It's none of your concern anymore,” you replied, pushing your kid behind you while she peered at the man in front of you.

“(Y/N), if she's mine I have the right to have her with me.”

“Not anymore, you lost that right when you started sleeping around with other women. Listen, we’ll let you go if you promise to never come back here again. if you do come back, we will kill you on sight.” Nodding, he remained silent and glanced over to your daughter who was around 4 years old now.

“Are we letting them go?” Tate asked as you nodded, walking away from the scene, taking your daughter’s hand and leading her away from her father.

Later that night you strolled through the yard and checked everything over before you heard a roar of a car come up to the gates.

“(Y/N), I think it’s him,” one of the guards yelled to you as you nodded, signaling them to let you past the gates and out to the open where Negan leaned against his car.

“Is she?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” He asked with a hint of remorse scattered across his face as you looked at him.

“I tried, I tried getting you to come to my room every night to tell you but you were so busy with all of your other wives that you never did. So I ran. I knew it isn’t safe there for her, it’s not safe there for me either.”

“How far were you when you left?”

“Three months. Her name is Sarah,” you mentioned as he smiled softly and looked at you.

“She looks like you,” he mumbled as you scoffed and looked over your shoulder, looking up at the guards who had their rifles aimed at him.

“She acts like you,” you smiled meekly, running your palms down your jeans.

“I never meant to ignore you. I’m sorry I did, but I would really like to be apart of her life,” he stated as he took your hands in his and you couldn’t find the heart to pull away, missing the physical attention he gave from time to time.

“It's not going to work.”

“(Y/N), please, she’s mine. I am her father. At least let me meet her.”

“No Negan. You’re not safe for her. The sanctuary isn't safe for her. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I miss you.”

“Your pity won’t work on me. I’m not weak anymore.” “You never were,” he admitted as you locked eyes with him, drawn in by his hypnotic gaze but quickly pulled away. Thinking for a minute, you sighed in defeat.

“If you want her in your life, here are some rules. Your Saviors leave us alone, if one of them comes near here that isn’t you, your privilege to see Sarah are gone, as well as your men. You can come by twice a month by yourself and you will be supervised by me. Under no circumstance is she going to the Sanctuary. Deal?” You rambled as he nodded before pulling you into his arms, wrapping around you tightly.

“Thank you. I really do miss you,” he whispered as you stood still before slowly melting in his hug, relishing the way his body heat covers you.

“I miss you too. Don’t fuck this up.”

“I won’t.” He replied before pulling away and getting in his car, driving away, leaving you to ponder all of your thoughts.

A/N OMG THIS IS SO LONG TOO

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

[early2000smovieimagines]

Jasper Hale having a crush on you would include~

(Sorry about my horrible quality gif)(requested by anonymous)

(Sorry it’s long but I feel like there would be a lot of buildup and a few different stages when Jasper has a crush. Also, don’t be afraid to send in certain scenarios you’d like to see after I’ve written something, like “jasper having a crush on X type of character”. I never mind<3)

- If you thought Edward was bad with dealing with his emotions just you wait until you see Jasper. You know, Jasper Hale... Jasper uncomfortable around all humans Hale... Jasper internally screaming at all times Hale. Oh boy, this poor lad.

- Undoubtedly you meet Jasper while attending Forks High School. You don’t actually talk to each other until about a quarter through the year even though the two of you are in the same history class.

- The instant Jasper sees you walk into class he can tell that there’s something different about you. He spends half the class staring at you and trying not to splinter the wood of his desk with his fingers as he tries to distract himself from how appetizing you smell.

- You notice only half of his staring which you chalk up to him spacing out even though it feels like he’s legitimately burning holes in the side of your head; although you do find him nearly running out of the classroom at the sound of the bell a little odd.

- Jasper immediately told the others about you after he saw you for the first time so expect some looks whenever you’re around the Cullens.

- For the first quarter of the year Jasper spends his time avoiding you as best as he can. It’s not too difficult though considering you don’t really have a reason to interact. He still sucks at it but he tries.

- He tends to gravitate towards you against his own will, wanting to be around you as much as possible but feeling the need to stay away. You’ll turn around at your locker to find him across the hall only for him to quickly walk away when he sees you’ve spotted him. Or he’ll be a few yards away from you everytime you’re walking to class.

- Part of his borderline stalking is his overbearing need to protect you and even though he feels like he’s the biggest danger of all he can’t help but want to be there in case something happens. After all, isn’t he also the best equipped to save you?

- He seriously weirds you out sometimes because you genuinely think he’s plotting your death with the way he just stares at you and seems to be everywhere you turn. Yet as much as he weirds you out you can’t help but feel drawn to him.

- Now Jasper can tell you’re attracted to him; not only can he hear your heartbeat but he can also read your emotions so if he has any kind of affect on you he’ll know. But it’s not the fear of rejection that’s his problem, it’s the fact that you’re human and he isn’t very confident in his ability to control himself.

- He would have continued his slightly alarming behavior (and you would have kept on believing he for some reason hated you) if it hadn’t been for your teacher assigning you as partners for a class project... during your civil war unit.

- You sat down across from him as the class regrouped and could immediately tell that something was wrong... well besides you being there.

“Is everything alright?” You asked him hesitantly as he stared at the teachers notes on the board.

- His eyes snapped onto you and you heard him speak for the first time as he let out an oddly calm sounding rant of a lifetime on how everything your teacher just said was completely bullshit.

“You see him, it’s all fake. Everyone hated him, he had four girls trailing behind him at every turn thinking they were gonna get a ring on their finger when in reality he already had a wife and three kids. And god the man could barely shoot-”

- His eyes alternated between being locked on the board to being locked on you and his own moving hands. You helplessly sat there, nodding along whenever he looked at you to confirm you were still following and feeling sort of flustered at his southern accent, info dumping and handsome face.

- The only reason he stopped when he did was because the bell rang and the class began to file out. He looked at the clock, gave you a smirk and told you he’d “see you around” before he left the room. From then on he started to approach you more often.

- Once Jasper realizes he’s can handle being around you things get a lot better. It’s like he does a full 180. All of a sudden he’s greeting you (making all your friends jealous), practically escorting you to class, being the first person to offer you help whenever you need, and voluntarily partnering up with you in class. You think you might just be the only person in Forks who has Jasper Hales phone number.

- He always insists on carrying your things for you whenever he walks you to class.

- Sometimes he shocks you with just how charming he can be. So ...charismatic, sometimes you feel like he could convince you to do anything with just a single glance.

- You get quite a lot of teasing compliments and praise all paired with an adoring smirk.

- He learns pretty easily what he does that makes you flustered and tries to do it more often. Anything from smirking and trying to make his accent more pronounced to changing the things he talks to you about.

- He’s not a big talker but he’s a good listener and he wants to hear all about you and your life. You’ve never met someone more interested in your boring day to day occurrences.

- He tries to make you happier whenever he senses that you’re upset. You think it’s just being around him that changes your mood but it’s obviously a little more than that.

- Whenever you’re spending time together outside of school he makes sure it’s somewhere private but with a lot of open space. He doesn’t want to tempt himself by locking the both of you in a room together. The more time you spend together the more comfortable he is being alone with you.

- It would be incredibly hard for him to stay away from you after growing accustomed to being around you. Hunting trips and necessary “camping trips” would be borderline agonizing. He’d annoy his siblings with all his worrying.

- You always catch him looking at you, sometimes it seems like his eyes never leave your face.

- Half the school thinks the two of you are dating and he can’t help but smile whenever he hears those kind of rumors in passing.

- The beginning of your romance is slow burning. You remain friends who are ambiguously attracted to one another for a while before he starts to slowly make his move.

- When you’re walking you’ll notice his icy hand brushing against yours, sometimes being agonizingly close to holding your own.

- He’d often brush your hair away from your face whenever it fell and got in the way of him seeing you.

- Whenever you talk to another guy you can be assured that he’s listening...and usually watching. He’d be on edge until you’d return to his side where he’d be able to sift through your emotions to see if you’re alright and what the possible reason for that conversation was.

- He would definitely act subtly possessive over you especially when he’s close to actually asking you out. Keeping his hand on your shoulder, interlocking your pinkies, offering you his arm, insisting on sitting with you at lunch and driving you to and from school.

- It’s probably a few months after getting to know each other that he finally asks you out. For a long time you think he’s just a sweet slightly awkward history nerd but over time you start to get suspicious. Not to mention the fact that he can’t stand to keep such a big secret away from you for so long; so one day he asks if the two of you can talk.

- Chances are that he’s already sure that you’re his mate thanks; to Alice, so he feels the need to confess. He takes you to a secluded place in the woods where he tells you everything and proves that he isn’t crazy.

- You take it surprisingly well and tell him that you’ll never tell a soul. After which he tells you that there’s something else that he needs to confess and the two of you share your first kiss.

- Ever since then the two of you were inseparable and absolutely, completely in love.

[yodawgiherd]

Rome pt.1

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rating: M Setting: Historical Rome

Heyy, I'm alive! :D Having recently watched the Rome tv-series, I finally got an idea that I just couldn't shake. So enjoy the first part of this AU, which I will (most likely) continue!

The sun was hot on young Mikasa’s back, as she was hunched over the tub, dutifully washing the stained bedding. Taking a small break, she straightened, shielding her eyes from the merciless rays. The unyielding sun was one of the many things she didn’t like about Rome. That, and having her parents murdered and she herself being sold to slavery.

They were nothing back home, just another tiny tribe that got crushed under the unyielding boot of the roman empire, trampled and absorbed to be forgotten. The legionaries killed her father, then her mother when she tried protecting her, and almost killed her too before the commander barked a few orders in a language Mikasa didn’t understand. Sheathing their bloody short swords, they threw her in a cage, where a few other members of her tribe already were, and after a long and very unpleasant journey, she arrived at the capital of the empire, the beating heart of civilization.

And it was filthy.

For all the supposed grandeur, Rome had enough dirt in the streets to fill a sea, the sewers smelled and there were annoying flies everywhere. Insects were one thing, but the people, that was something else altogether. Never in her short life had Mikasa seen so many in one place. Thousands and thousands moving around on their business, ignoring the cage that rattled past them towards the slave market. Watching them one was thing, being watched was other, she realized once the slaver ushered her up on the stage. Dozens of hungry eyes scanned her, made her wish that the earth would just open up and swallow her whole. But as usual, the gods ignored her.

In the end, Mikasa was sold to a bald, corpulent man whose name she quickly forgot. Her new owner managed a chain of brothels, or “houses of pleasure” as he called them himself, and was hoping that her exotic look would attract customers. That was, once she matured enough. Sure, there would be clientele for her even now, as any sort of demand had to be satisfied, but it was decided that ruining her now would be a waste of investment. Mikasa was thus put to work, cleaning and maintaining the house that quickly became her prison.

Over the first few weeks of her captivity, she learned a great deal, besides being taught the language. Trying to escape was useless. Just two days after she was transferred to her new home, one of the other slaves did escape, only to be brought back mere two hours later. Then, the master of the house called everyone and made them look while his dogs tore the poor fellow apart. After she was done throwing up what little was in her stomach, Mikasa realized that following the escapee’s footsteps would be suicide. She didn’t know Rome, she had nowhere to go. Worst of all, the people of Rome would never help an escaped slave, that was beneath their station as free citizens.

So what was Mikasa left with? Survive, that was her only objective. She knew that for now, it was easy on her. Cleaning and housework were easy, even back with her tribe she had to work. But deep at night, when she curled up beneath her flimsy blanket, she could hear the disgusting noises coming from the rooms all around her and knowing that was her fate made the bile in her throat rise. To not lose hope, she focused on the present, taking it in day by day. Maybe something would happen to free her from that terrible fate, maybe something… anything….

Shaking her head, Mikasa lowered her eyes back to the tub, once again taking hold of the dirty bedding, stained by those activities that the brothel existed for. Pressing extra hard to get the wine out, she worked in peace until there was a shuffle of feet behind and suddenly the sun was not the only thing staring into her back. Thinking that it was most likely her owner, coming to see what’s taking so long, Mikasa turned with an apology on her lips but that died when she saw who was standing there. Not the fat man who held her life in his hands, but a boy, no older than she was. Yet the age was about the only thing they had similar.

Mikasa was dressed in rags, understandably for a slave, while the boy’s clothes were fresh and clean, bearing the marks of high-quality material. His skin was amazingly clean, a feat that Mikasa didn’t understand how he accomplished. How come he didn’t get dirty while working? But work was the last thing on the intruder’s mind, as he scanned her with his forest green eyes, taking a bite from whatever he was holding in his hand. She had no idea what it was, but it smelled damn tasty.

“Your eyes are weird.”, the newcomer said out of nowhere, the carelessness of a child in his voice, “All tilted. Why?”

“I was born that way.”, she said, shuffling from foot to foot.

He nodded at that.

“I guess the gods made a small mistake with you.”

For some reason, those words hurt, but before she could truly feel it, he continued.

“I like it.”

Surprised, Mikasa looked up, but her eyes were once again drawn to that thing in the boy’s hand. It really did smell good, and to say that she was underfed would be an overstatement. As long as she didn’t die from starvation, the master was happy. He must have noticed her hungry look because taking a step closer, he offered her the thing.

“You want some?”

Mikasa knew that she shouldn’t take candy from strangers, but she was hungry and couldn’t imagine why this boy would ever want to harm her. And to top it off, there weren’t any ways to make her situation even worse. So throwing her better judgement out of the window, Mikasa leaned in, taking a  small bite of that thing. And damn, it was worth it. She couldn’t say what it was made of, but it was sweet and tasted even better than it smelled. Opening her eyes, she could see that the boy was watching her with a smile, teeth like small pearls shining.

“It’s good right?”

Robbed of words, she simply nodded, making his smile widen.

“I could bring you some more, we have this at our villa every day and…”

Whatever he was about to say would be lost to history, however, as there was a shuffle of feet and then someone was shoving Mikasa violently away from the boy. She landed on her back, hitting the ground hard, the air in her lungs pushed out by the impact. There was a scrape of steel, and suddenly she was staring at a large man in front of her who was holding a sword in his hand, the point angled towards her chest.

“What are you doing? Stop!” the boy screamed, but the man ignored him.

“Young master, what are you doing here? Running away from me and associating with this…”, his eyes travelled up and down Mikasa, mouth twisting in disgust, “filth.”

“She’s a friend!”

“She’s a slave. What would your father say if he saw you with her?”

The boy seemed to deflate when his father was mentioned, but then he took a deep breath and straightened his back.

“My father is not here now, and as far as I know, you work for my family.”, the tone of his voice changed too, suddenly being much more commanding than before, “So sheathe your sword this instant!”

Surprised by the sudden man-up, the guard took a step back but his eyes never left Mikasa’s fallen form. As if she posed some sort of threat to the young master. The boy passed his guard and walked over to Mikasa, offering her his hand. Under the older man’s piercing gaze she took it, letting him help her to her feet.

“I’m sorry about Hannes, he’s just careful.”, the boy mumbled, embarrassed by his retainer’s behaviour. Not sure how to apologize, he thought for a moment before taking her hand and pushing the rest of the treat into her palm.

“Take it.”, he said, “And forgive me, please.”

“Young master, this is very noble of you, but we really have to go. Your father is waiting.”, the guard interjected once more, making Eren sigh and nod.

“Very well.”

Turning around, he took two steps away before turning back towards Mikasa, the old smile on his face.

“I’ll definitely come and see you again!”

Before she realized what was happening her face was mirroring that smile and she even returned the wave he gave her before disappearing in the streets with his guard in tow. And when Mikasa fell asleep that night, with belly full of honey, she dreamed of those green eyes. But dreams are not for the waking world, and her life quickly took a turn for the worse.

Worst of all, the boy never showed up again.

[lemonietrinket]

Reach ||| Felix x Reader

Summary: After finding out that you are older than him, you feel like the chances of your crush liking you back immediately go from low to zero in a matter of minutes. But there are a few other things you don’t know about Felix, besides his age that you somehow managed to miss, so not all hope is lost...

Genre: Fluff, angst, with some small bits of humour thrown in  Warning(s): Some poor language (inferred: text abbreviations) Word Count: 4329 (+11 photos of fake text) Theme Song: Sing Me - Day6 

AN: A request from anon, I’m so sorry it took so long! I hope you like it, it did turn out a bit angstier (and a lot longer) than I originally intended but the fluff I think makes up for it!

~~~

You always felt so giddy and light whenever Felix was mentioned in any capacity in your vicinity. Your heart could never stop pounding at the speed of light, while your stomach was always alive with butterflies, fluttering up into your lungs and leaving you short of breath.

But now, dread slowly began to seep through your body like a poison, the butterflies ceasing up and stuttering. Their corpses fell to the pit of your guts, and those that did not became lodged in your chest and throat, leaving you without air for another reason entirely.

Your fingers numbly opened your laptop and pressed the keys of Felix’s name. You never searched him, you felt like it was an invasion of privacy, especially when he was normally right there within your physical grasp if you so wished to take it (which you never did, you were too afraid to take the leap). But this was something small, and though it was somehow something so huge while being so, you let yourself off just this once. Not that you could stop yourself even if you’d tried. 

The screen turned white, the search bar scrolling unnaturally slowly, until finally Google returned your worst fear.

Age: 19. In bold, unavoidable text. As if you were stupid. And you felt as if you were.

It had to be wrong, it had to be. An inaccuracy in results. You’d seen them happen before, whales with four legs and members of other groups being represented by the wrong photo.

You clicked on the first webpage and scrolled, your eyes unblinking, unwavering. And then the second. And then the third. 

19.

You pushed yourself away from the desk, your face a stone wall while your thoughts ravaged in your head. 

You couldn’t comprehend how you’d been years older this whole time. You’d assumed he was your age, you were on such a similar wavelength that your subconscious hadn’t considered he wasn’t.  Meanwhile the irrational part of your brain refused to be quiet. He isn’t even 20 yet, it said, think old you were when he was 18, when he was 17, when he was 16—

It was only three years. It wouldn’t mean anything in half a decade but it still weighed so heavily on your shoulders.  

You knew Chan was still messaging you, the light on your phone wavering in the corner of your eye, blurred with brimming tears.  The truth was though that you weren’t even crying, not with the rest of your body at least. You didn’t feel like it, the usual energy you had festering and leaving you empty, meaning the tears built up but refused to fall.

All of those beautiful smiles that put the sun to shame and had been directed to you meant little now—only that he probably liked you as his senior, nothing more. There was a chance that he only smiled at you to curry more favour, not because he genuinely liked you. All while the age-hierarchy indicated that all of those texts were probably just him responding to you because he felt like he had to.  Even when hope tried to remind you that he didn’t grow up with it, and regularly texted first, the voidful feeling crushed it.

Because, ignoring all of the age-related qualms, you still hadn’t bothered to even ask him how old he was. That surely made you a bad friend, and if you couldn’t be a good friend to him then what partner would you be? You were undeserving of him, and he most definitely did not like you back.

Aimlessly, you moved from your desk chair to your bed, dragging the cold weight of you phone in your hand and letting the screen turn black. As you lay dejectedly upon the covers, your thoughts trailed off to think of the boy you’d fallen so hard and quickly for. His radiant smile that you wanted to be the reason for, his pretty eyes that you always found yourself gazing into no matter how much you told yourself not to, his adorable hands that you just longed to hold... It was as if his features were emblazoned in your mind, and nothing could wash them away, and it only made thinking how these things were out of reach for you now hurt more.

Hearing your phone vibrate by your head where you’d discarded it, you absentmindedly flicked your eyes up to look at the lit screen. Seeing who the notification was from, your fingers immediately opened it up before you could stop yourself, eyes scouring over the messages.

You’d forgotten all about the restaurant trip you had agreed to last week. Everyone was going to be there. Your thoughts briefly turned to rationalising an escape route—maybe if you claimed sick Chan would let you stay home, or maybe if you even told him the full truth he would?

It was nonsense of course, everyone was going, so you would have to attend at least for their sake. Plus, he would always say that moping wouldn’t help after all, and you had to face your demons eventually.

Nevertheless, it didn’t stop you from feeling a shedload of regret for agreeing. Even if there was no way you could have known, you scolded yourself for putting yourself in the line of potential damage. 

Still, you couldn’t deny how badly you wanted to see everyone and catch up on everything—make new plans, learn new gossip—but you knew if you glanced at him, even just once, you would shatter.

With your mind in turmoil, you felt drawn to the clock ticking away endlessly on the other side of the room. It felt as if it was counting down to an end, though you put a quick stop to your melodramatic heart’s ramblings in this circumstance. You couldn’t focus on the sound for your own sanity’s sake, otherwise you wouldn’t head out at all.  Opting to check the time, you spotted that you still had an hour and a half before you had to get ready, if you pushed it. And yes, rushing was not something you preferred, but you’d already made an exception for yourself today so why not another?

You slipped under your blankets, rolling over to face the wall and shut out the world. Gravity played its part and pulled the tears from the barricades of where they’d halted, clearing your eyes so you couldn finally close them comfortably.

You’d get through it.  Perhaps things would be ok.

.

.

.

Smooth jazz music wafted across the air in the restaurant much like the rich scents of delicious food from the surrounding tables. With everyone smiling at one another, laughing into their drinks and desperately apologising to the next table over, you’d never felt more out of place.

You’d strategically sandwiched yourself between Chan and Jeongin, praying that this combination would be the most likely to not attract the attentions of Felix. But, to your luck, the person you were so desperately trying to avoid ended up sitting right opposite you.  And, to make matters worse, he seemed very intent on trying to catch your eye, send you smiles, and—the worst part by far—talk to you.

Aimlessly picking at your rice with your spoon, you felt awful; not only were you unable to handle the situation quite literally right in front of you, you had practically become a deadweight in the group. Even when Jeongin asked you things, the boy who had grown up so much and never failed to make your laugh with is sass, you could barely muster answers configured of multiple sentences. All the while your eyes were cut off from looking at the vast majority of the room, forced to the confines of the table, your hard left and your hard right. 

Soon enough, the time came where Felix finally spoke to you, and god you wanted the word to swallow you whole. 

“Hey, Y/N, can you pass me the soy?” 

Gulping, your forehead creased as you slipped your hand across to take the sauce from Chan and rigidly pass it across the wood.

He seemed to pay no mind to your wordlessness, replying with a bright, “Thank you!” All you could do was pray that would be the end of it. 

But one of the qualities you admired in Felix was his diligence, and it took the form of gentle persistence on this occasion nonetheless.

“Hey, Y/N, do you want to play some video games at some point?” he enquired, hastily adding, “Jisung and I have been meaning to get round to trying out this new multiplayer, and it seems right up your street! The art is really cool, and I’ve already downloaded some of the soundtrack because it’s just that good.”

You centred your eyes awkwardly on your rice, answering as simply as you could, “Sorry I’m busy.”

You heard him chuckle, seemingly completely unfazed, and the sound snapped another one of your heartstrings, “Well, obviously not right now, but maybe, like, tomorrow evening?”

“Y-yeah, busy.” You hated how he quickly caught onto your silence and followed suit, but you also had to be thankful in some shape or form. Maybe you could get this night over and done with, and then get over your crush too and save yourself the majority of the heartbreak that you presumed was inevitable.

However, Felix was not that easily deterred and by your luck—or was it misfortune?—you suddenly saw movement out of the corner of your eye.

Taking the risk and glancing up ever so slightly, your gaze met the sight of your crush leant in over the table. His head was cocked cutely to one side, the feathered tresses of his fringe effortlessly accentuating his features, his hand reaching towards you carefully without a particular aim other than to try and show something. He’d inclined over to try and reach you, and you had accidentally fallen right into him, your eyes catching his and he smiled.

It wasn’t fair. Those pools of rich chestnut had held you and very nearly broken every single one of your defences.  Your breath hitched in your throat.

“Are you ok?” he asked, and you could only stammer incoherent phrases, your cheeks heating up as you tried to hold yourself together. 

There were many reasons why you had fallen so quickly for this boy in particular, like his resilience as mentioned earlier. Though another one of those things was his selfless kindness, and it had arisen to bite you: of course he would notice your silence, your crestfallen expression and worry.  “Y/N? Do you feel sick? Do you want to get some air?”

Unable to respond once again, emptily swaying your spoon in a half-empty bowl you heard his voice at a strange distance. You didn’t snap back into focus, and only then barely so, until he continued, “Come on, lets get some air.”

Head empty and crowded at the same time, you looked up without fully understanding why. You could only rationalise that it was to see the sight of Felix sending a nod to Chan to your right, before asking Changbin to shift a bit so he could get through. Your heart lurched at it, the amount of care he offered you gnawing at your lungs.

Before you knew it, Jeongin was helping you stand, and you were out from around the table, following Felix a few steps behind. 

Your focus once again settled on him and him alone, even though you’d promised yourself before you arrived to never do so again. You wanted to believe that he did all of this because he liked you back, that he’d fallen for you just as hard as you’d fallen for him, but you’d convinced yourself he was just extremely kind—and he of course was, therefore meaning that the story was all tied up and set.

Nevertheless, there wasn’t much that could have prepared you for what followed.

.

.

.

The cold hit your face and knocked the daze out of you, and you suddenly felt very awake, as if you’d fallen face first into a pool of ice cold water. Having stepped out onto the balcony, you had been plunged into the night with little to protect yourself with. Hence you wrapped your arms around yourself as best you could, drawing your jacket closed as your eyes surveyed the street just metres below.

The lamplights were warm against the navy of the night, and the few people that were still out dappled in and out of the shadows. You let your mind wander as to where they were going; a graveyard shift, out to a party, home. You wondered if any of them had someone waiting for them, a love they couldn’t wait to see and hold again after a long day out. The thought sent a pang through your heart. 

The change of scenery had successfully distracted you from the person who had both directly and indirectly led you into it, but you couldn’t exist painless forever. You had to confront him now.

It was Felix who spoke first, though. Before you could even turn around, his voice, deep and sweet, danced across the breeze. “Hey, do you feel any better?”

You nodded simply, lips pressed together as to avoid anything stupid and sudden.

He sighed, a sound filled with relief but also an edge of something else. “Ah, that’s great. You do look it... the light’s returned to your eyes a bit.”

The wind buffered around the nearby buildings, a police siren wailing in the distance, catching your attention to the junction at the end of the street. Turning your head away from him, you shivered at the cold, listening intently to it fading away into the hum of the traffic. 

“I guess you found out then,” Felix began suddenly, a car horn making the both of you jump.

“Found out what?” you asked, keeping your head ducked low as you turned back towards him. 

You heard him pause but remained afraid to glance up. He hesitantly shuffled on his feet. “Th-that I have a crush on you.”

The world continued; the traffic bustled along the mainroad, people hurried along the streets, dogs barked at nothing. 

But to you, everything went silent. Dead quiet. No wind, no clatter of shop gates, no mildly drunken yelling.  Just your heartbeat, beating harder by the second, and the sound of your crush’s nervous breathing.

You looked up at him at last, to see his face obscured by his arm as he rubbed the back of his neck idly. He moved it away eventually, revealing his head downturned as yours had been just moments before.

You stood transfixed as his voice wavered, knocked by the wind as he attempted to explain, as if he needed to rectify a mistake. “I-it’s ok, I don’t want to ruin the friendship now, I—uh...” he broke off as he swallowed thickly, and you noticed that his cheeks weren’t flushed from the cool air, but rather from the tears that were welling in his eyes. “I want you to know that I’m so happy with being just friends, and... I really hope I haven’t made you feel awkward around me and—I’m sorry I...” 

You found it so cruel of the world to make his eyes glisten as if they held the stars when they cradled tears. It was a form of twisted irony that he didn’t deserve.  But it was the final straw that made your heart snap.

The spring of tension and worry and fear uncoiled as you reached across the deck for him, pulling him into the care of your arms. You were taken aback by how neatly they fit around him, how perfectly he rested against your chest and how his nose nuzzled into your neck. 

“No, it’s ok! Shh, don’t be sorry, you have no reason to be sad. Please don’t be sad,” you found yourself whispering, your voice so fragile that it no doubt was carried away by the wind as soon as it fell to his ear. 

You rubbed your hand soothingly across the mid of his back, the other tracing up to his hair and stroking the tresses there.  Meanwhile, Felix remained confused. he longed to sink into your touch, his fingers gripping at your jacket being proof of that, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax. 

“What...? Why are you...?”

A smile slowly rising to your lips, you didn’t waste a second. 

“You haven’t ruined anything, I’d be so happy with being friends with you too, but—I like you Felix, I have a crush on you too...!” you rushed, pulling away to hold him at arm's length. Upon seeing his shining, wide eyes and his puffed, pouting lips you sighed in relief. Reaching up, you cupped his face in your palms, like you’d wanted to do for so long. “God, I was such an idiot...!” 

“No, you’re not stupid!” Felix emphasised, barely coming to terms with your confession himself.

Though you nodded desperately, caressing his cheek with your thumb. “But I am. I thought you didn’t like me back.” It was then that reality decided to hit you full force, the sound of the rest of the world returning to yours as you exclaimed, “Oh my god, you like me back?!”

“Y-you like me back?!” he echoed, hands fumbling at his chest before finally gaining the courage to come to your shoulders instead. There he delicately ran his fingers across your shoulders, as if to check if you were even real. “Why—why wouldn’t I like you back?”

“Because you’re younger than me!” you said, “I didn’t think you’d see me as even viable, like, I thought you saw me as only a senior to you and that...” You gazed into his eyes, no longer cradling stars but rather glistening with the gold from the restaurant behind you, watching as they widened even further. “Why would I not like you back?”

“Because you’re older than me! I thought I wasn’t cool enough for you, and that you only were nice to me because you had to look out for me!”

His answer forced an astonished laugh out of both of you, and before you knew it the pair of you were in borderline hysterics. Felix fell back to cover his mouth with his fist, walking an aimless circle as you merely bent over, hiding behind your palms. 

“We’re so stupid!” he announced, his eyes wide and incredulous, all the signs of tears long gone. 

You sank your teeth into your bottom lip as you knocked your head back up, staring at him incredulously as you shook your head. “At least we both are.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, returning to you, his hands reaching for yours, “we can be dumb together.”

“Exactly, it’s merely proof that we belong together.”

You didn’t think your words through then, but any fear was met with strength, as Felix showed no sign of disagreement—rather the opposite, gently caressing your hands in his before you finally interlocked your fingers. Back together, only inches apart, you were once again in each other’s solace, stood against the auburn haze of the city night and the cold it brought.

“I don’t want to be friends with you anymore,” he murmured, the brightest grin on his face as he glanced to your lips.

“Neither do I.”

Desperately trying to keep yourself together as the proximity and the intentions of both his and your words, you leant in until your foreheads met. There you welcomed the grace of the small touch with your whole heart, wondering if you would reach out to what you had dreamt of.

With your eyes closed, unable to take in the sight of his soft beauty, you took in the scent of him as his deep voice caught your attention. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes!” 

Your words barely rolled of your tongue before the final gap had been closed between you and your lips met at last. 

His kiss was not what you expected; it was soft yet deep, as if he wished to instil final proof that he meant everything he’d said. You couldn’t help but melt into him, your hands drawing away from his own, only so you could loop them behind his neck. He mirrored you, his hands finding the small of your back, and pulling you closer as you pressed into him. 

Perhaps this time the world did stop, to momentarily regard you and the kiss that summarised all the feelings that had lingered in your soul for months. After all, it was a resurrection event too, as the butterflies’ sparks reignited, sending them spiralling throughout your body and you back into radiant life.

It didn’t matter to you though, as your world stopped and that was all that was important in that second. Just the feel of his lips soft and plump between yours, and the hum of absolute relief that mottled through your throat at the touch.

You pulled apart with a gasp from both sides, still entwined with your arms. 

Felix cursed, smile immediately returning to his features.

“What?” You cocked your head inquisitively.

“It’s so cold,” he said, exaggerating a shiver playfully to emphasise his point. 

You rolled your eyes at him with a chuckle, stepping away but instantly taking his hand into yours. It was a decision of mixed results, as yes you were holding his hand, but now you had to come to terms with just how tiny they were and how devastated that made you.

“Hey, stop ogling my hands!” he pouted.

You perhaps would have pressed the matter if you weren’t still dazed by how quickly everything in your life had changed for you. You swept your head back, before pulling your best Australian accent, “You don't like me ‘cause of my personality...”

He immediately caught on, the two of you immediately wailing, “Only ‘cause my body!”

You continued to laugh together as you made your way back inside the restaurant, grateful to be in the warm again.

“Honestly, I try to be nice to him one time...!” Felix said, pursing his lips as he shook his head.

“I know right! And he just throws it right back...!”

“Terrible hyung!”

“Hundred percent!”

As you turned the corner to where your table was, you only just caught sight of Hyunjin looking over in your direction before he suddenly shouted.

“Finally!” 

Confused, you took the lead, “Hey, sorry guys, I hope we weren’t gone for—”

All of a sudden you were confronted with seven guys sighing and sinking into their chairs with relief. Changbin was rubbing his eyes, Minho had his eyes centralised on the ceiling, all the while Jeongin was grinning wildly at Seungmin, a hand outstretched and beckoning for something, to which the elder was desperately miming for him to cut out. 

No answer came to mind until you noticed Jisung exasperatedly smiling at the two of you, or more specifically your interlinked hands. 

Glancing at Felix, silently asking him if he knew about this to which he shook his head bemusedly, your attention was taken away by Chan who had stood, making his way to the both of you.

“At last,” he stated, his features folded into tired relief, “praise the lord, I was starting to think we were going to need divine intervention—”

You heard Minho pipe up behind, “By divine intervention he means me!”

“—but thankfully we didn’t. God, I’m just happy that you finally did it.”

“Thanks...?” Felix looked at him sheepishly. 

You exhaled a laugh, bringing your new boyfriend a little bit closer to your side—something he of course didn’t have a single gripe with—ahead of catching Chan’s attention. “Bang, what is all of this?”

He pouted. “Hey! You can’t get mad at us for being sick of you two! Imagine having to watch two obviously-in-love people dance around the in-love-with-each-other part for months. It was driving us insane!” Before you could interject, the he continued, “It doesn’t matter now, we’re just happy that you’re together now at least. And look! Because I’m a good leader I’ve moved myself out of the way so you two can sit next to each other.”

Unable to quite comprehend this further development, that the entire group had been anxiously waiting for you to get yourselves together and confess for as long as you’d literally liked each other, you murmured a ‘thank you’, before  beginning to make your way to your new seats.

Your food was inevitably cold, but neither of you minded at all. The rush of newfound love had sated your appetites rather enough for tonight, though you expected you could go for one more thing. 

Ignoring the bustle of his group mate’s comments, and the rather proud smile of Chan opposite you, you turned to Felix, “Hey, do you want to share some ice cream?”

The look on his face made your heart flutter instantaneously.

It was as if the sun had risen, his pretty smile gleaming while his nose scrunched sweetly. “Yes please!”

Knowing his favourite flavour of the top of your head, you sat back and let Hyunjin call for the waitress so everyone could order desserts. Even when the others spoke to you, and even though you felt even more alive than normal, you always found yourself looking back to Felix, taking in the sculpture of his adorable face that you now could hold between your fingers if you so wished. 

He meanwhile got shy under your gaze, smiling to himself as he looked away coyly.

As you leant in to whisper how adorable he looked in his ear, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket.  Taking it out swiftly, your heart swelled as you read the message upon your lockscreen. Sending a thankful grin to the man opposite you, you quickly turned your attention to detailing your order to the waitress.

And at last, things were much more than ok.

~~~

AN: ok so this took longer than i imagined (like a solid 4 hours at least, idek i wasnt actually counting) 

the irony is i actually wrote that felix’s age was 20 until i luckily checked and found he was still 19. i’d forgotten to count that his birthday hadn’t happened yet but. yeah. proud stay moment.

apologies for any poor quality ss, my phone hates me

i hope you enjoyed anon and so again for the wait!

Masterlist

[tuff-and-fluff-archives]

Okay I am hyperfixating HARD on Tom and Jerry and all my emotions from childhood have FLOODED forth, so now that I’ve finished watching (almost) all 161 original theatrical Tom and Jerry shorts from 1940 to 1967, I would like to force you all to endure my insane ramblings about this franchise. Although before I begin, I’d like to share where I’ve been watching all these! Here’s a Dailymotion playlist of all 161 shorts, put into the correct order by yours truly :3 OKAY NOW THE INSANITY BEGINS 💖💖💖

1) The Messy Formative Years: Shorts 001-017 (1940-1944)

So obviously, when a series is first created, especially an animated series, the first few episodes will always be a bit odd as the directors and writers find their footing and establish the rules of their own universe, and Tom and Jerry is no exception! In fact, these episodes can be a bit weird and even jarring to watch because the designs of the titular characters are so drastically different from how they look even ten years afterwards. In fact, in the very first episode, they don’t even have their official names yet and are instead named “Jasper and Jinx.” Also, there’s a LOT of talking in these beginning shorts before they decided to make Tom and Jerry almost entirely mute. Shorts 010 and 013 stand out the most, as they feature characters regularly speaking full sentences and it’s just... ohhh it’s SO weird to watch and it feels almost wrong 😅 Of course that’s not to say these shorts are bad, far from it actually! They’re still super fun and fascinating to watch and I think it’s quite interesting to see how such an iconic franchise got its start!

2) The Golden Years: Shorts 018-097 (1945-1955)

Oh. My. GOD. THESE ARE THE ABSOLUTE BEST. I guarantee that when you just think about Tom and Jerry, THESE are the shorts that come to mind. By now William Hanna & Joseph Barbara fully had their formula down and were just pumping out hit after hit afTER HIT HHHHH I LOVE THESE SO MUCH. I’m not kidding when I say that these shorts still make me laugh really hard and I absolutely adore nearly every aspect of them: the fluid and extremely expressive animation, the excellently timed music paired with each short, and the humor that’s constant and lands almost every time. My absolute favorite ones are around 040-080 but really all of these are just sooooo good. I know that this is stating the obvious but one thing that I especially love is just how VIOLENT these cartoons are, even more than the Looney Tunes shorts that were coming out at the same time. Characters are constantly picking up knives or axes or straight up GUNS and ngl I feel like half of the humor comes from that shock factor of the insane absurdity of that violence. Okay I’m starting to sound rly dumb, I know explaining the joke is never fun, but the directing and animation just NAILS every joke; I think the secret behind it is that there’s always a buildup and anticipation before the impact, and that buildup just makes the impact all the more intense! I was going to list my top 5 favorites but it’s impossible to choose so lemme just recommend a random five out of all of them: 026 - Solid Serenade, 048 - Saturday Evening Puss, 067 - Triplet Trouble, 069 - Fit to Be Tied, and 076 - That’s My Pup!

Also, I don’t know where else to mention this so I’ll just say it here: there’s a gradual change that Tom’s design goes through where he’s slowly drawn to be less and less fuzzy. At first his outline was drawn with a lot of points to emphasize his fur, but over time they abandoned doing that, my guess is because it was harder to animate. I’d say that they fully transitioned to Smooth Tom around short 030. That’s just a little detail I noticed and wanted to share! ^-^

3) The Slow Decay: Shorts 098-114 (1956-1958)

*heavy sigh* Well... a good thing can’t last forever. What’s kinda strange is that I can’t really nail down a specific reason caused a decline in quality after 1955; short 096 was the last to be produced by Fred Quimby, with Hanna & Barbara being given the producer credit as well as director credit for the remaining 18 shorts, and MGM animation studios had major budget cuts in the late 50′s and was shut down in 1957, and perhaps the studio shutting down had also taken the joy out of the crew, which would certainly have an effect on the cartoons. Now that doesn’t mean that these last 16 shorts are bad- they’re still quite entertaining, but they just don’t have the same energy as the shorts made in the Golden Years. They’re also nowhere near as cartoonishly violent as the past shorts had been; weapons are almost never used anymore and there are barely any efforts from Tom and Jerry to straight up kill each other, and more often than not they’re working together and even acting like close friends. I think that’s pretty fair evidence that even if these later shorts were much tamer and friendlier, that meant that they were lacking the same chaotic energy that made the other shorts so hilarious. 

Also I just need to vent this here cuz this era also contains the two most absolutely infuriating shorts in the Hanna-Barbera era, that being 100 - Busy Buddies and 114 - Tot Watchers. These two shorts consist of Tom and Jerry attempting to stop a baby from accidentally dying cuz it’s just a dumb baby that doesn’t know anything, while the babysitter is just totally ignorant to everything happening. Now I can’t quite explain why and I’m probably just making myself look like an asshole but these shorts are just... so frustrating to me??? Like its bad enough that this stupid baby whose face NEVER changes from that stupid little smile just keeps wandering into dangerous situations (in Tot Watchers it straight up crawls into a CONSTRUCTION ZONE) but every time Tom rescues the little bastard and puts it back in its crib, the babysitter thinks he’s “bothering” the baby (probably because of that one myth about cats laying on babies and stealing their breath) and so poor Tom is just punished for doing literally nothing wrong!! It’s just... very frustrating to me for some reason I’m sorry... (Although I have to admit that it is interesting and kinda cute that Tom knows how to change a diaper, like wif the safety pins and everything. Why does he know that...?)

4) The Gene Deitch Shit Shorts: 115-127 (1961-1962)

OOOH BOY. I don’t think... that I can really describe how purely and utterly I dislike the Deitch shorts. Okay so, to explain, in 1961 MGM decided they wanted to revive the Tom and Jerry franchise, so they contracted an animation studio based in Czechoslovakia to create 13 new original shorts. All of these shorts were directed by Gene Deitch, who before being commissioned for these cartoons, was open about his disdain for the original Hanna-Barbera shorts that he described as “needlessly violent.” After he was assigned to the series, he did come around to somewhat realize that the violence was intended to be overly cartoonish and humorous, but his initial opinion still had an influence on his directing decisions. In addition to these facts, the foreign team behind this series had only collectively seen a handful of the original cartoons, and each short was given a budget of only $10,000, compared to the $50,000 that the Hanna-Barbera shorts had all been given.

SO. To recap, these 13 new shorts were being made by a foreign team who had barely seen any of the source material, directed by a man who had disliked the original cartoons, and being made on 1/5 of the budget that the Hanna-Barbera shorts were given. Needless to say, the end results were a DISASTER. I’m not kidding when I say that watching these shorts feels almost like a fever dream with how completely baffling and surreal they are. I honestly don’t think they could be any more different from the original series; the music and sound effects are extremely minimalist and usually completely absent, the animation is so jerky and totally lacking the fluidity of the originals, and the character design is also drastically different and, in my opinion, kinda ugly too. These are universally considered to be the worst of the theatrical shorts, and Deitch himself has even stated that he and his team “hardly had a chance to succeed” and he fully understands the negativity directed towards the shorts he directed. I have to confess that when I rewatched all the theatrical shorts, I only got through two of these before outright skipping the rest of them. These 13 shorts are a complete disgrace to the majesty of the Hanna-Barbera series, and while I don’t hold anything against the people behind them, I can’t lie when I say that I hate these shorts. 

5) The Chuck Jones Era: 128-161 (1963-1967)

I have an odd love-hate relationship with these shorts. I don’t think I need to explain to you the legacy of the great Chuck Jones, the creator of Marvin the Martian, Pepe Le Pew, and the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote whose name is nearly synonymous with the Looney Tunes cartoons of the 30′s, 40′s, and 50′s. He’s an absolute legend in the animation industry, and yet... the Tom and Jerry shorts that he directed are still significantly weaker than the original series. Let me start with the things I like though! The slight changes in the character design to match Chuck Jones’ signature style are super appealing (I especially like how at times, Tom will almost resemble Jones’ design for the Grinch) and the animation is of course very well done and a joy to watch, but despite these positives, the humor is sadly lacking. There are still quite a few jokes that land, but they’re more restrained and just don’t have the same high-energy oomph! of the impactful gunshot sound effects and violent screams of the original cartoon. I’ll always have an appreciation for this era of shorts and the man behind them, but they sadly didn’t even come halfway close to the Hanna-Barbera series.

WELL. ANYWAY, THAT’S MY RANT!!! Thanks for reading this far, all two people that did. It just felt good to get this outta my system! 💖💖

[mysticmoondancer]

Power Ring Dragon

He is a very powerful dragon. His name comes from the many of magical rings that are on his ears, nose, wings, legs, and the end of his tail which all hold a lot of power in them. The ring on his tail is called the Master Ring and is the most powerful ring on his body. The Master Ring is what allows him to control all of the other rings on his body. He can detach and reattach the rings at will and uses them as a way of attacking something or someone, like a weapon. The shackles that are on his neck, wrists, ankles, and tail are from when some humans had managed to capture him one time. The humans tortured him as they tried to break him so that they could control him and use his powers for evil purposes. But he managed to escape somehow, one day. As a result of this, he now has very little trust in humans. The scar on his right eye is a constant reminder of what they’ve done to him during that time.

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who's become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn't something new; you can't count with both of your hands the times you've heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn't experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART II) 

word count: 7.1k (sorry)

a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !! Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you slept peacefully like a newborn baby all the time before taking a job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you returned home and watched the bright red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you sure did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yes, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking five shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because, as much as it ashamed you to admit it, you didn’t make much out of yours. However, two years of the same old passed, and soon enough, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotonous daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid somewhat generously considering the career— both with affection and money— and, despite how cocky it might’ve sounded, you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the few people there and the new friends you made once in a while; you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer. 

Every night was just like that: nothing more than a few more hours to your life, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work and moments later handed the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you talked with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, in spite of his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.

The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took it as an opportunity to comply with your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you possessed powers— useless ones, to say the least: just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk; it could’ve been after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need of your comradeship? Yeah, he was most definitely older than you, perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care? 

You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.

He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. A lopsided grin found itself onto your face and you slightly leaned over to wipe the surface next to where his hand rested.

“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything— his expression was unreadable.

He raised his glass up to his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t really feel like it right now,” He said before taking a swig of his drink. You picked up a wet empty glass and dried it with your towel, like the true bartender you were.

“Well, do you feel like talking about it?” His eyes darted up to you and he lifted a brow. “There’s obviously a reason why you’re sitting here right now, no?”

You waited for an answer, but he swallowed his entire drink before he set the dry cup on the bar. “Maybe another time, kid.” Ouch. Kid? Really? You thought this was over once you turned twenty-three. “But I gotta get going now.”

That was the first conversation you two shared, and you bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him leave, disappointed that it also could’ve been the last one. You should’ve learned by now, though: this wasn’t the first time you made a “friend”, hoped that they would drop by again in the future, only to never see their faces again. You took in his appearance one last time then, cherishing the fleeting buzz in your head. But you were lucky when two weeks later he entered through the same door again. Nonetheless, not lucky enough, since he arrived the only day your shift ended early.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.”

You didn’t realize he was there until you heard that scratchy voice, the one you thought you’d never have the pleasure of hearing again. Your head jerked up and you didn’t miss a beat before gladly serving him— there was no way you were leaving without interacting with the older man, regardless of how small and brief the action was. It was a Greek tragedy in your eyes: saying goodbye to the back of the head of the attractive man in his thirties. You jokingly (but not really) warned your coworker to not make a move on the man; and, of course, you asked him to update you the next day if he mentioned you even just once. The next day (or rather, night), the first thing you obviously did was pester your friend to spill all the juicy, if any, details.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything. He so checked you out when you left, though. Like— okay, maybe not check you out, but he definitely stared at you for a few seconds.”

You deflated. Anyone else would’ve cheered, but all you needed to hear was the first part; your friend had the poor tendency of overanalyzing and exaggerating every small detail— you learned that when, after some customers had a lousy argument, you both recounted the event to your boss during your monthly coffee session. What had probably happened was that the man merely breathed in your direction and your coworker’s eyes jumped out of their sockets. You brushed away your discontent, though, reminding yourself of your principles: you never hooked up with customers, especially since your boss was adamant about that after an incident with another bartender, and you didn’t want to endure new job interviews for as long as you could.

But the rush made you want to have fun with this guy.

Another entire month went by; no sign of mystery guy, no whiskey served over ice. No drops of your stomach, until one evening you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw that beautiful mess of a man, a scratch on his forehead you didn’t think much about since you’d seen much weirder things, sat in front of you. “Would you look at that! We meet once again,” He smirked. You placed your hand on your hip, biting your lip.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Tell me, do you want to try out something different tonight, or your boring, usual—”

“—whiskey served over ice. Yeah, please.”

Whiskey served over ice was quickly becoming your favorite order.

You didn’t exchange any other words— you were too engulfed into the breaking news playing on the flatscreen: a poor quality clip— something that still occurred even if it wasn’t 2005 anymore— of Spider-Man stopping a truck before it crashed into a hurt kid in the middle of the street. You grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume a bit, deciding you could perhaps multitask for a while. “So,” You started while maintaining your attention on the screen, catching his own. “You ever met Spider-Man?”

An odd question which made him snort as he turned his head to watch the screen. “No, not really. Wouldn’t want to, though, he’s kinda overrated.”

Your eyes went round, and you had to unstick your view from the TV to search for any sign of playfulness in the man’s face. He seemed dead serious. “Overrated? Full offense, but I can’t let you say that about Spidey, an actual superhero.”

He rolled his eyes, amused and defensively holding up one hand. “I’m just tired after hearing about him for the last twenty years. Can’t believe he’s not going around with a walking stick yet.”

You returned to your previous position, your forearms resting on the counter as you continued to observe a recap on a football game of the night before. “Yeah, I won’t argue against you on that. I remember watching him swing on TV back when I was seven-years-old. Big part of my childhood, the guy.”

He inclined closer to you, his brows drawn together. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He let out an ‘oof’. You would’ve been insulted if it weren’t for the exaggeration in his tone. “You’re getting old. Soon you’ll be complaining about how much your back hurts and wishing for the sweet release of death.”

You chuckled, eyeing his appearance. “Ah, well, too bad because I already do that. How old are you? You’re acting like you’re sixty when in reality you’re probably just like forty, or something.”

“Eh, close,” He grinned, and then took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you’re calling me old?!” You exclaimed, earning a laugh from him. “You’re basically almost on your deathbed. Age doesn’t hold me back, though.” You winked jokingly and he bit his lip, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you know— more experienced, sometimes wiser, sometimes more of a gentleman…” You mused, drawing patterns on the bar. You didn’t notice him giving you a once-over. Someone called for your attention, and you let out a disappointed sigh, pouting at him. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” He raised his drink, bowing his head. As you walked away, you allowed your face to pale with terror and you began to wonder if the air-conditioning suddenly malfunctioned, for you were too heated for your comfort. You took as much time as you could with the rest of the clients, too frightened to face the man after your shameless flirts, dreading the repercussions. But you were finishing the preparation of a mojito, wishing you could down it yourself, when he lifted his empty glass and whistled at you. You nervously glared at him, motioning for him to wait before you served the finished beverage to its rightful owner and you met him once again.

“Tell me,” You began as you poured the liquid in his cup, trying to change the subject and mask your trembling hands. “I’m tired of thinking of you as the whiskey man. What’s your name?”

He let out a short laugh, thanking you before he took ahold of his drink. “Peter. Peter… B… Parker,” He moved his head along to each word and you sang out an impressed ‘ooh’.

“Peter B. Parker. Catchy. Giving me some boy band vibes.”

“Boy band vibes?”

“Yeah, like, ‘pretty boy in a band who’s a total teenage heartthrob’ type of vibes. You definitely fit the description.” Goddammit, you did it again. Just this once, you wished, just this once shutting your mouth would make everything easier for you.

Peter, his face finally having a name, licked his lips after sipping the alcohol. “So you think I’m pretty?” He inquired, a crooked smile on his face. You were good at holding back the tingling that wanted to suffocate your cheeks, the way you wished you could with your words. You hummed, surveying him quickly.

"Well, I did say you were handsome last time, didn't I?"

"Yeah— yeah, I remember that," He squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at you. "And you're...”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N…” He took his phone out from his back pocket and frowned down at it with concern. “Can you help me? There’s something wrong with my phone— it doesn’t have your number in it.”

Oh, my God.

You glanced down at his cracked screen and then back up at his face. Snorting so loudly it hurt your nose, your hand flew up to cover your mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I’m just—” You pinched the bridge of your nose, wheezing. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was so cheesy, oh my God.”

“Are you gonna fix it or not, though?” He smirked, offering you his device. “‘Cause it’s a real problem.”

He got your number. After you returned his cell phone, you noticed his yet again empty glass, wondering how he downed it in just the time you were adding your phone number to his contacts. You grabbed it and poured more ice, seeing as the previous had already melted. “Since you successfully made me want to walk away from you and stroll around the place to try and heal myself after that awfully cheesy pickup line, this next round is on the house.” You declared as you opened the bottle of whiskey. He declined, emphasizing his refusal with the flutter of his hand.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna do it anyway,” You slid the alcoholic beverage towards him, and his eyes softened along with his entire face, too.

“Thanks.”

Your conversation continued the entire night. You talked non stop— so much that you might have forgotten about the existence of other customers. But it didn’t matter. Despite their annoyed expressions, it was worth it. You heard the story you had so desperately yearned for him to tell; he reminisced about his dead aunt and uncle— the lovely angels who raised him and the ones he looked up to the most. But your heart cried out when Peter sorrowfully stared into his whiskey, and you first heard the name. MJ. His ex-wife. The owner of his love for the longest time, the woman who crushed him a year ago. The one whose heart he broke, too, though, all because he was too terrified, too much of a wimp to take the next step, ‘not enough’, he said. You remained silent, realizing your flirtatious exchanges earlier were solely a way to muffle Mary Jane’s memory in his mind. Nevertheless, your hand reassuringly rubbed his shoulder, the action alone speaking the comfort he needed.

It wasn’t the last time it happened. After that, he began to show up at the bar more frequently, once a week. And whenever he did come, he left until your shift neared its end.

“Like, what type of father would I even be? Look at me!” Peter pointed at his head, stirring the whiskey with a finger of his other hand. “I’m a mess, I can’t even take care of myself— how could I take care of a child?! I just… I don’t have the time,” He sighed, laying his head atop the bar. You frowned as you prepared a second margarita for the mother of one of your classmates from high school, which was what initiated the conversation of parenthood and such in the first place.

You shrugged, aggressively rattling the shaker with your two hands. “I don’t know, maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” He peered up at you, doubt in his expression. “And you do have the time to come here every week, though,” You pointed out, wiggling your arms from how sore they were.

“Yeah, but you’re… this is different, this is…” He slurred, waving his hand. “Whatever. Work always ruins things for me. It has ever since I was a little tot.”

“Damn, what is your work?”

Peter began to gulp down his entire drink after your question and seconds later slammed it on the table with wide eyes, attempting to digest the liquor. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It’s… it’s, uh, I-I work at the Daily Bugle.” You opened your mouth with astonishment, stopping in the midst of rubbing a lime on the rim of the glass.

“The Daily Bugle?” You asked incredulously. “That one newspaper with the dude who’s obsessed with Spider-Man? J-something-Jameson?”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s my boss.”

You grimaced, instantly comprehending his daily fatigue and he nodded, agreeing with you. “What do you do? Write?”

“Nah, I’m a photographer.”

“Ooh, so you’re a photographer? That’s hot,” Moments ago he’d been complaining about his marital issues yet there you were, calling Peter hot. You might have slipped the compliment right before you left to give the margarita to your ex-classmate’s mom in fear of his response, therefore missing the faint heat that overwhelmed his cheeks and ears. 

“Is… it’s nothing, really,” He dismissed your words, being all humble and shit. You placed your elbows on the counter, coming closer to him.

“Could I ever see any of your pictures?”

He threw a block of ice into his mouth. “Mm, thure,” He said, his mouth full. Your mouth twitched in amusement, and you decided to sit down considering the night was particularly slow. Your boss lectured all the time that there was never time to sit down and there was always something to do; keeping that in mind, you still ignored the four dirty glasses, instead choosing to spend time paying attention to the man with ice in his mouth. “I’m boring, though— tell me more about yourself. There’s gotta be more to the attractive barista who works at the bar near my apartment.”

You were taken aback, both by the fact that he considered you were good-looking and that he was pushing to hear about you. “Me?” You blinked. He nodded, looking at you expectantly. You lowered your head, picking at the skin around your nails— damn past you for cursing you with the habit and, consequently, terrible nails as well. “This is… weird. I don’t really talk to customers about my life. They even tell us to not do that specifically.” You laughed.

“What? Why?”

“Well, because you don’t want to hear about me: my childhood and the drama in my life, I guess,” You said with an obvious look. He scrunched his brows together.

“But I do.”

You despised the way your heart missed a beat. “Alright, well… I don’t know, what do you want to hear about?”

“Were you born here? In New York?”

You shook your head. “Nah, I moved here after finishing college. I thought I was gonna be a successful artist and stuff.”

Peter gasped with wonder. “Artist?! Cool! What, what type of artist?”

“I paint,” He whispered an adorable ‘whoaa’ and your shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s really not that cool. I do paintings once in a while. Pays well and can help with the bills if someone buys them.”

“I’d buy many if I had the money.” 

“Nah, I would paint you one for free,” You smirked, leaning closer to him.

“Oh, sweet— you can paint me naked. You know, like one of your french girls.” He hummed, a goofy grin breaking out on his face. You quirked a brow, giggling.

“That’d be interesting.”

“I know, I’d be a great muse. Tell me more, though, you got any friends? Family?”

You hesitantly nodded. “Yeah, except they’re all back home. The only people I’ve got here are at the bar, my boss basically adopted the few people who work here.”

“Wish my boss was like that,” He grumbled, grasping more ice. “Well, now you’re stuck with me too, though.”

You gripped your knee, your lips pressed together to retain the beam threatening to appear. “Is that so?” The ice he had shoved into his mouth was too big for him to speak without drooling all over his chin; so with his chipmunk cheeks, he moved his head up and down. “Is this us officially becoming friends?” You waggled your brows teasingly, your lips now stretching widely.

“I thought that happened the second you gave me a free round of drinks.”

Three more months passed by. You realized your nights weren’t a blur anymore. No— now they were Peter B. Parker, his weary brown eyes, and his whiskey served over ice. You couldn’t help the scrunch of your nose and your slight smile whenever someone else ordered whiskey, since, as ridiculous you knew it was, those words were Peter. You held yourself back each night you two shared from leaning over the bar and tasting the cold liquor in his tongue. You wondered if, perhaps, that’s what Peter Parker tasted like. But it didn’t matter how strongly you craved to find out; you couldn't be anything more than a friend to your customers, you constantly reminded yourself. Not that it even was a possibility with Peter, anyway— it was evident he still cared about Mary Jane. It was clear she lingered in the fog of his memory, despite how much he drank or how hard you attempted to take her place with every conversation. You tried to convince yourself that it was alright, and it wasn’t working, but you hoped someday it would.

It was a Saturday night— or more like the early hours of Sunday— when you went to joyfully take Peter’s order after he sat down, only to be met with an awful bruise on the bridge of his nose. You winced, unconsciously reaching out to touch his face, but drawing your hand back before he noticed. “Pete, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.” He simply responded, evidently trying to disguise the swelling with his hand, but sighed after seeing your scowl. “Fine, it’s embarrassing. Like… really, really embarrassing—”

“I’m listening.”

He squirmed, his gaze moving to his right and his voice coming out high pitched as he searched for a way to explain himself. “I tripped.”

Something you’d learned throughout the past months of weekly meetings with Peter Parker was that the man was not subtle. Far from it. And this wasn’t the first time he arrived with a scratch or sort of bruise, which truly clutched at your stomach in the wrong way, but although he’d talk about anything— from what he ate for breakfast that day to confessing a pestering fear in his head, he never ever talked about how or why he got hurt. He always managed to steer away from the subject; the sneaky bastard, you’d think to yourself when minutes later you two were thoroughly discussing the best ways to eat an egg. You never budged, though, for you couldn’t bear to lose his trust or him getting mad at you; which hadn’t occurred yet, and you wished to keep it that way. You questioned your decision, however, as you grabbed the box of bandaids hiding under the counter (the bartenders there could frequently be quite clumsy), and grasped one with your fingers. You opened it, detaching the paper from it.

“It’s really nothing,” He continued insisting, trying to erase the creases between your eyebrows. “I just gave the ground a real nice smooch—” He stopped talking when you leaned over to touch his face, your hand cupping his cheek as you smoothed the plaster over his nose.

“I… what?”

“Sorry, it just looked really gross,” You lied, truthfully concerned about his well-being. “You couldn’t go around walking like that.”

“But I can go around walking with a…” He inspected his reflection on the cupboards, squinting to make out the pattern of the bandaid. “Spongebob bandaid on my face. And how is that supposed to heal a bruise?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s alright. I… I like Spongebob. One whiskey served over ice, though, please.”

You scoffed, picking up a glass from the cabinet. “I’ve held myself back from asking, but…” You shut your mouth as you continued preparing his drink, doubt winning its battle again. He tilted his head.

“But?”

“But… how come you’re always getting hurt in some way? It’s kind of concerning,” You laughed nervously, not wanting to reveal how much it truly worried you. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess I’m just really clumsy.”

“This isn’t clumsy, though,” You argued, your forehead furrowed. “This is… getting beat up type of stuff. Is that it? Do you get into street fights or something?”

“No! No, I, uh…” He hesitated, avoiding your gaze. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter searched for words, his mouth ajar. He closed it and rolled his lips. “I want to tell you, I really do, but now is not the time. I promise I will in the future.”

You prepared to question him more, until a tune filled your ears. You raised your hands up to your head, your palms squeezing your temples as you gasped. Peter raised an eyebrow, entertained. “I fucking love this song,” You explained as ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston played on the TV. Peter sat still as he paid attention to the music, confusion glinting in his eyes until he recognized the melody and his body lit up.

“Wait, so do I—”

“Clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade…” You shouted, your head jerked back. Peter put his fist against his mouth, embarrassed by your hilariously terrible singing, but at the same time holding himself back from joining you in your performance. “Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away!” You sang, pointing your finger at him. He muttered an ‘ohmygod’ under his breath, his face beet red.

“I’ve done enough ‘till now, it’s the light of day that shows me how!” You dramatically laid back on the counter, true singer-like style, holding an imaginary microphone up to your mouth. “And when the night falls, loneliness calls…” You turned your head to face Peter and booped his nose, an action which you would undeniably regret once the euphoria of hearing one of your favorite songs ended.

“Ah, fuck it…” He whispered, beaming at you and grabbing your fist to sing into the invisible mic as well. “Oh! I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!” He cried out, his eyes passionately closed and his hand pressed flat against his chest. You scream-laughed at him, holding your torso. However, you quickly rolled onto your stomach, your faces now in close proximity.

“Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!” You both sung into your clenched hand, incredibly out of tune. “Oh! I want to dance with somebody!”

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody...” A customer in the background yelled out. You two exploded with laughter, your head pressed against his cheek and Peter gripping your hand tight.

That night, you sang with somebody you loved.

The end of the year arrived too quickly, and you were disconnecting the plug of the Christmas lights adorning the windows of the bar as you wondered whether you should get Peter a present for the holidays or not. Some new sweatpants, you considered; they were his favorite piece of clothing, you had come to learn, and in the times that he wore a pair, you noticed it was always the same. But you also questioned if it would be bizarre to hand him a gift— you only saw each other at the bar, after all. There weren't any instances where he called you to meet up for lunch, or something similar; and once in a while, you hoped to hear your blaring ringtone and to answer your phone to him. That never happened, though; your relationship would never evolve from the occasional text throughout the week. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even seen him for three weeks, three days, and counting. And, my God, did it sadden you that you knew that. Every time you’d type a greeting along with a question about his whereabouts, you’d stare at the screen of your cell phone for far too long and eventually delete your words— the exact process repeating over and over again. Maybe he’s with his friends or remaining family, you concluded. Hanukkah did end yesterday, stop being so obsessive.

A knock on the door provoked a startled squeak out of you. You jerked your head, confused, because who in the world was knocking on the door at three o’clock in the morning? Your terror was fleeting, however, for behind the foggy glass existed Peter B. Parker’s guilty smile. You exhaled and headed to open the door to shelter him from the violent and raging winter wind outside. He barged in, the tip of his nose the color of raspberries, most likely a repercussion of his poor clothing coverage for the season. “Hey,” He greeted you, rubbing his hands together.

“Wow, I think you got here a little too late,” You teased, folding your arms across your chest. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent that night, not that it surprised you in any shape or form. He leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head on the timber.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He apologized and you shook your head. It was useless. You were aware that there was no chance you could be mad at him for finally visiting you; in fact, you were ridiculously elated to be seeing him at such late hours, in spite of your bed crying out for your company. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you for three weeks and when you do show up, it’s at three A.M.”

“I don’t… know.” You quirked a brow, wondering if he’d had a few too many drinks. “I sort of just walked and my feet got me here.”

“Are you drunk? And did you get in a bar fight or something, because you’ve got a bruise forming under your jaw and it looks too animalistic to be a hickey,” You asked with a gesture of your hand toward his face, relieved the jealousy didn’t bleed through your voice if the latter turned out to be more than a mere speculation. The scarlet on his nose spread to his cheeks. “I hope not, because that would mean you cheated on me by going to another bar.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Nah, I wouldn’t ever do that to you.” You walked up to him and patted his shoulder, congratulating him for his great response but also to move him away from the window to check if it was closed. “I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Awfully long.”

You still didn’t get an answer to why he was out so late, but you didn’t have the energy to continue budging. “Yeah, same.” You whispered, lifting a chair to place it upside down on a table.

“Wanna talk about it?” You looked at him confused. “Your day?”

“I would, but, uh, I kinda have to close this place. Y'know, it’s the holidays, so we’re not open 24/7 because my boss likes spending time with her family,” You explained, hearing his understanding hums. “Everyone already left and I didn’t have anything to do, so I promised her I would do it for her.”

He moved to stand opposite to you and copied your actions of setting the chairs atop the table. “That’s not safe— you being here alone, I mean. I can help!” He offered, as if a random spike of energy flourished in him.

Your brows drew together. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He paused in the midst of reversing a seat, the furniture cradled in his chest like a baby. “Yeah, but so should you. It won’t hurt to sacrifice one hour of sleep just to help a friend,” He smirked, shrugging.

You allowed him to give you a hand in arranging the place, not that you had much of a choice, anyway; he would’ve done it nonetheless despite your refusals. Thirty minutes later, you were standing outside, your body aching tremendously. Peter noticed your soreness and, before you could even react, he was lowering the roll-up gate. “I could’ve helped with that,” You mumbled as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Don’t want you breaking your back, grandpa.”

He laughed, shoving his hands inside his jacket’s pockets. “I’m a cute grandpa, though, right?” He asked with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes.

“Hm, yeah, a total gilf.”

“Gilf?”

“Yeah, you know, like a ‘dilf’ but instead of a dad it’s a grandpa.” You both giggled as you began to walk to who knows where, visible breaths leaving your mouths like small dragons puffing out smoke. 

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. “Oh snap, I forgot!” He turned around with a questioning brow. “My car broke down, so I have to take the subway back home.” You explained, nudging your head back at the green stairs heading down to the metro station. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Y/N, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think going to the subway this late is such a smart idea.”

You rocked on your heels. “Yeah, but… how else am I gonna get home? You want me to sleep in the bar?”

His gaze shifted as he pondered, grunting. “Do you, uh… do you want to go to my place?”

Your stomach clenched, your heart starting a run when you heard his suggestion. He doesn’t mean it that way, you idiot,  you scolded yourself. Yet you wished he did. “...Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks away from here, like a ten-minute walk.” There was a prolonged silence as you entered deep in thought, making him panic and stutter. “T-that’s if you want to, though. Don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“No, Pete, I…” You stopped him, grinning. “I mean, you sure?”

“Yeah,” He clapped his hands and held them together up to his chest. “Why not?”

“I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Cool! Uh, cool.. just… c’mon,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and you began your trek to his apartment, your shoes thudding lightly against the concrete of the sidewalk, wet due to the rain two hours ago.

“Thanks…” You started, wiggling your fingers, numb from the bitter cold, but to wake yourself up as well. “I actually am sort of terrified of taking the train, so I’m glad you offered. I’ll sleep on the couch, don’t worry—”

“What? No! No, I’ll take the couch, you’re the guest.”

“No, no, no, I insist—”

“Y/N.” You looked up at him, a teasing smile on his face. “You keep the bed. Plus, the change of place will be nice.” You groaned, your eyes closed.

“You’re such a great dude: offering me to sleep at your place so I don’t get mugged and shit, and here I am, stealing your probably comfy bed.” You then moaned, your eyes going blank. “Bed. God, just thinking about sleeping really turns me on right now.”

He huffed softly, bumping into your side. “What… what’s happened, though? We haven’t seen each other for a hot minute.”

You looked heavenward, your mouth ajar as you tried to recall your previous three weeks. “Mm, well, I honestly can’t even remember if I had breakfast or not— oh!” You exclaimed rather sleepily. “Well, this pretty boy working at a Taco Bell I went to asked me out on a date.”

“Oh?” He scrunched his brows together and you hummed. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

“No?! Why not?”

“I just…” Your eyes darted up to his curious ones, your face softening after inspecting him for a while, but not long enough to embarrass yourself. “I don’t know. Wasn’t feeling him, y’know?” He nodded comprehensively. “What ‘bout you?”

His entire mood shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he nibbled on his bottom lip, his jaw tightened. “I… I saw MJ today.” Your heart broke.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what, like, you two met somewhere?”

“No, more like ‘saw her coming out of the coffee shop while crossing the street and then a pedestrian yelled at me because I was standing in the way’.” He grumbled. You didn’t know what got in you, but you grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He glanced down at your linked hands and then up at you. That’s when you instantly let go, your pinkies still connected for a bit until completely detaching. You were too busy ogling the ground to see his fingers searching for yours.

“You’ll be alright one day,” You cleared your throat, a bashful smile on your face. “You’ll figure this out.”

He prevented you from continuing with your walk with a hand on your shoulder. You hesitantly turned your body to face him, gulping. Oh, no— you worried, your heart picking up its pace again— did the hand holding make him uncomfortable? Is he now gonna question me? Why am I such a damn idiot? But then you saw his dilated pupils, and your mouth went dry. “I…” He began.

“You… okay?” You questioned when his stare lingered on you. He blinked, his arm dropping by his side as he coughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, that was weird. I’m just—”

“—tired.” You finished for him and he scoffed, giving you a half-smile.

“Wow, you know me so well,” He joked, and scratched the back of his neck, pointing at the building you two stood in front of. “Uh, this is where I live.”

“Oh!” You spun around, studying the apartment complex. It appeared simple: not too big or small, modest-looking. “That was faster than I expected.”

“Yeah…” He muttered as he climbed up the stairs, holding the door open for you when he reached the top.

The man’s apartment was tiny, somewhat too messy, you decided; there was an empty pizza box on his bed, and he awkwardly dumped it in the trash can when you two walked in, apologizing for the mess. You sat on his bed and he stood at your feet, stroking his neck. "Do you want some clothes? I can give you a shirt or some—” You stopped him when he turned to go to his dresser, gently pulling his arm. “What?” You continued to wordlessly tug on his sleeve until he sat next to you, sighing deeply. Slowly, you leaned backwards until your back bounced on his mattress. Peter’s confused by your actions, but you simply patted the area behind him. He got the message and lied down on the rumpled sheets. 

You looked at each other, a few inches apart, yet for some odd reason, you felt closer to him. Perhaps you could blame the different location, or the way in which your silent gazes stayed on each other. Somehow, you were both alright with it. No discomfort took ahold of either of you as you remained like that for a while, no words or sounds other than the city outside, both later with your eyes closed. To your embarrassment, you were on the brink of dozing off, but you couldn’t help it; you drowned in tranquility, and the exhaustion of your body cooperated— it was surprising you hadn’t fallen asleep yet. You could hear Peter’s steady breathing, and his voice brought you back to consciousness when he spoke. “Y/N?” It was soft, softer than your pillows back at home. Softer than your lonesome bed. You acknowledged him with a mumble, opening one eyelid. His eyes were almost shut, but you could still see the glimmer in his dark eyes. His whiskey eyes. “You’re really nice.”

Your eyes sealed closed again. “You’re really nice too, Pete.”

“No, but…” His sentence died out and he did not continue for a long period. You believed he had fallen into a slumber until he talked again. “You’re really nice. Like that hot chocolate I had in the morning while I was freezing type of nice.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to pass out, but I don’t get it.” When you blinked your eyes as wide as you could, he was closer than before. Closer than ever. You took the chance to discover, note every part of his face more closely, every freckle, every lash, his growing stubble. Everything.

“What I mean is that… you really bring warmth to my life, Y/N. Not to sound too cheesy like I usually do, or anything. But everything’s a mess and you’re there, and I’m glad about that.”

“You’re just tired.”

“Yes, but a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“There’s really no difference.”

You could now feel his breath on your face. It was as if with every flicker of your eyelids, he had managed to inch nearer to your body. “Pete…”

“Y/N…” Your lips were roughly touching. You felt his arm slip around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your prickling back.

“We can’t do this.” You said, regardless of your hand cradling his neck. Your foreheads were now touching.

“Why not?”

“Because…” You tried to claim that he was your customer, but you truly did not care about it anymore, and you never did. “What about Mary Jane?”

He hesitated for a moment. “What about Mary Jane?”

“You still want her back.” You breathed out, your body quivering as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks.

“I can forget about her just tonight.”

You kissed. Your lips remained interlocked for a few moments, the both of you too tired to move them. It was like sixth-graders kissing for the first time— a lingering peck on the lips. But an energy sparked within you, and you moved your lips. Soon, you were on top of his body, your shirt almost completely off except for one of your arms still inside one sleeve, your fingers desperately tangled in his greying hair, his crooked nose bumping with yours. He didn’t taste like whiskey or ice, but he did taste like a year of laughing with each other in the bar, and him not noticing as you slowly fell for him.

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 8

Warnings: Language. Fluff.

A/N: OHHHH, CHAPTER 8, HOW I LOVE YOU. This is one of my favorite chapters in the entire book, and I only hope you do enjoy it! It’s Colton and Liv, intimately behind closed doors, just how I like them. AND, DRUM ROLL.....You’ll even get a little insight into the mind of our boy Colton Ritter!!!

(GIFS FROM GOOGLE)

I hadn’t attempted to track Colton down once the weigh in concluded. He had hands to shake, and plenty of pictures to pose for. And as for me, there were a few colleagues I needed to speak with amongst the mass of people as well, before stealing away to him upstairs. Kate was on the list, a reporter for one of the local television news stations, who happened to live in the same apartment complex as I did. We weren’t tight pals by any means, but always spoke in passing every morning before work, and there was the occasional invitation to her flat for a drink to unwind. As a matter of fact, it seemed unwinding was precisely what Kate had in mind this particular evening, too. Her whining insistence on sharing a Cosmo in the lounge wouldn’t cease unless I caved. But, I was certain to make it a clear point that I only had time for ONE quick drink, and discreetly sent Colton a text to inform him I may be arriving a little behind schedule. 

As promised, Kate let me part after a single drink order and some simple small talk over some perfectly salted mixed nuts. We exchanged predictions on how we thought tomorrow night would go and where she had bought the camel colored satchel bag she was displaying in the seat next to her. Then, out of the sheer goodness of my heart, I even sat quietly listening to the horror story of her latest blind date mishap. Bless that poor girl, she really was a catch. Confident, very intelligent, lightyears ahead of other anchors in the city her age. To most men though, her every quality was one that intimidated their sensitive ego, making it a struggle to find a match who would encourage her success, rather than smother it.

I left her alone in the bar with her sorrows, honestly feeling a bit bad for abandoning her to drown them, then aimlessly wandered to find the elevator. Thankfully, I reach Colton’s floor without any company in the confines of the metal box. Creepy, awkward elevator conversation was #4 on the list of things I hated as much as cherry licorice.  I walked down the lengthy hallway lined with plum and green patterned carpet, then patted two light knocks on room 1893, and waited zealously. My toes patted in anticipation, and my lips buzzed a bit from the leftover coating of my stout Cosmopolitan.  The door opened surprisingly quick after my tapping by a handsome fellow adorning a pair of light grey boxer shorts.

“Damn, I was really hopin’ you were that pizza I ordered from downstairs.”

I kicked the door open further sending him back to hit the papered wall to the left, and he snuffled from a closed mouth grin.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I snarled. “And come on now, Ritter. You can’t be opening your door looking like that. You’ll have the maids brawling for who gets to bring up your extra towels.” I gestured a hand toward him, alluding to his quite painfully sexy, underwear model-esque appearance.

The tv was muted on ESPN, only a gold desk lamp casting light into the rather large room. A king size bed stationed closest to the wall with the double windows, covers unturned, and curtains drawn. Faint music danced over my ears, something from the classic rock genre. Journey, maybe? Our taste in music had thankfully been another similarity discovered sometime in the days of our courtship. I bent over removing one shoe at a time, to hurl them in the corner. I so loved my beautiful collection of pumps, but my feet could only take small doses. My ankles begged for my past preference of high-top tennis to return.

“So, I thought we’d just hang out in bed. Watch a movie or somethin’? I kinda just wanna relax. Unless you wanna go out? I can get dressed.” His words offered to go out, but his crooked eyebrow & pursed lips said otherwise.

“Staying in is perfect, babe. As long as you promise to share that pizza you’ve got comin’. Black olives?”

“Yep. Jalapeños only on my half.” It was miracle. I had found a man who compromised on the most important thing in my life. Food.

“You know the way to my heart, Colt.” I smoothed tiny circles with my flattened hand over the comforter of the bed, enticing him to join me. Rather than lightly crawling up next to me, he lunged wildly to flop weightlessly in the empty spot.

“I brought ya’ a t-shirt if you wanna change. It’s in my bag by the bathroom, I think. Figured you’d be wearin’ one of those sexy lil’ business suits you’re always prancin’ around in t’ torture me.” He reiterated his remark by grazing the small line of my exposed stomach. “I didn’t want cha’ to be uncomfortable all night.”

“All night? Is that an invitation? Whatever on earth would make you think I’d want to spend the night in this gorgeous hotel room with you, Colton?” I threw a hand to my chest and closed my eyes in a prudish manner.

“ ‘Cause you, Liv Caroline Elliot, just cannot resist me.”

Although he was right, I wasn’t about to give in defeatedly and just admit guilt. He always gave an effort to come off so self-confident, and poised even, like he himself was the holy grail to mankind. Somewhat similar to how Mendez carried himself. But, I was well aware it was all an exterior front for the twisted, emotional mess he was inside. He was like one of those candies with the crunchy, seemingly unbreakable shell that had smooth filling in the middle. By this point I had pretty well pulverized that outer layer, and it really wasn’t as difficult as imagined.

“You’re just so sure about that, aren’t ya’? But I think I could say the same when it comes to you, my overly confident friend.” One finger prodded his flexed peck.

“I think we both know I can’t resist ya’, two-one. And I ain’t a bit scared to say so.” I had sat up ready to climb from the bed and retrieve the t-shirt he mentioned, but was immediately yanked in a near whiplash motion down on top of him. He gave me a look that I wished I could bottle up and carry in my purse every day. It was a look of total admiration, torturous passion, and loving fulfilment. There were no smiles, or laughing from either of us. The room was simply clouded with a haze of love so thick it was nearly visible to the human eye. I grazed my nose to his, not daring to disrupt the conversation our eyes were exchanging, and kissed him with opened lids. It was returned, with his addition of a spirited squeeze to my tail. One thing I had noted about Colton, was he could draw me into the deepest depths of a moment, hold it for delayed second or two, then undoubtedly jerk away from the overwhelming rush of emotion like he had been stung by an angry bee. But I’d wait for him to open the heavy iron gate to that conversation regarding his slightly detached demeanor.

“I love you, Colt.”

“And I love you, gorgeous. Now, go’n get changed. Imma pick a movie for us.”

The path of my outfit left behind me was enough payback for the little winking stunt he pulled earlier at the weigh in.

By the time I appeared from the bathroom, the pizza had been delivered, the covers turned back, a 6-pack on the night stand, and an unbelievably attractive man awaiting me. My makeup washed off and hair knotted into a messy bun, I was pant-less wearing a baggy soft t-shirt that smelled of Colton’s bodywash, and ready to sink into bed with him. I didn’t want tomorrow to come because I was certain there was no way it could measure up to this.  

“Okay, so we got The Purge, or one of my personal favorites, the classic Harold & Kumar go to White Castle. You pick.”

“Shouldn’t we watch something like Fight Club, or, I don’t know… Rocky instead? That seems more your style.” I suggested raising one knee on the bed to boost myself up into the chill of the sheets. I loved the way his tanned, furry legs looked bold against the bleached white of the bedsheets.

“Although Rocky does top my movie list any day of the week, I can watch things that don’t involve fist to face violence, you punk. I ain’t a total adrenaline whore. I’ll have you know that I even saw The Notebook. Twice.” He informed me very matter of factly.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here & say that date ended very well for you.” My mouth mimicked the act of vomit thinking about the lines he cooed into the ears of that poor girl causing her to all but leap into bed with him.

“Is somebody jealous? C’mon now, babe. Past is the past.”

There had only been one suitor he had been semi-serious with previously. Her name was Amber, they dated for 6 months, and he caught her in the locker room at Mac’s in a quite compromising position with his Physical Therapist. That was really all the details he shared, & it was definitely all I needed to hear. However, I knew his lack of romantic relationships was plenty compensated by his plethora of casual sex partners. The fact that he was experienced was extremely clear to me after that night in the ring at the gym. He worked fervently taking metal notes of what dips in my skin he could kiss that caused a gentle hum of pleasure, and which ones caused an almost violent writhing. 14 partners in his twenty-six years, a number I was far from comfortable with, but it wasn’t about to send me running scared either.

“Your past just seems to be a lot more.. eventful than mine.”  I admitted placing the sweating beer bottle between my greasy lips, and dropped my head in sheepish discomfort.

“First of all, you know damn well that don’t mean shit to me. You gotta think more of me than that, Livvy. ‘N second, that’s just all the more fun I get to have bein’ your little teacher, huh?” Both brows raised and fell in unison at his perverse inuendo.

“Get over yourself, PUH-LEASE.”

By this very crude point in the conversation, he’d eaten his entire hearty side of the pizza in addition to two slices of my black olive half, and I was 3 beers deep. The chatting began rolling so immensely, the tv remained off, and instead we’d left his iPod to shuffle at random through his vast array of musical tastes. We prodded question upon question about the other, shoveling for every fiber of detail we could harvest.  I was stunned in utter disbelief that he had never even been out of the country, and he seemed nearly repulsed in the discovery that I still wasn’t a Steelers fan despite living in The Burgh for coming up on three years. At some point I can’t recall, he stepped from the bed to open the drawn curtains, exposing the twinkling illuminations of the still very lively city even at the hour approaching 1 a.m.

He observed the world below him like he had created this kingdom himself. Colton was Pittsburgh through and through down to the marrow, and I wouldn’t change it for all the money in the world. The grouping of blue moonlight and changing street lights coated him in a glow almost angelic. He was laid smooth on his back, a bended arm beneath is pillow, and I laid in sideways position with my head situated across the rippling muscles of his inked abdomen, his fingers twirled lazily around an escaped hair from my updo. With passing minutes his words slowly developed a raspy, almost thorny tenor and his answering and asking of questions now more dawdled. He was like a tenacious child battling the certain feeling of sleep that enraptured him, afraid he may miss a revelation of crucial importance if he dozed off.

“Baby, I know I haven’t told you, but I want ya’ to know your article is really, really excellent. And I’m damn proud a’ ya’.“

I was confused at the compliment since he hadn’t read as much as one sentence from my piece yet. “Colt, it’s not even done yet. And how would you know since you’ve yet to see it, ya’ goof.”

“It’s your work, Liv. You’re a natural, kinda like me with fighting, ya’ know? It’s what we do best. And besides, you’re always sayin’ how proud you are of me, so I want ya’ to know someone feels that way about you, too. You got no idea how amazing you really are, do ya’ girl?”

His compliments nearly made tears spill from my welling eyes. This simple, yet so utterly perplexing man loved me to his core. I could feel it in his words right that second, and in the way his scarred knuckles brushed my cheek sending a shockwave of serenity to my soul. I had never fallen so deeply for someone in such a way, much less in just a few months’ time, and I was honestly terrified at every feeling I harbored for him. I shifted to rest my palms on his chest making eye contact with his flecked eyes.

“Why are you always so good to me, huh? Better be careful, babe.. People may think you’re going soft.” I warned, raising my brows to appear concerned.

“Oh, but you’ll be able to assure them that Colton Ritter is far, farrrrr from soft, baby…” One swift, lascivious movement now rendered me pinned at my sides by both wrists under two strong, veined hands. Although the act seemed to be hinting toward a much more lustful direction, he simply touched his lips to the corner of my slightly gaped mouth with a single extended kiss, lilting a melodious “I love you.”

                                                        Colton

She dozed off an hour or so before I had. The barely noticeable, gentle buzzing of her snoring mouth gave her away. The cotton-like thickness of my dry tongue screamed for a drink shortly after, so I had to scoot her head from crease of my arm, careful not to pull on the hair fluffed on top of her head. She had wallowed trying to get comfortable, I’m sure the damn hardness of my bicep wasn’t the best replacement for a pillow, and tangled strands of her blonde hair were brushing over her lashes. I often wished maybe I could give the gym a little break, and soften up a bit. Just so she’d be able to sleep tucked into my chest at night without feeling like she’d get a black eye if I moved the wrong way.

My high-school wresting t-shirt she slept in climbed up her belly, exposing more of the clean shade of white boy-shorts she wore underneath, and a teasing curve of the underside of her breast. I had seen my fair share of naked women in life, more beyond Liv’s level of comfort. But her? Damn it… She wasn’t Playboy, plastic lipped, and chiseled from head to toe like most empty fuckers like me would look for. Liv’s beauty was more palatable, and desirable to the real man. Beauty that maybe most people would miss out on. But me? She entranced me the minute she stabbed me with those emerald green eyes.

Her buttery soft skin, her blonde hair usually wild like the winds of Chicago. Not the kitchen sink blonde like you’d see down at the infested strip clubs downtown either. No, this was the sunshine yellow she was born with. Sandy, smooth blonde intertwined with some strands of caramel like the inside of a chewy candy bar..

Her perfect, pink, creamy buds painted rosy circles on the inside of the thin cotton of her shirt, and I thought very much that she might’ve been the sexiest thing I had ever seen. The screaming hard on pinned under my boxers said so. And despite the trickle of drool out the side of her slumbering mouth, and the smearing black of yesterday’s makeup stained under her eyes, I couldn’t look away. As if I’d even want to. And hell, if I wasn’t in love with this Indiana girl in every sense of the word.

                                                         Liv

Despite my desperate prayers for time to halt for just one night, it insisted on passing into the morning. I had slid from the bed just before dawn to close the dark curtains of the room, wanting to make sure he got undisturbed, restful sleep for what this day was going to require from him. And selfishly, it as also an attempt to keep our room as black as the unexplored ocean, foolishly thinking maybe the rising sun would just pass us by if I didn’t allow its light in. We had eventually forced ourselves to sleep the night before, after several attempts to kiss goodnight. One kiss, lead to three more, which lead to fifteen more, each holding more and more desire to carry those kisses elsewhere over the span of the other persons body. But, painfully so, I squandered it insisting he better get some shut eye.

Now, the digital clock on the nightstand closest to his side of the bed flashed 5:49 a.m., and I expected his internal clock to start stirring him very soon. From the sliver of dawn intruding through the minimal crack of the patterned drapes, I watched him sleep. Admired would be a better word. His lids smoothly sealed, no crinkles of struggle about them, and his mouth gently puckered. I made mental note of his naturally suntanned, unscathed face in the state it was now, knowing full well tonight would render it not so.  There were no bruises, no splits in his lips, no blackened eyes. He was the nearest thing to physical perfection I had ever laid eyes on. I hoped he couldn’t sense my focused staring.

Suddenly, I felt a growing itch in my nose, a building sneeze approaching. Trying at all costs to avoid waking his lifeless form, I pinched my nostrils shut in effort to trap the noise from escaping. However, the harsh flinch my body released sent a jolt over the entire mattress. Colt inhaled a loud, groggy breath and stretched his hand to grasp for my side of the bed.

“Hey, you,” he said rubbing the rest from his waking eyes.

The hearty drift of his accent from the hours of 4 to 9 a.m. could very near send me straight into orgasm.

“Sorry, babe. I tried not to wake you.”

He rolled over to face me dragging his arm around my waist to pull me into his chest, I smiled and draped a bare leg over his warm body.

“I ain’t got no problem at all gettin’ woken up by the likes a’ you, baby.” He crowded me with a drowsy kiss, his tongue curling slightly under my top lip. I could feel him rattle with laughter at the sensual pant he sucked out of me.

“You’re not so bad yourself, sir. How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby with a full belly. You?”

I kicked back the covers, breaking the wall of warmth it had closed around us and scooted to raise on the edge of the bed.

“Great. I’m thinking of getting one of these mattresses for my place. It may take up every inch of my entire bedroom, but it’d be well worth it.”

“Hey hey hey, where you think you’re going, little lady?!” Colton was propped on both arms, scowling at me under a lined forehead. “You ain’t even gonna have breakfast with a man? I feel so cheap.”

Always so witty, this one. “I just assumed you had a lot on your agenda today, Colt. I don’t want to hover.”

I was puzzled constantly over when to stick around, and when to leave him be. Appear as committed, but not obsessed. Interested but not overbearing. I had never been with an older man before, were the rules different?  Sure, he was only 26 to my almost 23, but nonetheless older. Did the “hard to get rule” expire with men in their late-twenties?

“Livvy, stop worryin’, baby. Mornings before a fight are actually pretty laid back. I’ll spend most of the day with my headphones in my ears, prolly take a dip in the jacuzzi,” he was rolling his eyes, motioning his hands back and forth to explain the boring schedule of his day. “Then, meet the guys in Mac’s room to talk things out before we head to the venue. So, at least lemme order us some room service so I can enjoy breakfast with my girl, ight? Unless you got somethin’ else I could eat for breakfast? It’s the most important meal of the day, y’know…”

Damn this pig. This sexy, magnificently tantalizing pig.

I hurled the hotel menu on the desk speedily toward him, “Cold shower, Ritter. Cold shower.”

If he wanted breakfast in bed with me, who I was I to deny? Rolling my puffy morning eyes at him, I crept back into bed.

“Waffles, please! And bacon. Oh! Fruit on the side, too. And coffee. Don’t forget coffee.”

Like he said, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?

The man was impressed with my appetite for food, among other things as well. “Yes, ma’am!” he obliged. “Anythin’ else for the princess?”

“Maybe some whipped cream? For the waffles, of course….”

I was even surprised at myself for the boldness he brought out in me. Sex was a very.. taboo thing back home. Matter of fact, I never even got “the talk” from my parents, and instead was left to the uneducated murmurs of my fellow sheltered classmates. But with Colton, I felt audacious when it came to the topic. Mind you, the things he said most of the time could sent me blushing under the table, but I was growing more comfortable with his dirty remarks and was even starting to throw in my own ornery overtone on occasion.

“Oh shit. You a damn tease, Liv Elliott. A dirty, dirty tease.”

Our indulgent spread of breakfast variety was carted to the door in a very prompt fashion. I obviously indulged more than he, devouring two Belgian waffles, 3 strips of the crispiest peppered bacon I’d ever had the pleasure of eating, a grapefruit, and two cups of coffee. He enlightened me that he could’ve eaten every morsel in front of him, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to cram all the carbs and fat into his stomach, in case it made him feel sluggish. So, regretfully it was egg whites, two slices of dry wheat toast, and a protein shake for him. I did entice him to take just one bite of my syrup sopped waffle though.

“Sheesh, I’m gonna need a solid nap later to recover from that overload.” I crashed backwards onto the feather pillow behind me, crossing my hands over the settling food baby in my stomach.

“Hey, do me a favor will ya’? Wear that sexy fuckin’ leather jacket o’ yours I like so much tonight? I know I won’t see ya’ before the fight, but I want you to wear it out to celebrate after. My little badass, front-page writer out on the town.” He was kissing my individual fingertips one at a time.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out then.” My gut bubbled with hope that tonight would bring to pass every detail he had said. Him, the newly crowned Middleweight Champ on my arm, and me, the newest front-page writer for the Pitt Pilot. Could life be that perfect for us?

“Course. A man with a plan.”  I admired how he trampled every aspect of life with blinding confidence, and I wished he could somehow hypnotize me to do the same. “As much as I hate to leave good company, babe, I should get home. Let you get all angry and pouty and what not.” I sighed into a near pout, sincerely wishing I could spend the entire day as a part of his prep team.

“You’re probably right, baby doll. I can’t believe Mac ain’t been here beatin’ my door down yet.”

I was gathering my day-old clothes to redress, and Colt rose to begin lightly packing his gym bag. He threw in an unfolded change of shorts, his red headphones, then I saw him pick up the gloves I’d gifted him.

“C’mere, two-one..” I zipped my khakis up and lifted my hair out from under the neck of my shirt, then obliged to his request. He held one glove in each hand and squared them even to my chin. 

“Kiss ‘em for luck?”

My heart hiccupped, and I topped his hands with mine and dipped my puckered lips to the padded mitts with an audible “mwah.”

“That’s it. The magic touch! The final nail in that jackoff Mendez’s coffin. A kiss of luck from my girl. Now, got one more kiss on that pretty little mouth for these?” he begged, one finger pointing to his own sinful lips.

I closed in on him with fierce eye contact. “I think I may have just one little measly kiss left in here somewhere for you, champ.”

My mouth was so close to his that the words nearly vibrated off of his parting lips, and I gently cupped his dimpled cheek. It was a lethal concoction made of salaciousness and loving romance that was slowly poisoning my entire body with bliss. Colton’s hand swept down the side of my head, combing through the tangled hair he had gathered it into his fist at the back of my neck. I was locked to him and I never knew being captured could feel so, so good. My tongue covered almost every surface in his mouth, mapping it out. He withdrew and I could feel his lips spreading upward into a smile.

“Wow. I think I may need to drown myself in an ice bath now. A cold shower ain’t gonna wipe that one outta my mind.”

I was pleased that I had to same affect on him, and his did on me.

“Good luck tonight. You don’t need it. You’ve got this. Step into that cage ready to battle. Clear eyes, okay? I love you, Colt.”

“Clear eyes. I got it, baby. And I love you too, Elliott. More than you fuckin’ know.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

[dragonwitch77]

Shadow Girl ch 3

The rolling wheels of metal clanking on steel rails was a constant sound that most of the Express Owls were used to hearing. The more quiet and peaceful sounds that were rare to hear on the train. It was so rare that it actually surprised most of the passengers that they had gone this long without a single explosion going off or the conductor’s voice yelling through the speakers since the train left the station.

It was very concerning for the owls.

This wasn’t normal by standers. Usually around this time, the conductor had some movie planed out that would guarantee the endangerment of every passengers lives. But so far nothing had happened yet.

No bombs. No knives. No poor Express Owls running for their lives. No angry yelling.

Nothing.

This honestly put every bird more on edge than ever before. Everyone knew about the train’s conductor, everyone knew he was not the type for just calm train rides. They knew he wasn’t the one for sitting back and relaxing. Or following the rules.

There must be something he was up to today. Something big. And loud. And a hundred percent dangerous!

If it were true that is.

Most of the owls hadn’t noticed it yet, but the train had not stopped moving since it had left the station. The train was passing all the regular stops, not letting anyone on or off, and just kept going. The few that had noticed were slightly alarmed if not confused.

It was clear that the conductor had some place in mind to get to, but not stopping at all the stations? That raised a few bells.

Normally, the first thing that came to mind for the conductor’s odd behavior was the possibility of a movie in the making. The conductor had a long streak for making movies the centered or had some mention of the Owl Express in them. There was probably not a single movie that didn’t have at least one or two scenes of the train in them.

But if any of them had noticed something off about today, if any one of the passengers had taken the time to look around and observe their surroundings, if anyone had noticed that there was something new about the train this very day, it would probably make sense to what was going on today.

The Owl Express was rightly named so since all its passengers were, well, owls. Today however, there was one passenger who was not an owl. The passenger was a human, dressed in a fine dark suit, seated next to a window while calmly reading a newspaper. The man looked young, around his twenties if anyone had to guess. His hair was spiky, brown, and short, brushed to one side of his head so that his right eye was covered by the strains. A fedora sat on top his head with a small flower accessory of a single Begonia surrounded by Buttercups pinned on one side.

Handsome was a most common thought when others saw his face, along with mysterious. Indeed, this man had some catching qualities about him. He had a face that looked calm and collected, yet others could feel a sort of mystery around him when they laid on upon him. As if there was something about him that he kept secret and hidden from the world.

“E-excuse me?” The man looked up from his newspaper. An owl, wearing a white coat and thick round glasses, nervously tapped his finger/feathers together, looking this way and that. “U-um. I-If it’s not t-too much t-trouble to a-ask, but um, c-can I sit h-here? I w-would unders-stand if you—”

“It’s no trouble.” The man smiled, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

“O-Oh! Th-thank you!” The owl smiled nervously, sliding into the booth. “Th-there weren’t any other o-open available s-seats. The c-conductor usually p-pulls up at my s-stop, b-but he hasn’t m-made any of the r-regular s-stops today.”

“That might be my fault.” The man said, folding his newspaper and tucking it away in his suit. “You see, I had made some arrangements today on a short notice. I hadn’t intended for the passengers here to miss their stops.”

“I-It’s no trouble.” The owl waved his winged dismissively with an easy smile. “B-Believe it or n-not, the c-conductor does this a-all the time. I’m just s-surprised that he h-hasn’t blown anyth-thing up yet! K-Kind of relieved a-actually.”

The man hummed, leaning against the table with a soft smile on his face. “Well, I did have to pay a fine amount of pons to convince him for a safe ride. But.” He glanced out the window. “I’m sure we’ll be stopping soon. Just for a small moment to pick up a friend of mine.”

“I d-don’t recall there b-being any s-stops this far o-out.” The owl looked out the window as well. “E-Especially since i-it’s near… there.” His voice got quiet near the end, sinking into the booth’s seat.

“Near where?”

“Y-you know.” The owl muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”

The owl muttered again. Much quieter than before.

“Could you please raise your voice just a smidgen? I don’t think I heard—”

“SUBCON FOREST!” The owl blurted out. He slapped his wings over his beak, looking out to the other passengers. Wide eyes were staring at the pair, though the man noted how their faces had the look of fear on all of them, like the owl had said something that was not too be mentioned and broken an important rule.

“… I take it that it’s not a nice place then?” The man asked, looking back at the owl in front of him.

“n-no.” The owl sunk in his seat further. “i-it’s not.”

The man hummed, gazing out the window. “Well, I hate to break this to you, but that’s exactly where this train is stopping at.”

The air inside the rail car went cold. Owls who overheard the man gasped and whispered amongst themselves with notable fear in their tones.

“Is he serious?!”

“The Owl Express stopping at that place?! Doesn’t he realize what’s in there?!”

“This has to be some sort of bad joke!”

“I want my mommy!”

The man raised an eyebrow. He knew owls tended to be nervous and soft spoken, but he had never seen this level of fear in any owl.

“Y-you’re kidding… r-right?” The man looked at his companion, who had sunken so low that only his eyes poked out above the table, their gaze glued on him with fear and denial. “Y-you do kn-know a-about th-th-that p-place, d-don’t you?”

“I’ve heard about it. And I have studied about that forest.” The man placed an elbow on the table, placing his chin on the back of his hand. “Not much info about it sad to say. It does have some… interesting rumors.” He smiled. “But, I rather not try to find out if they’re true or not. I’m only hear to see if my friend has gotten what I needed from that place.”

“W-What would y-you need f-from there? I-If you h-heard of the r-rumors then w-why go anyw-where near th-there?!” The owl nearly screamed, waving his arms/wings about. “O-On a m-more imp-portant note, why s-send your f-f-friend in there?! They c-could be in d-danger or d-dead!”

To the owl’s surprise, the man laughed.

“Don’t be silly, my fine feathered fellow! I took precautions to make sure that he comes back alive.” The man leaned back with a large smile on his face. “I’m not someone who would risk the life of others or selfishly use them for my own purposes. No.” He shook his head. “I make sure to plan things right down to the mark. To have everything go smoothly without fail.”

“B-but you c-can’t just s-send someone in th-there and e-expect them to c-come out again.” The owl rose up, sitting back in his seat again. “Th-that’s like a d-death sentence!”

“Indeed.” The man nodded his head, though his smile remained on his face. “But as I said, I take precautions and safety measures. And, if I am to be quite frank.” He leaned forward, putting a hand against his mouth as if to shield it so only the owl before him could see it move. The owl, for his part, found himself leaning in like an eager child who was about to be told a great big secret. “My friend volunteered to do it and he’s very stubborn to be dissuaded. If he wants to do the task that he thinks he can manage on his own, he’ll never step down, no matter how many times you try to talk him out of it. I think he only does it for the thrill for doing a near impossible task.”

“B-But, can he r-really do it?”

“Well.” The man leaned back, glanced out the window. Outside the window, a dark forest was coming into view. “So far, he hasn’t failed to complete a task yet.”

“A-and, how a-are you s-sure that he’ll b-be okay?”

There was a moment of silence between them, before the man sighed, reaching into his suit and pulling out some paper and a pen. Setting the paper on the table, the man began drawing something on the sheet. “Tell me, what does this picture look like?” He asked when he was done, pointing at the sheet of paper before him.

The owl, confused, adjusted his glasses and leaned down to look at the paper. “A… g-ghost?” He said, staring at the cartoonishly drawn ghost on the paper.

“Precisely. Now.” The man flipped the paper over, drawing something else on the blank sheet. “Say that you are a ghost. It doesn’t matter who or what you are or how you died, you’re a ghost.” The man pointed the end of the pen at a new drawing of a different ghost. “Not much is known about ghosts to this day. And yet, they’ve been around for years. Centuries even.”

He tapped the pen on the table. “For years, ghosts have been the least known creatures in the world. No one knows what they can do or even how to become a ghosts after death, though there have been some ideas floating around that ghosts are a result of a tragic death.” He took out a different paper, drawing a person with a knife in their chest and their soul escaping their body.

“However, some believe that a person’s soul stays behind because they had unfinished business before they died. But these are just speculations. I, however, am more interested to what they can do. You see, since no one knows much about ghosts, there’s not a lot of information about them. Yet, with enough digging, one can find interesting things they had not known before.”

He flipped the paper over, drawing a star shooting across a night sky. “Through this information, I learned that every hundred years, a special star known as Miranda’s Comet.”

The owl perked up at the name. “O-Oh! I’ve h-heard about M-Miranda’s C-Comet! It’s a s-special comet that g-give off a u-unique energy and p-power wave l-length the scientist have d-dreamed of studying. It o-only stays for o-one night sadly.”

“Yes indeed. Only one night when it’s visible. But for a ghost.” The man drew something under the star. “They can sense its presence days before its arrival. And it’s during this time when ghosts sleep.”

The owl blinked in confusion. “S-sleep?”

“Yes. Sleep.” The man fished his drawing, showing it to the owl. “Miranda’s Comet seems to have some sort of effect on them. Putting them in a sort of slumber for about a week. Three days before the comet arrives, the day it arrives, and three days after it has left. Unfortunately, that was all we come find. It doesn’t explain why Miranda’s Comet puts ghosts to sleep, nor why Miranda’s Comet is the only comet that does this.”

The owl studied the picture, blinking as he stared at the drawing of a ghost sleeping under the star. “… A-Are you s-saying you s-sent your f-friend in there th-think Miranda’s C-Comet has put a-all the g-ghosts to s-sleep?”

“To put it frankly, yes. Though, I still didn’t send him in without some confirmation that this was true. A willing soul was kind enough to go in there a day before and come back with not a single scratch or harm to their body. Still.” The man put the picture down, looking out the window. “I made sure he only went in when Miranda’s Comet was right in the earth’s atmosphere just for the safe side.”

“A-and, you’re s-sure he’s alright?”

“Trust me my friend.” The man smiled as the train slowly came to a stop beside the forest, spying a familiar figure standing by the forest’s edge. “He hasn’t failed me yet.”

~~***~~

It was a typical day in Mafia Town.

Bright sun. Seagulls flying. Mafia were walking around doing… whatever Mafia did.

All and all, it was a natural day to young Bow. Aside from the fact that she mainly had to keep a distance from the Mafia and tried her best not to draw any attention to herself along her way down to the small beach.

Gripping her backpack strap tightly, she gingerly made her way down the small sandy beach, hoping that she wasn’t being followed in the exposed daylight. She really didn’t want to cause her friend any more trouble than she was already in. It didn’t hurt to keep looking over her shoulder just to be sure.

Bow considered herself to be a nice girl. A good girl that didn’t get into too much trouble with others. Her friend on the other hand… well, she tended to make a scene when things were considered ‘wrong’ in her eyes.

She wasn’t a bad person. Bow knew her heart was in the right place. It was just that her personality and rashness tended to get her in trouble sometimes that was too big for her to handle on her own.

And ever since the Mafia arrived, things certainly hadn’t been so great for her friend or herself.

“Mu? Are you here?” Bow peeked inside the small cave that her friend had been living in since the Mafia arrived. She was partially surprised that none of the Mafia had found her yet. The hideout wasn’t all that hidden, nor was it hard to find. Yet despite the relatively easy finding of this place, not a single Mafia had found this place.

Either they didn’t have the best seeking skills, or they were just too dumb to notice the crude painting of their leader’s face with a giant red X over it with the repeating words SOD OFF pointed at it. Probably both.

The Mafia weren’t exactly the brightest as far as she had seen. They got confused rather easily and didn’t have the best thought out plans. Big and tough, yes. But not at all that smart.

“Mu?” She called out, looking for her friend. She frowned when she couldn’t spy any sign of her friend anywhere. It was regular to find Mu gone from her hideout, probably out messing with the Mafia or setting up a plan somewhere in town.

“BOO!” Bow jumped as something grabbed her shoulders, making her scream and dive into the cave for cover, hiding herself under her bag. She slowly blinked open her eyes as she heard a familiar laughter reach her ears.

“Mu! That wasn’t funny!” Bow shouted as she got up from the ground and glared at her friend.

Mu, a young blond girl with a matching mustache on her face, continued to laugh, holding her sides as tears started to form in the corners of her eyes. “Come on Bow! That was funny! You need to lighten up more!”

Bow puffed out her cheeks. “You know I don’t like being snuck up on! It doesn’t help that the Mafia are making things worse for me! Do you know how many times I have to keep looking behind myself when I come to visit you?!”

Mu’s laughter started to die down, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Alright, I’m sorry.” She smiled, placing her hands on her hips. “Still, you’ve got to be more on guard. If I can sneak up on you that easy, then who knows what else might!”

“I know, and I try! It’s just…” Bow shifted her feet in the sand. “Hard.”

“Well you’re not helping me get anywhere close to defeating the Mafia with that attitude!” Mu walked up to her friend, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “We need to build up your courage Bow! The quicker you build up your nerves, the quicker we’ll be rid of these brutes! Speaking of which, how’s your grandma doing? Have the Mafia been giving her anymore trouble?”

Bow shook her head, brushing off Mu’s arm and taking off her backpack. “No. They’ve been keeping a distance from her for now. Which I think is good for me and Gran for the time being.” She opened her backpack, taking out a brown bag and handing it to Mu. “She also made extra last night and thought you would like some.”

“Sweet! What did she make?” Mu tore open the bag, reaching inside and taking out a container.

“Beef stew. And some pumpkin bread.”

Mu whooped with joy. “Awesome! Your grandma is the best!”

“She tries. She’s just worried about you since you’re the only person left since the Mafia arrived and, well, you’re still a kid.” Bow took out another brown bag, filled with the same things Mu’s bag was filled with.”

“Hey! I’m not just a kid!” Mu huffed, opening the container and dumping some of the stew in her mouth. “Mm ma mormimer!”

Bow crack a smile at her friend’s antics. “You know Gran packed some forks in your bag, right?” She took out her own plastic fork for Mu to see.

Mu rolled her eyes, swallowing the stew. “Let’s try to stay focus here. I’ve got a new plan to get rid of the Mafia this time!”

“You’re not going to plan on strangling them with their ties like last time right?” Bow asked, sitting herself down on the sand.

“Pfft, no. That was the old plan. THIS plan will definitely drive all the Mafia away once and for all!”

Bow rolled her eyes, but listened as her friend went over her new plan against the Mafia while she enjoyed her meal. She understood why Mu was so determined to get rid of all the Mafia. She did! She remembered it like was just yesterday.

That day had been normal. Bright, sunny, enjoying the nice breeze while walking around the market looking for everything on the list her Gran had given her. She had just finished half of it when the Mafia arrived and started taking over the island. Logic told her to run and find Gran, which she did.

From that day, only she, Gran, and Mu were the only ones left from the island since the Mafia arrived. She didn’t know what happened to everyone else, and she hoped that they were okay.

“—and that’s how we’ll be rid of the Mafia! Once and for all!” Mu finished her little plan ranting, looking proud of herself. “There’s still a few things that need to be worked on before we can put our plan into action, and tomorrow night is going to be tric—”

“Wait, when?” Bow blinked, not sure if she heard Mu correctly.

“Tomorrow night. The Mafia plan on making this HUGE fireworks show in celebration of some rock flying through the sky.”

“That soon?!” Bow felt a deep pit form in her stomach. “Don’t you think that you’re rushing a bit?”

“It would have been rushing it if they had the fireworks show tonight when the rock thing is here, buut apparently the ship full of fireworks doesn’t come till tomorrow.” Mu shrugged. “I’m kind of glad though. I plan to watch the sky tonight and I don’t want some stinky Mafia messing it up!” She paused a moment. “Are you staying up to watch the comet?”

“W-well, yeah. Gran and I plan to row out to one of the smaller islands later so we can get a good spot to watch.” Bow pointed out at the ocean. “Gran wanted to know if you wanted to come along as well.”

“Mmmaybe.” Mu shrugged. “But I don’t want to intrude on a family thing. I’ll just find somewhere to watch the sky tonight.”

“If you say so.” Bow sighed, putting her empty container in the brown bag. “If you change your mind, we wouldn’t mind if you tagged along. Gran likes your company.”

“And I like her cooking.” Mu smiled, her mouth covered in leftover stew. “Give my complements when you get back?”

“You know it.” Bow smiled, slipping her backpack on and started heading off. She was only a few feet away when Mu called out to her.

“Oh! And one more thing I should mention! Try to avoid being seen tomorrow! We’ve got a lot of work to do for the big night! This is going to be the best thing we ever did!”

“I’m sure it will.” Bow gave her friend an easy smile, continuing on her path home.

~~***~~

“I hate this train.”

The man looked up from his newspaper at his friend seated across from him, frowning in disapproval of his words. “It’s not that bad Messer.”

Messer huffed, crossing one leg on top the other, his large lime green eyes gazing around the private room they were in with distaste. “Did you really have to pick me up in this old thing? You know I hate riding in enclosed vehicles. Not enough room to run around and feel the air.”

“I could always open the window if you want.” The man pointed to the only in the room, but Messer shook his head.

“No. There’s nothing but hot desert out there, and I hate it when sand gets in my coat.” Messer held up one of his paws, flexing his fingers and claws out. “Takes hours to pick every bit of grain out of my fur and itches like peck.”

“If you wish.” The man shrugged, going back to his paper.

Silence was in the room, something that both preferred to be in for regularly long periods of time. The silence was comforting, giving both individuals time to think and take in their surroundings.

Messer, taking his sweet time to run his claws through his sleek black fur, kept looking up at his friend, glancing at him with a blank look but held something deep inside. “…Aristotle.”

“Hm?”

“What are planning this time?”

“I have no idea what you mean Mes.” Aristotle kept his eyes on the paper, reading it with great interest like nothing else mattered.

Messer frowned at the nickname, but knew he had to keep his cool. Aristotle loved to get a rile out of him, having done it more times than he could count over the years they knew each other. “Come on, at least give me a clue to what you plan on doing with the so called special item you had me go get from that creepy forest.”

“Creepy?” Aristotle looked up from the newspaper, looking at his friend with disbelief. “You, a master thief, afraid of something?”

“No. I just said that so you would look up from that stupid paper you carry around with you all the time.” Messer huffed.

“Oh. Should have guessed.” Aristotle smiled, folding the paper up and putting it away inside his suit. “Speaking of forests, you didn’t tell me much when you got abroad.” He placed his elbows on the armrests of his chair, locking his fingers together. “Was it everything that the rumors said it to be?”

“Spooky, dead, and pretty much a place where you get lost easily in? Yeah, that sums it up to what they say about Subcon.” Messer sighed, holding his chin with one paw. “I was honestly hoping that comet thing was a hoax. The only real danger I encountered in there was getting lost in that forest before I found what I was looking for.”

“So.” Aristotle grinned mischievously. “No ghost fights I take it?”

“It would have made things a lot more interesting.”

“I’m sure it would have. But I really can’t risk my best friend to the likes of death now, can I?”

“Come on Aris, I do this type of things all the time. Hunting in rain storms out at sea, navigating through thick jungles, spying on enemy competition, stealing intel and other goodies that catch your eyes. But this? This task was just pecking boring and stupid.” Messer flopped backwards in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. “… They at least could have put a skylight in this room so we could have watched the comet pass by.”

Aristotle rolled his eyes playfully. “Nighttime won’t come for another few hours, we’ll have enough time once we get to the ship to watch Miranda’s Comet pass by.”

“I hope so. A comet that only come every one hundred years is pretty special.” Messer huffed. He eyed the ceiling for a while longer before looking back at his human friend. “… soo… are you going to at least tell me a bit about your new plan?”

“When we get back to the ship my good friend.” Aristotle smiled as Messer groaned. He watched as his friend got out from his seat, stretching his long well-toned muscled limbs, and walk straight for the door. “And where are you going?”

“I’m not telling you. You don’t tell me what you’re planning, I’m not telling you where I’m going.” Messer slammed the door behind him, making Aristotle burst out in laughter.

After a minute or two of solid laughter, Aristotle sighed, already missing the company of the large grumpy black cat. He would probably follow him in another minute or so, just to make sure he didn’t scare the other passengers and make a scene.

“If only I could tell you my dear friend. But, why spoil the surprise?” He turned his gaze to the side of his chair. “After the comet passes, this will promise to be an interesting year that no one will forget.”

[pass-the-bechdel]

Dollhouse full series review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

96.15% (twenty-five of twenty-six).

What is the average percentage of female characters with names and lines for the full series?

45.89%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

Twenty.

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 50% female?

Twelve.

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Zero.

Positive Content Status:

Very poor - this is exactly why we don’t just rely on passing the Bechdel and having a large number of female characters in the cast as ‘guarantees’ that we’re watching feminist content. If all those female characters exist to be punished, objectified, and abused by the story’s creator as an expression of his misogynistic rage, that is not a good thing (average rating of 2.76).

Which season had the best representation statistics overall?

They’re about the same, really. The one Bechdel fail was in the first season, but season two had less female character presence overall, but it was also more balanced insofar as it scored more episodes with 40% or more on the cast. Both scored equally badly on content quality, though my feeling is that perhaps season one’s sins were the worse of the two. On the other hand, season one had more guest female characters AND it used its supporting female cast more prominently, whereas season two was more male-heavy not just in numbers but in screen time and narrative attention. At the end of the day, I’m not sure it matters which you consider to be worse.

Which season had the worst representation statistics overall?

See above. I cannot recommend this show for feminist content.

Overall Series Quality:

For a first-time viewer, there’s probably still solid potential for enjoyment, and at least some of the twists should be genuinely enjoyable. The majority of the cast is very excellent, and the idea of the show is compelling. However, the quality of the series as it turned out is negligible, full of flash and little substance, the bad apples in the cast spoil the batch while the good grapple with bad writing and the woeful underuse of their skills, and the whole thing remains far better as a thought than it is in execution. And then there’s the misogynistic rage thing. That’s a problem that really messes with the overall product, to put it lightly.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

For the record: I believe, sincerely and completely, that Joss Whedon hates women. Not that he doesn’t know how to relate to them or he misses ‘the old days’ or any other such placid disdain; I think he deeply and violently hates women, and I think the evidence is written all up and down his work - all of his work, but perhaps never more clearly than in this show. He can claim to be a feminist all he wants, he can put women at the forefront of his shows and talk big game about what he believes they’re capable of, but so long as the women in his stories continue to be mistreated at every turn, beaten, raped, and constantly belittled and devalued within the text, I will not be convinced that the man doesn’t resent the Hell out of women for existing - and particularly, for existing with potential for sexuality. The misogyny of the Whedonverse is rampant, unchecked, often participated in by his ‘heroes’ as much as his villains, and treated as largely incidental, rarely acknowledged and even then, gleefully delivered as ‘just the way things are’. Characters might shake their heads about how that’s unfortunate (and Whedon pats himself on the back for making such an insightful feminist statement), but the verbal denouncement doesn’t detract from the indulgent inclusion of that misogyny, the platform provided for it to roam uninhibited, and be showcased and vicariously enjoyed. For someone who claims to be a feminist, Whedon sure does seem to be fetishistically obsessed with making women suffer, and when I compare the content of his work to that of the other creators whose shows have appeared on this blog, the result is most unflattering. 

As easy as it would be to while away this post explicating the details of Whedon’s reprehensible worldview, however, I shall refrain; for one, it would be boring as Hell, it’s not a complicated reality and the truth really is in the pudding for all to see, you don’t need me for that, and for two: I already promised to at last talk about the characters and their arcs (such as they are), since that is one subject I often neglected in the posts on this show, and arguably the only subject upon which the show could hang any virtues. Naturally, we will begin at the beginning, with the much-maligned lead character: Echo. 

Eliza Dushku is not a terrible actor. But her range is pretty limited, she plays variations on the same archetype almost exclusively, and that’s a terrible fit for a show where the central caveat is supposed to be that she can take on any personality and be a complete and whole different person week by week. No one should ever expect to be able to float that idea with a lead who is so very obviously not up to the task, and while I don’t think she’s responsible for the failure of the show (all of its other flaws would have soundly sunk it even if Dushku was a crown jewel of talent), it certainly does not help that she’s easily the blandest and least compelling player in the whole sorry mess. It’s a cringe every time she utters some silly line about how powerful and badass she is, because there’s nothing convincing about it, and if the creative team really believed (and believed their audience would believe) that Echo is THAT great, they wouldn’t feel the need to have her showily declare it. When season two hits and Echo’s ‘character development’ fast-tracks to full sentience, she becomes even less dynamic: all of the things which could have provided legitimate engagement with the character’s struggle are skipped over, her process of self-actualisation (anyone who read my Farscape reviews knows my love for hard self-actualisation narratives), her navigation of her role as a developing entity in a world hostile to such things (touched on occasionally in season one, thrown to the wind in season two), anything to do with her cognitive evolution is scrapped in favour of ‘she just remembers it all now’, and there’s no arc to it. I invoked the concept of the Mary Sue in one episode post, and that is exactly the problem we end up with: a ‘perfect’ character who can do everything and anything and be ~the best~ at it, who is beloved and desired by all who meet her, except for her (mustache-twirling cliche villain) enemies, who fear her awesome powers. There is no personality in Echo, no conflict, no meaning. Wild as it may sound, you could actually remove her from the show completely and easily adapt the other characters (the ones who have personality, conflict, and meaning) to fill the space, and not only would it work, but the show would be infinitely the better for it. That’s the absolute opposite of what you want from a lead character.

The other BIG mistake in the casting for this show is Tahmoh Penikett as Paul Ballard, who plays his part with all the verve and charisma of a piece of wood with eyes drawn on (ever watch Ed, Edd, and Eddy? Plank has more dynamic personality than our boy Ballard). I’m not sure how much of it is Penikett’s fault - it has been many years since I watched Battlestar Galactica, and while I don’t remember being particular impressed by him, I don’t remember being frustrated by his inability to walk in a straight line without making it look weird, either - but whether he’s handicapped by his own acting non-prowess or not, he’s certainly fighting a losing battle with an unfocused mess of a character, and if the writing couldn’t decide what Ballard’s deal was to start with, I’m not shocked that Penikett had a hard time conveying it. Is Ballard a morally righteous hero (on a show with no moral centre for him to relate to)? Is he flawed and secretly-dark, and if he is, who recognises that, is it deliberate? Is he losing control, or is that just supposed to be ‘normal person’ behaviour? Again, who notices, does he know? How much of his interiority is a white-knight cliche, and how much is supposed to be genuine, and is any of it supposed to be subversive? I honestly can’t tell, one episode from the next. In season one, he’s garbage at his job, and some characters mention it, but then Ballard himself appears to be under the impression that he’s fighting the good fight and the tone of the show seems to agree with him rather than acknowledging his self-delusion. In season two, he joins the Dollhouse at the same time as openly declaring himself to be still against it, the plot conveniently pretends he never raped Mellie so that we can uphold the idea that he IS righteous, after all, and has no dark impulses, other characters at the Dollhouse put up with him being an obvious liability for no discernible reason, and then eventually he gets rendered brain-dead, reconstructed as a doll version of himself, and then dies a few episodes later anyway. Big whoop. It feels an awful lot like they had no long-term plan for what to do with the character, so they just focused on giving him a romance with Echo and then threw some contrived death stuff on top of that for flavour. Speaking of the romance thing: eek. Again, in season one it seemed they couldn’t decide whether or not his mounting obsession with his damsel-in-distress vision of Caroline was creepy as Hell (pro tip: it absolutely was), but then in season two it all became very simple: Ballard wants Echo, but doesn’t really believe she’s a real person (for some reason this is not a deal-breaker to her), and they dance around each other for a bit but never get together and somehow we’re supposed to interpret this as the development of a wonderful love story with a bittersweet tragic end when he dies, twice but also not really because then she downloads him into her brain anyway so they live happily ever after, sort of. It’s a fucking mess, y’all, and they don’t earn it, and the utter soup that is Ballard’s personality and motivation goes un-examined. The fact that season two tips heavily in favour of Echo/Ballard scenes is something very significantly to its detriment, because it’s the worst and most shakily-developed non-relationship of the series. Ok, that, and whatever the fuck Topher/Bennett was supposed to be.

Speaking of Topher...actually, I don’t have much to say about him. Breaking pattern with the rest of the characters, Topher shows no real sign of a personal story in season one, so it’s season two which attempts to give him some function as an individual outside of being the comic-relief tech guy. It’s not particularly successful, since the attempted character development revolves around 1) moral compunctions (which, as noted ad nauseum, this show left itself incapable of engaging with in any meaningful way back when it pretended sexual slavery was a morally grey issue), and 2) throwing a love interest at him: zero actual relationship-building ensues and it’s awkward and chemistry free and then she dies (so glad Bennett could exist to tick off a bunch of Whedon’s favourite suffering-woman tropes and then die for shock value, yay). At the end of the day, Topher was just a handful of affectations, fun to watch, but hardly amounting to more of a ‘whole person’ than the paper-thin personalities of the sex-fantasy cliches he imprinted into the dolls. 

If Topher is the character who suffers most from a lack of development in season one, Boyd is the hardest hit in season two, easily. As Echo’s handler in season one, Boyd was pleasant, mild-mannered, protective, and he had an ethos which governed his choices (imagine such a thing!). His former career as a cop was referenced variously, and it seemed clear that we should expect one day to learn how he came to leave the force and wind up as a bodyguard working for a secret organisation. Season two? Forget about it. Forget about it because of the idiotic ‘twist’ that turned Boyd into Rossum’s cuckoo founder and thereby unraveled his entire personality as a sham in one fell swoop, obviously, but forget about his character having even the appearance of development in the meantime, also. Removing Boyd from his position as Echo’s handler was a grave error, as it downgraded his importance and effectively stifled the natural bond he had developed with his charge which represented a nice, uncomplicated character dynamic (one far more welcome than that clusterfuck replacement which was Ballard as Echo’s handler, euch). Additionally, this led to Boyd being largely backgrounded for the entirety of season two, given no meaningful stories to engage with, and certainly not expanded upon or explored as a character. As noted, any such expansion would have been irrelevant anyway once the dumbass ‘big reveal’ happened, but that’s all the more reason to bemoan the loss of Boyd’s character, which essentially occurred a full season before he actually donned his suicide vest and exploded in the Rossum building. If you have to dump a character just to service your twist, don’t. Dump the twist instead. Like pretty much every other actor on this show, Harry Lennix deserved better.

And then there’s DeWitt...I largely covered the DeWitt issue back in the episode posts, really; she starts out an intriguing character (and I credit Olivia Williams with much of this, she created dynamism out of an oft-lacking script, in every case), but season two really did a number on her when it came to leaping wildly about different plot ideas that jerked DeWitt’s characterisation from one extreme to another with very little connective tissue to sell the change. If Ballard was the character whom the narrative couldn’t decide how to handle in season one, DeWitt takes up that odious mantle in season two; is she losing her grasp? Is she playing the game? Is she an evil, pragmatic genius? Is she foolish and deluded by an idealism that plainly has no basis in reality? Is she an alcoholic who spontaneously gets her shit together after a couple of other characters tell her off? Damn, that was easy. As with Ballard, the problem is not just that the story seems to change tone and purpose for DeWitt’s character from one episode to the next; it also robs her of the opportunity to be defined through consistent interaction with others - she has no one to bounce off in a manner which would create a baseline for her behaviour and how it is outwardly perceived (and thus, how the audience is intended to interpret it). 

I’m gonna talk about Sierra and Victor together, because frankly, that’s both the way the show packages them, and there’s not much to say outside of it. For the millionth time ever on this blog, I will complain that all shows ever would be improved by being ensembles; in this case, Sierra and Victor both would have benefited from a framework which allowed either one of them to take greater precedence more often, instead of having their own narratives distilled down to a single Personal Episode each in season two. I do enjoy both, and their relationship has legitimate chemistry and charm while also following a sensible plot concept through - the idea that strong emotional connections and bonds can transcend the mind wipe. Unfortunately, the show has little functional purpose for either character outside of their relationship, to the extent that it even sidelines them almost entirely in the climax of the series (pre-flashforward). Victor/Anthony is given the least plot purpose in the show proper, which is just a criminal misuse of Enver Gjokaj - Anthony is a soldier and that’s essentially his entire personality right there, and the only thing that gives them an excuse to make him do Manly Fighter Stuff in the latter stages of season two. Sierra/Priya gets more to do, but the bad news is, it’s all about being raped, and that’s her whole story - horrible possessive misogynists abusing her so that she can embody Whedon’s favourite Broken Bird trope, with the added misfortune of changing the nature of her relationship with Victor to make it a little bit about him ‘rescuing’ her with the love of a good man. Both of these actors are so good, and their characters had such potential, I can’t believe the show fucked around and wasted them like it did. 

Ok, one more before I go. I know he was never a member of the central cast, but we gotta talk about Laurence Dominic, because he was deceptively essential to the show, important to what made it work for the brief time when it could be said to work, and he was altogether the best character on the show insofar as he was the most cohesive, consistent, and logical player in the piece. I said as much when he made his welcome return in ‘The Attic’ (the best episode of season two...coincidence?), and as I noted then, it may be that Dominic’s early exit from the show was to his benefit in that he avoided being jostled across season two having all semblance of coherence torn to pieces along the way. I’m fairly certain the writer’s had no idea how valuable Dominic was to the story when they axed him (not least because they clearly had no idea how important it is to create some kind of moral framework to support a story that is inherently morally dubious), but consider the most obvious changes to the show format and the other character’s stories once Dominic was out of the picture: Boyd takes over as Head of Security, to his detriment as a character, and to the detriment of his relationship with Echo, leaving her wasting time with that dolt Ballard instead and putting audiences everywhere to sleep. And DeWitt? DeWitt loses her sounding board, the right-hand man who - for most of the first season - anchored her character by giving her someone to talk and plot and, at times, disagree with, creating that behavioural baseline that she lacked when she was being dragged all over season two. Dominic’s role was a structural pillar on the show, he held the roof up so that the rest of the characters could interact and interrelate - with each other, and with him - he had distinct relationship dynamics with pretty much all of them - and he was exactly the kind of character that you want around being a stable, unobtrusive presence. They could even have kept the idea of him being an NSA spy, just keep him working undercover, the audience knows the truth but the other characters don’t, it creates tension! Sure, it’d probably mean letting Ivy be sent to the attic under false charges, and that wouldn’t help this show’s abysmal abuse-of-women record, but considering the show did nothing of consequence with Ivy in the end anyway and she just existed to be belittled by Topher while he sent her to fetch him snacks...yeah, anyway. I could talk a lot about why Dominic was the best character on this stinking show, but it’s ultimately beside the point: the point is that nothing in this show really worked, and that had a lot to do with major conceptual issues (moral grounding is not optional! Misogyny is not tasty plot flavouring! Joss Whedon is an abomination!), and keeping Dominic around long-term would no more save the show than if Eliza Dushku possessed a modicum of acting range. It’s frustrating because there are so many good pieces there, excellent actors, intriguing character set-ups, fantastic plot possibilities, and heady existential implications. It’s just that some moron decided the best thing to do with that would be to play nasty sexual wish-fulfillment games and leave the rest to rot. I’m pretty sure the version of this show I enjoyed once was largely the version I made in my head, because the reality is a wasteful disaster. And misogynistic as Hell, too. We, the viewers, deserved better.

[reyridinghood]

oh hailey can I get a meet cute between incognito prince Ben and Rey in a bookshop, I think I might die?

The Royal Treatment, Part I

No warnings apply! Ao3 Link

Niima was a cute town. Quaint. Quiet. Exactly what Ben needed.

Well, today he wasn’t Prince Benjamin Lucas Anakin of House Skywalker, heir to the Throne of Alderaan. Today he was someone else. Someone whom he hadn’t even figured out yet.

He adjusted his glasses on his face after leaving the little barbershop where he’d just gotten his hair cut shorter and pulled the collar of his Burberry trench-coat higher around his neck as he headed out into one of England’s rare sunny days. It was nice that he could walk down the main street surrounded by Tudor cottages and people who paid him no mind. He read every old-fashioned, hand-painted sign and took it in stride, wondering how long his simple “disguise” would work.

He had managed to evade his security detail and take one of the cars after the art gala with the British princes and left his Uncle Luke to deal with the other royals and the press. Maybe he was out of his mind, and he certainly had overstepped his bounds, but in all of his twenty-nine years as Prince of Alderaan he had not rebelled, not even once, preferring to bottle things up inside and further contribute to his own anxiety, depression, and anger from feeling the pressures of responsibility and perfection. He didn’t even have a playboy reputation to go along with his name - and how could he when he was so encapsulated in the business of governing? His father was useless - a retired American Formula One driver who just happened to get lucky meeting his mother after his big Le Mans win back in the late 70s, so most of the duties of the male monarch fell onto his shoulders.

His therapist had suggested pushing a few of his boundaries and doing something purely for himself before turning thirty. Though maybe she didn’t mean it in such a drastic way.

He had selected Niima as his destination mainly because there was a bookstore here that held a rare first edition of Emma that he wanted to procure for his mother’s birthday. It was difficult to buy gifts for a queen who had everything, so he had to prepare months and months beforehand to figure out what she needed and get it for her.The Sacred Texts Bookshop was a robust brick building that smelled of old parchment and firewood coming from the reading nook across from the counter. There wasn’t much natural light, other than the two front windows with creative Alice and Wonderland and Peter Pan displays for the back-to-school season, so there were many brass chandeliers with bulbs that looked like candle flames that gave the place a hazy, magical quality. Ben could get lost in here, forever, just among the rows and rows of oddly shaped, differently stacked books that made the shelves sag and sway and curve from wall-to-wall, not to mention that he could get sucked into the world of any of the books that he plucked off the shelf. But he had to make sure he didn’t. He was here on a mission, and as much as he wanted to abscond, responsibility nagged at the back of his brain.“Hello?” He called out, wandering among the shelves, calling out. “Is anyone here? The sign in the window said ‘Open…’ and I-”

He almost literally bumped into a young woman - tall, but still much shorter than him. He only saw her from the back, but it was a lovely back. She was dressed nicely, albeit in quirky way. She had a warm, peachy orange sweater with a polka dotted skirt that flared but still showed off her, umm, assets as she bent over to peruse the shelves, her black tights accentuated her shapely legs…Ben yanked his eyes up to the back of her head because he was a gentleman, mortal attraction be damned, and he of all people was raised better. He concentrated on the part in her hair that signified it was most likely in two braids, and golly did Alderaanians love their braids.His mother would love her. Maybe. Why was he thinking in these terms? He was just here to pick up a book. He needed to focus.He heard the faintest music - sounded vaguely 80s - and realized the young woman was listening to music. Not knowing how to approach her, he reached out and tapped her, awkwardly on the shoulder, instantly straightening back up out of habit as she turned to look at him. And she struck him with the most beautiful face he had ever seen.Bright green flecks shone in her hazel eyes in the fuzzy light eyes. The blush of her cheeks grew as she flashed him a dazzling white smile. “Ah…you must be Kylo Ren.”He had almost forgotten that was the false name he had used, pulling from his favorite obscure fantasy novel and hoping no one had noticed. “I-yes. Yes I am. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” He held out his hand for her to shake. That was what normal people did, right?“Rey.” She said, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you. We keep our rarest books in the back. Let me go get it for you.”He couldn’t help but follow her like a lost puppy, inexplicably drawn to her but also not really knowing what to do with himself. “How did you know I was Kylo Ren?”“Simple, really. I don’t get many more customers. You’re the first I’ve had all day - all week really.”“It’s lovely in here. I’m surprised you don’t have lines out the door.”She shrugged as she came out of the back room again, the prized first edition carefully wrapped. “Most of the villagers are used to us I guess. We’ll get more professors in here at the end of the year again, the back to school rush just occurred.”He smiled. “Thank you so much, Rey.” Before he could snatch it from her hands she shook her head.“I’m not giving this to you without knowing your real name. Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize the lead character of the Order of Revan series?”He sighed and smirked. “Okay. My real name is Ben.”“No last name?”“No.”

“Alright…Ben the American.” Thank God for him learning English from his father. “You passed the test, I suppose. Then again, your hefty payment will pay for renovations on the east wing of Tuanul Manor.”He cocked his head at her. “You own the manor house? I’m staying there. It’s a lovely hotel.”“I’m glad you enjoy it.” She beamed. “To you it’s a hotel, to me it’s my home.”His eyes went wide. “You…own it? That makes you the…daughter of the Viscountess of Jakku?”She giggled and nodded. “Aurelia Perdue, 17th Viscountess Jakku herself. I must confess I like the rhyme but the title doesn’t mean much anymore. Being a penniless noble isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”“I’m so sorry.”“Don’t be. It’s my family’s own fault. My great-great-great-great grandfather made some poor railroad investments in the Nineteenth Century, his son had major gambling debts going into the Twentieth, World War I and the taxes it brought were the death knell to most family fortunes, but the real killer of the fortune in my lifetime was my parents trusting Unkar Plutt, the hedge fund manager.”Ben shook his head. “They left you with that vile man’s Ponzi Scheme debts?”“Didn’t have much of a choice. They passed away a while back. Car crash.”“You’ve been through so much yet you’re so…positive.”“I get by. There’s no use in complaining when you’ve got a job to do.” Her bright smile faded a bit. “It can get a bit lonely…But I have a good staff at the manor.”He smiled, regretting his every complaint about his own life of privilege. “Why don’t I walk you back when the shop closes? We can get to know each other in the meantime. I’ll help you however you need and you won’t be alone.”She pondered, looking him up and down before her lips ultimately curled into a grin. “I’d like that very much.”

Ben had one of the best sleeps in his life that night after talking to Rey. She was wonderful, intelligent, gorgeous, everything he could have ever wanted in a woman. He’d take care of her, make her every wish and dream come true, bear the weight of all of her troubles if he could. Despite her noble birth she’d lived a life of hardship, succeeding at every chance she was given and overcoming the obstacles in her way. After all that she had been through she graduated top in her class at Cambridge and was running a thriving business, pulling herself out of noble poverty and making her own name.It made him feel guilty for resenting his position so much. He vowed he would be the best ruler he could be going forward, and somehow woo her in the process. There was no way he’d let the Alderaan Royal Council hold him back. He’d find a way to marry her, to make her his queen. He hated how smitten he was being - she didn’t even show any sort of feelings back, did she? He’d have to make his move at breakfast this morning.His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, impatient knock at his door. He got out of bed, not bothering to fix his hair or change out of his pajamas or look any sort of official as he walked over to the door and opened it up.“Oh, goodness, Master Ben, you look dreadful!” Ben huffed as Charles Threepio of the Alderaan Public Relations Committee threw his arms around Ben’s shoulders and kept speaking in a rushed manner.“We thought we’d lost you forever, your highness, you just disappeared and we were frantic, your uncle and mother-”“Get off me, Threepio.” Ben practically growled at the man for bringing reality crashing back into his life, and bringing a very exasperated looking Rey standing outside the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Ben,” She said through gritted teeth. “When were you going to tell me that you are a prince!?”

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Jamaica

Note from Mod Bonnie: 

I wrote the story below as part of the Candle for the Caribbean fundraiser last year. Now that the period to download the fanfic anthology has passed, I am posting the story here. I still hope you’ll donate to disaster relief! The need is great, and we can all do something! 

In any case, if you’ve already read this, I hope you’ll enjoy it a second time ;)

Jamaica

Drums of Autumn (Chapter 41), Diana Gabaldon

Her aunt's voice, coming from a great distance, saying, "The poor child is asleep where she sits; I can hear her snoring. Ulysses, take her up to bed."

And then strong arms that lifted her with no sense of strain, but not the candlewax smell of the black butler; the sawdust and linen scent of her father. She gave up the struggle and fell asleep, her head on his chest.

Later that night

River Run Plantation

Royal Colony of North Carolina

I fought. 

With fists and feet and every ounce of strength I possessed, I fought; against the man’s hands on me, against the sheets and blankets as I struggled to get free of him; against the panic—I had to get away. 

The next thing I knew was that my back was braced securely against the wall on the far side of the bed, cold and solid through the fabric of my shift. My chest was heaving; my hands were raised against him, ready to fight, and each breath was raw and ragged in my throat. I honestly didn’t know how long I’d been screaming, and that terrified me more than—

“I’m so—I’m sorry, lass.”

I jumped to see the man was on the other side of the bed—huge, the shape of him. His voice was— it was gentler than I’d remembered, and that made me tense still more, refusing to believe his cunning and lies again. Those eyes were wide and blazing. Blue…not green?

His hands were raised, too, nothing like my own shaking claws. His palms were facing me,  poised and braced as though against the charge of a wild animal.

“It’s only me,” the man said. “It’s—Da.”

And with that word, that tiny key of a word, my entire body unlocked and tried to sink to the floor. I kept myself upright only by sheer will as I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally again.

Only a dream, Bree.

The green-eyed man was only a dream.

…this time.

“I heard ye cry out from the other room,” Jamie (because it was only him) was saying, urgently. “I ran in and ye were crying and shaking in your sleep and then I tried to wake ye, and—Jesus, lass, are ye alright??”

My eyelids felt unbelievably heavy, my heart still pounding, but the emotion in his voice made me open my eyes and look at him (really look at him) for the first time.

He was dressed only in his shirt, hair wild and blazing in the dim firelight. The eyes were red with sleep, still wide, terrified as his gaze continued to search me.

Even with the bed between us, though, I could see more written there—the quiet, underlying hunger in his eyes; that desire to connect; as palpable and real to me as if it had physical shape, but held carefully—so, so carefully—in check. I could see it so plainly because it had been the same for me, since we’d met; the exact same.

I was so absorbed in it, actually, that I forgot that I had been staring openmouthed at him, not answering his question. 

“I’m fine,” I blurted finally, smiling as best I could, both shaking and nodding my head like a complete moron (well done, Bree: poise and grace incarnate). “Perfectly fine.”

To my shock, Jamie Fraser laughed.

...And I experienced a sudden visceral impulse to throw something heavy at his fucking head.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, seeing my reaction, though he didn’t bother to suppress his grin. “Only—Christ, but ye sound like your mother when ye say that.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned, barking a laugh despite myself. “Shit, I DO! I mean, oh— um—yikes.....sorry.”

I fumbled for another less vulgar swear (don’t want him to think his daughter a complete heathen after less than twelve hours), but he snorted and waved me off. 

“I heard worse cursing from Claire within the first hour of meeting her, and it evidently didna put me off in any lasting way.”

We laughed, both of us this time; shy laughter, but real, and it blessedly eased the tension of the night a little further, bringing us another inch closer to connection.

We were careful with one another, Jamie and me—not just now, in this room still clouded by nightmare, but for the entire time since we’d met earlier in the day. For what it was worth, I thought we would keep erring on the side of caution for some time, months, or even years, even if all continued to progress well between us. If Jamie was feeling anything like I was (and I would have bet money on it), the last thing he wanted was to scare me off by showing (let alone expecting) too much overt affection between us or presuming an intimacy, of asking too many questions, no matter how much he wanted to.

It was a little awkward and more than a little bittersweet, but completely natural, from my point of view. As much as we both would have liked to pretend otherwise, there was a wall between us—a huge Hoover Dam of a structure, built to withstand, made of twenty-three years; of grief; of doubt; and of suspicion. Honestly, I hated myself for even admitting that last one, but it was the cold, hard truth. No matter what he was to me factually or what I hoped he’d be someday, I didn’t know this man except from stories, nor did he know me. It just wasn’t realistic to trust one another implicitly and ignore all our reasonable reservations and cautions; at least, it wasn’t for me.

Still….there was a spark there, in each of us; a look here, a joke there, a shared moment of understanding— gentle tugs pulling us toward one another, each a tiny chip falling away from that indomitable wall. It was the simple ease of it that had shocked me, getting to know him so far. Jamie had that genuine quality you couldn’t help but be drawn to, and I absolutely was. I would have liked him even without knowing our blood connection, I think, and more importantly, I could see why Claire had loved him; why she had come back for that love. That knowledge was worth quite a lot to a daughter’s heart, really, still scarred from the loss of a mother.  

“My bed is in the next room over, ken?” Jamie said, taking a careful step forward and—seeing that I wasn’t going to bolt or go into hysterics— settled onto the edge of the bed. “…And when I heard ye scream like that…”

He shook his head, and the rest was lost in a rushed exhale. One word I caught, though: ‘…terrified.’

I noticed for the first time the knife that had been dropped on the carpet behind him.

“It was a nightmare?” he clarified, after a moment.

“A bad one.” I sat on the opposite side of the bed, trying to put on my most assured, calm face, for his sake. “But only that.”

He nodded and his shoulders seemed to relax a bit further. “Do ye need anything? Water? A bit of food?”

“I was just thinking I’d go out to the balcony.” I jerked an awkward hand toward the glass door. “It’s, um, a little warm in here.” 

A lie. It was sweltering and I was sweating like a pig, still trembling from the aftershocks of memory and dream.   

“Oh. Aye. Well.” He stood up. “I’ll—ah—leave ye to it.” An awkward bow. “Goodnight, then, lass.”

He was almost to the door before I found my courage. “Would you stay? Just for a little while,” I added quickly, flushing even more, kicking myself for the asking almost as much as for being afraid enough to risk it—afraid of being alone in the dark, alone with my thoughts.  

The way his face lit up, though—it was like the morning sun breaking from behind a hill. There, right there, that was him: the lad Mama had seen all those years ago.

When he edged out onto the narrow balcony to join me a few minutes later, he was still barefoot but now wearing breeks with his hair tied back. He hadn’t come empty-handed, either, I saw as he settled onto the wicker loveseat beside me, carrying a bottle and two glasses.

“Oh, um—Sorry, I don’t mean to be—” 

(Please don’t be offended. Please, please don’t think me awful and ungrateful for shitting on your nice gesture). 

“I don’t really like whisky,” I said with the awkwardest of laughs.

He smiled. “Aye, I ken that. Your mother told me so, once,” he said with a shrug and a widening grin. “It’s brandy, in fact, but I can fetch ye something else, if—��

“No, no, that’s fine! Great!” I said hastily, hands flapping, reeling a bit from the thoughtfulness (not to mention the steel trap his mind must be, to remember such an insignificant piece of trivia about someone he’d never meet—good grief!). “I’ve never actually tried brandy before.”

He poured a large glass and handed it to me with confidence. “Nothing like it to calm an unsettled mind.”

The first sip was like a warm hug, spreading from my throat down my spine and into my toes. “That’s good,” I said with feeling, taking a long swallow. “Thank you—for thinking of me.”

“Thank your great-aunt for keeping a well-stocked larder,” he said, off-handed.... but his eyes were warm, I saw, glowing just that little bit more from the shared moment, however small.

It went quiet between us, then, but in a surprisingly comfortable way, like when Daddy—Frank—and I would ride through the mountains, enjoying the scenery and one another’s’ company in silence for long stretches at a time.

I do miss you, Daddy.

Taking a deep breath, I made a quick— but firm—decision not to feel guilty for comparing them. They were both my father; they both mattered; but Jamie was the one here, now, the one I had the chance to get to know.

The minutes passed like that, both of us breathing the warm air: grass and woodsmoke; the sharpness of pine sap; a musty sweetness I thought might be magnolia leaves. Despite the moonlight, the grounds were dark as pitch, so that every now and again, I could see the twinkling of a firefly down below.  

And it seems like it goes on like this forever

You must forgive me,

if I'm up and gone to Carolina…

“Do ye often have troubling dreams, lass?” Jamie asked, quietly so as not to startle.

“....I didn’t used to.....” I swirled the brandy in the bottom of the glass. “Since Mama left, though—Yeah, often enough.”

“I’m sorry. I think ye might get that from me,” he said, sounding actually sorry for it.

“It’s okay. I mean, it isn’t your— It happens,” I said firmly, huffing a bit in frustration at how ludicrous it was to be accepting an apology for such a thing. He saw it and understood and we both smiled. I shifted in my seat so that I was leaning against the armrest, facing him. “So, you have bad dreams a lot, too?”

“Strangely enough, my own have been less frequent since Claire returned. A talisman for the both of us, she must be.” 

He said this with a smile so pure that it plucked at my heart with longing to see her, and a tender (and, yes, a bit jealous) awe at his evident love of her. Maybe he did deserve her, too. 

What would it be like to see them together? To have all three of us together?

“But aye,” he went on, “I’ve always been prone to nightmare, when there are troubles on my mind. It isna at all pleasant.” He offered more brandy, which I gratefully accepted. He concentrated hard on the pouring, avoiding my eye. “If there’s anything ye wish to....If I can be of....” His sigh of frustration sounded uncannily like my own a few moments before. “All I mean to say is, I’m here. If ye want to talk about it. About…anything that might be on your mind.”

I managed to get out a smile and a genuine, “Thank you…” but my guts had clenched tight at the thought of exactly what had been on my mind. The blackness started creeping in, those horrific flashes, but also a newer stab of heartbroken dread:

Would you still want to get to know me, James Fraser, if you knew what happened on that ship? Would you be able to get past the shame of it? Of me? 

“They’re not always bad, though,” I said cheerily, choking down my panic and another gulp of brandy as I forced us down a less fraught line of conversation. “I’ve just always been a vivid dreamer, even besides the nightmares.”

He seemed to be as grateful for the shift of tone as me. “What are your happier dreams like, I wonder?”  

“A lot of times it’s about painting—the colors, you know,” I said, pulling my knees up close to my chest to lean my glass on them. “Other times, just about what I did that day. Sometimes the most ridiculously absurd things, too.”

He cocked his head, amused. “Such as?”

“Umm…..? Oh, okay, once—this is embarrassing—But one time last year, I dreamed that I was in a singing contest on the moon (no idea why the moon, but there was a huge audience there) and had to sing ‘Sugartime’ with President Nixon and Donald Duck. We didn’t even win!”

Jamie snorted into his drink. “Well, I dinna ken about Presidents, but ducks are no’ known for having braw singing voices….Though,” he added fairly, “likely this Donald availed himself better than could I, so I’ll no be casting stones.”

We laughed, and at his urging, I sang him a few bars, snapping my fingers to recreate a bit of the honkytonk feel that made the song so damned catchy that it had wormed its way into my sleep.

“It’s funny though,” I said abruptly, struck by a memory in the midst of our discussion (trying all the while not to giggle) of the likely metaphor behind the ‘sugar’ in question. “It’s because of a dream that I’m here at all. Why I came here from my time, I mean.”

“Oh, aye? How’s that?”

“I had this dream last year about you and Mama being in the tropics,” I explained, memory of it giving me goosebumps. “Roger and I—” (Oh, Jesus Christ, Roger....) “—had been looking in the historical records for months, trying to find something to confirm that she had found you and that you were both living well in Scotland, but with no luck. We’d all but given up, to be honest. When I had the dream, though, it got me thinking that maybe you’d emigrated, and one thing led to another, and sure enough, I found records of you being on Jamaica in 1767.”

“Well that was a piece of good luck,” he said with approval. “You’re verra determined, lass, a fact for which I’m grateful. What came to pass in the dream, then?” He raised an eyebrow and the opposite corner of his mouth. “Were we singing sweet songs wi’ Kings and Hippopotamuses?”

“No,” I laughed (Good grief, he was witty, too? Mama never stood a chance), “and actually, as helpful as it ended up being, this was one of the spooky dreams. Not quite a nightmare, but—“ I shivered. “Eerie.”

He was interested, ready to listen.

“It was at night and I was in a huge field of sugarcane,” I said slowly, trying to remember the details after so long. “There were fires burning in the distance, lots of them, so that there was this glowing dome of smoke overhead. I walked and wandered, turning this way and that, until I came to a clearing, and Mama was there. She was talking to a crocodile. So yes, it did have some ridiculous bits, too.”

I added this last part because I’d seen Jamie stiffen at mention of the crocodile, markedly, his eyebrows drawing together. Before I could study him too closely, he relaxed (though, I thought, not completely) and bade me go on.

“There were drums...” I said, still unsettled. “Beating loud and.....ominously, and I don’t know if it was them or what else, but somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something stalking Mama, wanting to hurt her, you know? I tried to call out to her, warn her. I was begging her to not to go after it, but she was—I don’t know— in a trance, or something. She couldn’t hear me…. but you could.”

“….How did ye ken it was me?” He was still as stone and his voice very tight—terse, almost.

“A red-haired man with my mother? I guess I just assumed.” I shrugged. “I turned to him—you—and I called for you to save her from whatever it was …or something like that….” I shrugged again. “ And you saw me. You heard m—Um….Are you okay?”

He had stood abruptly, setting down his glass and going to stand at the railing. Jamie didn’t have a rude bone in his body. Something I’d said had upset him, and my belly was crawling again, trying to figure out what it had been.

“What is it ye said?” It didn’t even sound like Jamie. He had a vice grip on the iron. “In the dream. Do ye remember the words?”

Baffled, but having no idea of what else I might say next, I closed my eyes, trying to remember. I could always recall colors, from my dreams; colors and shapes and movement and light, but words always slipped through my fingers like sand. I could almost remember, though. Don’t—something…Don’t—?

“Don’t let Mama go alone....”

My eyes flew open.

“That’s what ye said, aye?” Jamie still had his back to me, shoulders hunched. “We were in a cane field, your mother and I. On Jamaica. There was a crocodile.” He turned and looked me dead in the eye. “And we did hear your voice, lass.”

“That’s....not possible.” I heard glass shatter and I was on my feet, though I didn’t remember getting there. “You couldn’t possibly…”

“Your mother can attest,” he said, his face drawn and white, but his eyes wide. “I’d no’ have believed it to be anything other than base trickery, sorcery, only I saw her face—went pale as stone and just as still. It was your voice, Bree. Yours, in a wisewoman’s mouth. You go with her, ye said, I’ll keep you safe....And then ye said—” His voice broke, then broke off entirely as he hung his head.

I was shaking from head to toe and I couldn’t even blink. I had to hold my hands over my mouth to keep from exploding, because it was exactly as he described, the words verbatim, even down to the cadence and tone of my own manner of speech. How…. HOW—??

When he looked up at me again, he was weeping freely. “Ye said... I love you, Daddy.”

“It….” I moved my hands away enough to ask the unfathomable. “It was real?”

“I dinna ken how,” came the husk of his voice, “but—aye—in whatever way— It was real.”

Then I was throwing my arms around his neck. 

“Oh my God,” I kept saying, my hands and my jaw shaking as though it were freezing cold. “Oh—dear GOD—“

He was saying more or less the same, in the same tone, as he held me, or that’s what I thought at first. After a while, I realized what he was saying: Thank God.

“It terrified me so, and yet I treasured it,” he said against my hair, still speaking through sobs, kissing a spot just behind my ear. “I felt as though it were a sin to rejoice, for it was black sorcery that had brought it about, or so I thought—but yet—I couldna think otherwise except that—“ He broke off and held me tighter. “It was the only time this side of Heaven that I’d hear your voice….I’ve thought about it so often, since.”  

“I’m glad it wasn’t,” I choked out, hugging him as tightly as I could. “The only time.”

“Christ, so am I, my...my Brianna.” A big hand came up and cupped my head securely against him. He gasped for air. I could feel the genuine struggle of it in his chest. “I know I shall live my entire life—before I’ve done enough good—to deserve it... the gift of you, mo chridhe.”

“Oh..... Da…”

All my fears—of cane fields and wisewomen, of Irishmen, even of the possibility of being shunned—they all melted away into the night, and I let them. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the power of him, my father, a shelter against the paranormal, letting only the essential remain: the connection between us, those tiny, tentative sparks, protected from the wind and growing stronger. Maybe someday, it would tear down the wall entirely.

“It’s getting late, a leannan,” he murmured a long, long time later, kissing the top of my head, “and you’ve had a long day. A long many days, I think, and a trying night. Get ye back to your bed for some rest, now.”

He started moving toward the door, but I clutched at him, holding him back. “I can’t.”

“Another glass of brandy may help, if—“

“I don’t want to sleep again.”

His mouth twitched in a tiny smile as he put a hand tenderly on my cheek. “Ye might find that difficult to sustain, after a week or so.”

I was dead-serious, my fears wrenching out of me in a whisper, a raw plea, like the frightened child I was. “What if everything I dream is real?”

He could have told me not to talk nonsense; that I was a grown woman and obviously dreams were dreams, excepting the one event in question.

What he did, though, was to squeeze my hand and draw me back down onto the loveseat, putting his arms around me. “Lay your head, lass,” he said, bringing my head gently to his shoulder. “We’ll bide together, you and me.”

I felt the words stirring on my tongue as sleep began to settle around me, knew it would be the truth of my heart to say them aloud, but I couldn’t speak even one word in my present state, let alone those.

Besides, I’d said it before I even knew him.

I love you.

… Da.

[rockmiyabideusexmachina]

2018 Megaman Valentine’s Day Contest Results Thread!

Thank you all for your patience this year! I know this is a little later after the holiday than I would like, but one day is simply not enough to contain all this love! Once again, it’s always wonderful to have an assortment of both familiar faces participating, as well as many newcomers. 

As always, this will be a rather massive thread, so bear with me. Most of it will be hidden after the break, so please do take a peek at all these wonderful entries!

Due to the size and sheer quantity of comic entries, there are plenty of images to view. For that reason, I’m sticking to thumbnails for now. Please click to view the entry in it’s full glory!

Also, my thanks to @jaybird-c for the help with judging this year. I’ll have some of his commentary with my own below.

The three raffle prize winners will be noted by their alias, as well. 

For your reminder, there were two categories, broken down into Humor and Talent. There were 6 total Humor entries, and 14 Talent entries. So, to start off, we’ll begin with the category with the least entrants, and to fit with my tie-in promo art.

*EDIT* OK, now I think everything is good. So long thumbnails, to keep this shorter.

Once again, for an easy link to all the images in a single gallery, please go here: https://imgbox.com/g/uAbXkTDaot

Otherwise, I’ve tested it again on both mobile and desktop, and everything should link to a full image. It still does on my end.

*/EDIT*

For Humor, this year’s theme was “Beauty and the Beastman.EXE.” The goal was to illustrate a mismatched Megaman couple, one in a monsterous, beastly form, with another more beautiful character that falls for them. Any allusions to the popular tale of Beauty and the Beast were welcome, but not a requirement.

Here are your top 3, followed by the remaining entries in alphabetical order by alias:

1.) @prar-draws: (*Prar wins $100 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote: Prar's comic has the absolute best execution of a joke, increasing the tension until the last panel when it masterfully throws the audience for a loop. Prar's style complements the story very well by making each individual moment easy to digest, and the last panel also just happens to be really funny to look at on its own. Just thinking about it makes me crack up.

Miyabi wrote: While this piece really contains more tension and drama until the final panel, I agree that the build is what helps bring the big laugh at the end. You can also see the temperature rising for Ciel, as her cheeks get redder and redder as the panels move along. I felt it tied in to the Beauty and the Beast storyline nicely, and your chosen characters fit well to pull off the connection. Very cute, and well constructed comic!

2.) @amiable-apparition: (*a-a wins $50 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote: I don't remember this scene from the Star Force anime. Must've been cut from the final release. Clever use of trickery regarding who the real "monster" is; poor Damian appears to have misjudged the situation something fierce. Good idea and use of twist.

Miyabi wrote: I guess Sam was the one who was ‘Hungry Like the Wolf,’ after all! I too enjoyed the spin at the end, it was a funny deviation on how her character was portrayed in the anime. Subject choice was strong here too, connecting the theme with a couple characters who fit well with the concept. Nice work with the variety of panels you created to set things up.

3.) @frankenchio​: (*frankenchio wins $25 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote:  Ah, the Princess and the Toad Man. Frankenchio's piece is a clever little reference to the classic fable, but most of the humor is in how Roll apparently didn't know what kind of prince was on the other end of that frog. Clever, pretty to look at.

Miyabi wrote: I like that you thought outside of the box with the theme, and used a totally different classic tale, but still connected it very well. Ice Man sure lucked out this time, after whoever cursed him into Toad form. While a simple few panels, your style is just adorable. Those jewels on the crown look really detailed!

Close, but not quite ~

Dark Dullahan:

Jaybird wrote: Dark Dullahan has the idea of recreating an actual Disney scene with Iris and (Zoanoroid?) Zero, which is very sweet. It took me a few repeat looks to digest what was going on here but it's amusing to see Zero protecting his wounds from the fierce and terrible Iris. Because she's obviously the worst thing that can happen to him. Cute, amusing scene.

Miyabi wrote: Sorry, I don’t know why this upload defaults to a side view, when I don’t even have it at that orientation. It automatically glitches that way, no matter how I upload it. :/ Anyhow, a clever spin using the EXE versions of Zero and Iris, living in a world where only reploids...no wait, they don’t exist here. This Beastly ZoanoZero will open up to her over time, I’m sure. But first, he needs to heal up. Again, good use of parodying the scene.

@drewblossom​:

Jaybird wrote:  The sheer concept of Rock-Belle made me wonder if they were going to throw in an FMA reference somewhere, but Drew's picture doesn't need it. They make good use of the Disney-classic-gone-wrong idea -- Oil Man and Time Man as Lumiere and Cogsworth are nearly inspired --though I think they didn't quite go far enough and should have rounded out the piece with a more feminine version of the suit; Rock-Belle changing into Mega *Man* raises questions about whether the main character's an actual girl or just a cross-dresser, which distracts from the joke.

Miyabi wrote: I guess Rock is both the beauty and the beast, for totally destroying those poor innocent talking inanimate object bots! While I had a good laugh at the quick-change blast, the character reactions, and the overall parody of the classic scene, sadly I did feel it just didn’t quite have the couple contrast/Valentine’s theme as well as others. 

@erekisaiko​: (*RAFFLE PRIZE WINNER* Captain N Height Chart)

Jaybird wrote:  I feel like I'm missing a reference to something else. As amusing as the concept of JunkMan's and Meddy's unsanitary hospital sounds, the picture doesn't present us with enough information to make sense of what actually happened (i.e. why was JunkMan wearing a cardboard Falzer costume in the first place?), and [=ClockMan's=] joke lacks the punch it ought to have because the punchline has no set up. (Unless of course this is all just an incredibly obvious reference to something I've never been exposed to that would fill in all the missing context). Amusing concept in punchline, it's fun to think about how this situation could've arisen.

Miyabi wrote: Meddy’s not oblivious, she just has a big heart ready to heal any messy, junky slob! Cute and different idea having more of a ‘fake’ beast, although I think Junk still would count as a beastly character on his own, in some respects. Very well-drawn, and appreciate all the detail you put into your internet background.

For the talent category, the theme was “If You Like It, You Should Put a Ring Boomerang On It.” This category was all about proposal scenes. And I am shocked there was not a single Jewel Man! XD

Here are your top 3, followed by the remaining entries in alphabetical order by alias:  

1.) @wintesm​: (*wint wins $100 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote:  Jeez. Unrelenting Style. Your children's book painting is incredible as ever; your figures, your colors, your atmosphere, just about everything.  I ran into a problem with your composition, though; the stark black page divider clashes with the predominantly horizontal-mirror structure and makes it hard to wrap your head around the story as its meant to be told. It was less of a problem once I trained myself to ignore it, and you use the divider very effectively in the second-to-last section, but it still made it harder to enjoy the work. Masterful technique, colors, perspective, expression.

Miyabi wrote: With your subjects, I felt this composition was a very clever way to tell the story, and kinda mirror their separate, but similar tales side-by side. As mentioned, you have such a fitting children’s storybook style, from colors to shapes, that shines once again! It’s a cute tale for such evil characters!

2.) @peach35​: (*peach wins $50 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote:  Peach deserves a lot of credit for her mastery of figure-drawing and perspective. That's something a lot of people struggle with, and accomplishment in these matters should be recognized. Another good choice of simple background to highlight the main moment, and awesome use of colors and lighting to suggest 3D -- I'm far more fascinated by Gate's nose than I should be. Incredible faces, hands, colors, and general shading.

Miyabi wrote: The sense of confused shock on Alia’s face is a different reaction that most, as it’s apparent Gate is slipping that ring on in total surprise. Clean lines and soft lighting helped this piece stand out.

3.) @tianura​: (*tianura wins $25 USD or an item(s) up to that value.)

Jaybird wrote: Tianura's style is difficult to read; the line quality can be inconsistent from panel to panel, some attempts to convey 3D positioning could use polish, and the panels never stray very far from simple torso and head shots. That said, the expressions are exceptionally clear (again, look to the eyes) and convey lots of emotion, and the page-by-page composition is very good. Very expressive faces, judicious use of colors for effect.

Miyabi wrote: I thought this was a creative parallel for life-long partners in using Netto and Enzan. You did a nice job keeping Netto’s goofy charm intact, with quite a few humorous lines. The ending was totally fitting for him, older or not. XD While I’m sure you would have liked to color the whole thing, I liked the differing use of screentone shading. And the watercolor look of the color pieces did give it some storybook charm as well.

Close, but not quite ~

@borockman​:

Jaybird wrote:  It's such a shame this isn't a humor category, because this deserves major points for funny (the Nana-Sigma romance anime that the fandom doesn't want, but nonetheless deserves). The linework itself is pretty good. Expressive, good use of background for mood. Also, Sigma, the ring goes on the ring finger.

Miyabi wrote: It’s a dream. It’s always a dream! Siggy puts the ring on her pinky because Nana’s his ‘lil pinky-poo... ;p With the tears running down her face, I really did like the emotional feel of the moment. 

@digitallyfanged​:

Jaybird wrote: In terms of sheer atmosphere, this is one of the best pieces. It looks like a still from some fairy tale picture-book. The forest scenery, the background, the flower-swing, the misting breath, the quality of the outfits and the details on the dress and sword all make this exquisite. Unfortunately the characters aren't quite as expressive as they ought to be -- this is very clearly a fairy-tale love scene of some kind, but what kind? Laika is clearly being emotional towards the princess, but what is he saying? "Who are you"? "You're beautiful"? "I love you"? "Be mine forever"? It's gorgeous, but it's a little too vague to tell whether it's on topic or not.

Miyabi wrote: Gorgeous scene that felt a bit like another Disney-ish tale, moreso of the Frozen variety. They may just be easy-to-use Clip Studio effects, but I really thought it was quite creative how you pulled off the swing design. The watercolor forest background is beautiful, as is Pride’s snow princess outfit. Pretty, pretty picture!

@drewblossom​:

Jaybird wrote: I'm glad I saw Drew's title, because it took me a minute to figure out exactly what was going on -- for a moment I thought Geminiman was trying to propose to himself with that (fittingly) gaudy diamond. The linework is pretty good, and I like the lighting effects on Gemini's crystals and the translucence of his chest plate. I'll give them points for an ambitious concept, but the best mirror art looks at a scene from two different directions, and Gemini's reflection is simply a reverse of the main view. Good colors and lighting, elegantly simple background that does a good job of highlighting the main action.

Miyabi wrote: No better way to practice a proposal than to recite it in front of your self. Of course, if he is proposing to his clone, then I think with his nonchalant actions, he’s got this down already. XD Clever, and unique!

@hyperbole1729​:

Jaybird wrote: This piece is another mix. It has some very nice things -- the colors are spot on, the composition is very nice (you take cues from the 18th century Romantic movement by having the whole world revolve around the subject), you clearly pay attention to character details, and your field of flowers is great.

Miyabi wrote: Another set of net-battling partners who seem like a great choice for being together forever. The background is a fitting place for Sal to do it, because I don’t quite see Miyu being the one to speak up and propose. That might be more of a frightening proposition. LOL Cute, traditional scene. 

@iris-sempi​: 

Jaybird wrote: Iris-sempi's got style. The colors are interesting, the subject is clear, the linework pops out because it's -also- part of the colors, the cartoony elements fit in very nicely, and the presentation as a literature/manga cover is well-done. The technique is some of the best I've seen. That said, I have to ask, if you were going to go through all the trouble of creating such a cool cover, I think it's only fair to point out the title is blocked by the artwork, which defeats the purpose, especially on something's Volume 1.

Miyabi wrote: Just to clarify for everyone, the Japanese characters for this piece say "Let's Get Married" and "Sea Salt Honey." I thought it was a really clever mag cover format, where the characters really pop out against the pink background. With the waves, it really does feel like Splashy leapt out of the ocean to smack some salty sugar on Honey/Vesper Woman. Her vibrating antennae give some nice movement and comedic effect, too. Love it, but felt it just didn’t quite have the proposal feel as strongly as others.

@jb-artist​: (*RAFFLE PRIZE WINNER* - Megaman 8 cel)

Jaybird wrote: JB's picture is very cute, and we don't have much actual oekaki here, so props. While you deserve even more props for how direct you are to get to the point, it's difficult to judge how we're supposed to interpret this -- is Alouette precociously misunderstanding the nature of a marriage proposal or is it an actual proposal to her older sister figure? The perspective rocks, the colors and lighting are good, and there are lots of little details that portray lots of love for the Zero series.

Miyabi wrote: Zero’s such the silent, brooding type, that he sends Alouette to do the proposal for him. I’m just not sure if that will help or hurt his rank in this stage! XD It is honestly really cute, especially when you see her doodles on the resistance base’s wall. I think that makes the piece more than anything, and was a clever callback to the game. I like how you set up the scene with the background, and those are some really nice mountains back there, too. 

@lightlabs​:

Jaybird wrote: Now this is pretty. Great composition to direct us through the piece (-nice touch- on giving the ring some bling) and rocking use of paint swatches for style. The art does a great job of directing us into the center, and the warm colors in the center do a lot to convey mood. Zero, you smug jerk, stop showing the rest of us poor schlubs up.

Miyabi wrote: Yes, this is happening. There is a reason for me to go on. What...what am I using this line foooorr? The warm colors and sparkles give it a unique glow, for what seems to be a night scene. The brush strokes give it a neat paint brush look, for your coloring, too. Nice work conveying their emotions with their expressions as well. 

@pandapanic0:

Jaybird wrote: In terms of actual skill, the coloring is good and clear, the piece is composed well, the lighting effects are fairly elegant. If it were the actual humor category, the Ring Man's appropriately outlandish bid and Mega Man's exceptionally feminine reaction would gain the piece lots of laugh-out-loud points.

Miyabi wrote: Thank you for taking the title of this category literally and going for the humorous visual of a giant ring Ring Boomerang! Even if he says no, once he tries to get rid of that ring, it’ll just come right back. XD Rock’s blushing expression is cute. Nice crisp coloring and bold lines. 

@shikai-the-storyteller​: (*RAFFLE PRIZE WINNER* - Archie Worlds Unite Page)

Jaybird wrote: On a panel-by-panel basis, the art is very good: crisp lines; good color and lighting; good technique with hands and faces; great use of background and expression to convey mood -- you got more mileage out of your backgrounds than probably anyone else here.

Miyabi wrote: Another nice job of mixing humor into your piece, while still keeping it a tender, sweet moment. Nice way of showing that things don’t always go as planned for a proposal, but sometimes it’s the thought and effort that counts. As always, your lines, colors and penmanship are smooth and flawless.

Superbasket5:

Jaybird wrote:  Aww. If I've got this right, it looks like X is so nervous about giving Alia a valentine that he doesn't realize Berkana is giving Alia encouragement as well. I think. I have to wonder what Marty is doing here -- research tells me she has a crush on X, which seems like it would get in the way, and if that's the case, this impending trainwreck will be something worth watching. That said, the piece is still in its rough stages, especially your setting and perspective; I can't really tell where the characters are (outside at a park?), and Alia's hip is in front of X's arm.

Miyabi wrote: Alia has her support group, but I don’t know if she’s going to be able to pop the question to X with a crowd around her, either. XD Cute expressions, showing her nerves, while X is probably not quite expecting what’s hiding behind her back. I kinda wish we would get that visual of what she’s hiding as a cutaway, much like how you gave X a thought bubble for what’s going on in his head. 

@yugiohlesbian​:

Jaybird wrote:  Good job! I'd like to compliment you on how versatile your figures are and how you use that to make them very expressive; your use of perspective and individual panel compositions are both very versatile. While there isn't any color, the nighttime scenes do a good job with the lighting. Your style is pleasantly simple, but sometimes the panels seem to be oversimplified; more developed backgrounds would be welcome in several places.

Miyabi wrote: Totally different subject, but Zero, none of us understand taxes, either. I like how you illustrated the struggle of a reploid trying to understand human logic and traditions, and yet in the end, it still being something Zero didn’t truly need to grasp in that logical sense. While I know you wish you would have had more time to continue perfecting these panels, I agree that the night scenes stand out and give a good contrast between Zero’s computer research scenes. 

Thanks once again to all who participated! I will be contacting the winners soon enough. Work will probably keep me from replying to everyone immediately, but if you don’t hear from me today, I will send a message about prizes hopefully within the next day. 

For those awaiting the secret contest results...sorry, for another slight delay. Between finishing my promo art for this thread, and typing this, it took up too much time and I’ve gotta head to work. I will have those posted overnight, into Sunday morning, as it won’t be quite as intensive to write up. My apologies, but I hope you can all hang on for another 20 hours or less. ^^;

[jarienn972]

Only a Little Superstitious - Chapter 15

I'm going to preface this chapter with the revelation that it came together as the result of a very stressful couple of weeks for me. So, that said, this one is going to be heavy on the angst  - with just a couple of major developments playing out both in Phoenix as well as back home in Storybrooke. I promise, there is going to be a happy ending, but there's still a bumpy road ahead for both Emma and Killian..   @killian-whump, I’d forgotten to tag you on the last couple of chapters, but I didn’t want you to miss out on some juicy angst.

 AO3   FF.net

From the beginning on Tumblr:  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14

Evening was quickly descending on Storybrooke as Regina yanked open the heavy front door of the town library, here thanks to an urgent message from Belle stating she'd discovered something very important. Regina didn't see the brunette librarian anywhere as she entered but she could hear a couple of muffled voices off in the distance.

"Belle?" Regina called out, having recognized Belle's voice as well as a male one – David. "You've got news?"

"Regina!" Belle's voice shouted back from further back in the dusty, musty building. "We're back here – in the computer room."

"We?" Regina asked. She had only made out two voices so she wondered who else might be present.

"David and I," Belle replied as Regina came around the corner into the library's make-shift computer room which also housed most of the reference section. David, clad in a blue plaid flannel shirt and jeans, was leaning against the wall across from Belle. "I figured he should be here as acting Sheriff so he could hear this as well…"

"Must relate to Emma and Hook then," Regina said in what came across as a perpetually annoyed tone.

"Sort of…," was Belle's cryptic response as she took a couple of steps over to a huge, solid oak library table stacked with piles of leather-bound first editions and reference materials. Belle pushed one of the stacks to the side and produced a fistful of papers. "Actually, it has more to do with Yzma's partner, Kronk…"

"Kronk? The guy who stabbed Hook then followed my daughter and son-in-law through the portal to Arizona?" David queried.

"That Kronk," Belle confirmed, plucking the first page from her pile of papers, one that looked like a poor quality photocopy. "I've been doing some research into both of our recent troublemakers, both Yzma and Kronk."

"Okay…" Regina hadn't expected the the petite librarian to continue looking into the pair once they'd been identified, but maybe this was a good thing.

"Well, we know that they arrived here with Mr. Hyde and his cronies from the Land of Untold Stories," David stated, curious as to what else Belle might have uncovered.

"Yes, they did come from the Land of Untold Stories," Belle verified. "I confirmed that through some of the journals found with both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde's belongings. Each seemed to be trying to keep records which partially identified the story book characters trapped in that realm. Thing was, neither of them made any mention of Nehemiah Kronk or what his story was. That got me very curious so I started to do a little digging and, with the help of some modern technology, I found something very interesting…"

"Are you going to kill us with suspense?" Regina deadpanned, eager to get home after a long day.

"Sorry, let me get to the point," Belle responded, voice dripping with sarcasm as she had no intention of being bullied by the mayor's insolence. "Nehemiah Kronk isn't a fairytale character at all…"

"What?!" both David and Regina chimed in unison.

"What do you mean he isn't a fairytale character?" Regina repeated Belle's revelation. "He has to be…"

"He's most certainly not," Belle replied very matter-of-factly as she passed the paper clutched in her hand to Regina. "Nehemiah Kronk is from this world, the Land Without Magic. Look…"

Regina perused the slightly blurry page before her which appeared to be a badly preserved copy of a very old newspaper article. "What exactly am I looking at? Old news?"

"That is a printout of an article I uncovered, published by the Arizona Republican newspaper in 1892…" Belle started to say as Regina handed the barely legible page to David.

"This says something about a missing US Marshal?" David asked as he glanced down at the page, confused as to what this had to do with Yzma's dangerous henchman. "I guess I'm missing something here…"

"Let me finish?" Belle asked, to which both David and Regina agreed, promising not to interrupt again. "That article talks about the mysterious disappearance of United States Marshal Nehemiah Kronk who vanished somewhere outside of the city Phoenix, then in the Arizona territories, while escorting a prisoner from Denver to Los Angeles. He and his partner turned their prisoner over to the California team, but when his partner checked in the next morning before they were to board the train back to Denver, Kronk was nowhere to be found. Witnesses reported he was last seen in a tavern talking to an old man. No one ever saw Kronk again and he was suspected of becoming a victim of one of several Apache attacks that week."

"Okay, but this is from the 1890s… How could someone from this world still be alive and unaged over a century later?" David wondered. "I'm sure the frozen time aspect of the Land of Untold Stories had something to do with it, but how did he get there if he isn't from a story? And how did he manage to hook up with Yzma?"

"I can't give you answers to those questions, but it's definitely the same guy…" Belle peeled the second page from her pile which contained a grainy, black and white photograph of the missing Marshal and while the hairstyle, attire and facial hair were different, David recognized the face of the man he'd fought alongside his son-in-law.

"Damn… that's him…" David sighed, unsure what this would mean for his daughter and her wounded husband.

"Well, at least we now have something that explains how they ended up in Arizona," Regina spoke up. "If Emma's right about the dagger being the object that opened the portal, not the scepter, Kronk may have had an impact on their destination."

"You think Kronk had a reason to go back to Arizona after all of these years?" David asked.

"Maybe. There are a lot of things we aren't going to be able to answer, but maybe this information would help Emma's friends track him down before he finds them?" Belle questioned. "Maybe we should call her?"

"She's still waiting for the dagger and potion to arrive," Regina said as she glanced down at her gold, diamond encrusted watch. "It won't get there for a few more hours but she's supposed to call when the package arrives and let us know if the potion works."

"Emma's got enough on her mind right now," David began. "Let's wait until we know the potion worked before we give her something else to worry about…"

"Agreed," Regina said. "Let's not bother her with a story about a century and a half year old former Federal Agent until the dark magic is dealt with. As for me, I'm heading home. If you happen to hear from your daughter sooner, let me know."

Sunsets in the Valley of the Sun were always spectacular and Carlos found his eyes immediately drawn to the blaze of color stretching across the Western sky as he exited his battered old pickup truck. The last few rays of sunlight could be seen reflecting off of the front windows of the nondescript office building in Scottsdale that he'd parked in front of, one which housed the National Parks Service field office. At nearly 6pm, only a few of his fellow government employees would still be here, most swapping their assigned Parks Service SUVs for their personal vehicles after a long day of patrolling the surrounding expanse of Federal lands.

He tapped his ID badge against the electronic security panel to the right of the entrance, tugging the door open when the panel buzzed and flashed a green light. Ana, their receptionist, glanced up from her desk as he entered, momentarily startling her as few people entered through the front door at this hour.

"Littlecreek? What are you doing at the office at this hour?" she asked, her dark eyes narrowing in confusion. "And isn't it your day off?"

"Hey, Ana," he greeted her with a friendly smile, hoping he could sell her on the basic story without going into a lot of detail. "Yeah, sorry for the confusion. I've got a package being delivered here from back East. It's pretty important so I didn't really want to risk having it dropped off at my place."

"Ooh, the mystery deepens, huh?" Ana teased him as he pulled one of the waiting area chairs away from the window and flopped down onto it. "Must be pretty important for you to show up here on your day off…"

"Yes, it is. Important enough to warrant private, same-day courier delivery. Good thing it's not on my tab. Figured I'd get over here early though in case the plane lands earlier than scheduled."

"Okay, well, you're on your own. I'm not sticking around while you wait," Ana stated as the clock on her desk now read six o'clock. "My day is over and I'm heading home. See you later, Littlecreek."

"Goodnight, Ana," he replied as she retrieved her purse from beneath her desk and scurried out the door. While he would have preferred the company, the less prying eyes, the better. He didn't want to have to go over the story of the package's contents more times than necessary.

He'd nearly drifted off from boredom when a loud knock sounded against the thick glass door forty-five minutes later. Carlos sprang to his feet and took a step towards the door, taking in the sight of a slight, blond haired man in his early to mid twenties dressed in a navy blue uniform and clutching a small box wrapped tightly in clear tape.

"Evening," the courier greeted Carlos from the opposite side of the thick glass door. "I've got a package here for a Mrs. Emma Jones, care of a Ranger Carlos Littlecreek?"

"And that would be me," Carlos replied. "One moment. Let me buzz you in…" Carlos found the button to his left and pressed it before pushing the door open for the courier to enter the office lobby.

"Thank you," the courier said as he took a few steps inside toward the reception desk. He rested the package on the desk while fumbling through his pocket with his free hand to find his tablet so he could collect Carlos' signature confirming the delivery. It was only as the package was placed atop the counter that Carlos noticed that one side was dented significantly. "I just need you to sign here but I'd also like you to take a look over the package and the contents and make sure they're intact in case you need to file a claim. We had a pretty bumpy flight and everything in the cargo hold got jostled around a lot. 'Found this package beneath a heavier one that got bounced on top of it and since the manifest stated it contained medicine, I was a little concerned…"

"Yeah, it contains some cough medicine for a colleague of mine. Desert air doesn't quite agree with her," Carlos chuckled as he hunted around Ana's desk for a pair of scissors so he could cut through the many layers of tape securing the box. Upon closer inspection, it appeared the courier had valid reason for his concern. He could see that beneath the tape, corners of the cardboard seemed to be damp with a reddish liquid and as he lifted it, the bottom was sticky against his palm. It was all adding up to be a little disconcerting. What if the potion bottles were damaged? There might not be time to wait for another batch… He cautiously cut through the tape securing the top flaps of the box and pulled them open to reveal layer after layer of bubble wrap lining the carton. He dug into it, easily finding the first prescription bottle and breathing a small sigh of relief upon discovering it was intact. They'd have one dose at least.

Unfortunately, as he discovered more of the sticky liquid clinging to the plastic, it became fairly evident that the second container hadn't been spared and as much as he hated it, he was right. He found the second bottle positioned against the dented side of the box sporting a large crack down the side. Grabbing what looked to be a clean coffee mug from Ana's desktop, he carefully extracted the second bottle, trying to preserve as much of the precious liquid inside as he could. He dropped the damaged container into the mug so it could catch any additional spillage, then slowly removed layer upon layer of bubble wrap, pouring what he could salvage into the mug.

"Damn…," the courier sighed. "I'm so sorry about that. We'll notify the sender so they can put in a damage claim if they want."

"Nothing you could do about the turbulence," Carlos assured the courier, not blaming him for this setback. At least one bottle had survived so they had one full dose and he was doing all he could to collect every drop he could rescue from the broken bottle. "Here, let me sign that so you can get out of here and I can get this stuff over to my colleague." The courier handed him the tablet and a rubber tipped stylus to sign and Carlos scrawled out his name as best he could with his now very sticky fingers. Once the transaction was all completed, he buzzed the courier out and tried to decide if he should call Emma now to warn her or just explain it all in person. Neither option was particularly pleasant at the moment.

Deciding it preferable to explain face to face, Carlos packaged the borrowed mug inside the box with the unblemished container and the still wrapped dagger then hurried out to his truck. He headed south toward Mesa, driving as quickly as he could without drawing too much unnecessary attention. Last thing he needed was to get pulled over for speeding and lengthen the delay the snarled traffic was already causing.

He finally arrived back at the hospital just after 7:30pm, box carefully tucked under his left arm. The unusual package had gotten a bit of scrutiny from security, but a casual mention of Tim Stillwater's name managed to get him through without too many questions. As he at last approached the room, it looked like Killian was asleep. Emma's back was to him but Grandmother spotted him lurking in the corridor and waved him inside.

"Why were you standing out there just staring?" Grandmother scolded him. "You could have just entered."

"I saw that Killian was sleeping and I didn't want to disturb him," Carlos replied in defense of his stalling.

"Right now, I don't care who you wake," Emma stated, standing up and hurriedly retrieving the box Carlos was carrying. "This package right here is the only thing I'm worried about right now."

"Well, the potion is definitely in there, as was the dagger," Carlos told her. "I wasn't even gonna try to bring that thing in here though so it's locked in my truck, but unfortunately, we may have a small problem…"

"Problem?" Emma's gaze shot up to meet Carlos', the earlier eagerness now tempered with a hint of trepidation. "What kind of problem?" She had already placed the cardboard box atop the rolling side table and was lifting the flaps to open it, not yet noticing that the corners were damp and discolored, but Grandmother's eagle eyes had spotted the stains.

Sharing a knowing glance with her grandson, the old woman was already asking "What happened?" even before Emma had the lid open, knowing not all of the potion had survived the journey from Storybrooke. Grandmother's intuitive suspicions were confirmed when Emma peeled back the sticky bubble wrap to discover the ceramic mug holding the cracked prescription bottle and the remnants that Carlos had managed to salvage.

"One of the bottles was broken?" Emma asked with a very audible sigh, lifting the mug carefully from the box so she wouldn't spill any more of its valuable contents. "It's all soaked through the box…"

"The courier said they hit some nasty turbulence and some other boxes fell on top of this one," Carlos explained. "I salvaged what I could from the broken one, even what I could manage to save from inside the layers of bubble wrap. 'Borrowed a friend's mug so I'd have something to catch it all. Looks like there's maybe a third of the original amount left…"

"The other bottle is intact?" Grandmother asked just wanting to be certain.

"Yes, it's fine," Emma responded as she withdrew the undamaged bottle from the package and placed it atop the table. Resting the mug beside the prescription container, she extracted the broken bottle and removed its lid, dumping the remaining contents into the mug. The thick, reddish-brown liquid certainly looked and even smelled like cough syrup. Regina had done well disguising it, but they had only a little more than a single dose. "Might as well have him drink all of it now," Emma decided, raising the second bottle to remove its cap and emptying it into the mug as well. Now all she had to do was get Killian to drink it.

"You're not worried it might be too much?" Carlos wondered, figuring there had to be a reason it was split into two separate doses. He didn't really expect Emma to answer as there definitely wasn't enough left to make a second dose that would likely have any effect, but he was still curious that too much could be equally as troubling as not enough.

"I don't see much of a choice," Emma replied as she gently nudged her husband's shoulder in an attempt to get him to stir. "Killian? If you can hear me, you need to wake up…" There was little response from her first effort so she had to try a bit harder this time, stroking his upper arm as she called out to him once again. "Killian – we've got the potion… You need to wake up so you can drink it…" This time, his head lolled toward the sound of her voice, followed by a faint, pained groan of displeasure. "That's it…" Emma continued to encourage him out of his drowsiness. "C'mon, talk to me…"

"'M tired, Swan…" Killian complained, eyes still closed tightly.

"I know," she apologized. Emma hated forcing him, but deep down, she knew it was for the best. "You've got to wake up and drink this to fight off that dark magic that has a hold on you." Killian's eyelids parted to slits, barely enough to make out the shape of his wife's face as she leaned over him. He took another moment to allow his sleepy eyes to adjust until he could discern a mug clutched in her right hand.

"Regina's potion?" Killian asked, his left eyebrow arching with suspicion.

"Yes," Emma smiled at him. "It's the potion we've been waiting for." She gently took a seat beside him on the narrow bed. "Let me help you sit up…" She found the controls for the adjustable bed and pressed the button to raise his head, slipping her left hand behind his shoulder to help ease him forward until he was seated upright, nearly eye level with her. He immediately grimaced and nearly tumbled back against the pillows as a twinge of pain shot through his chest. "Ooh, sorry… Shouldn't have done that so fast…"

"Be fine in a moment…," Killian insisted, gritting his teeth until the discomfort lessened. "Where is it?"

"Here," Emma replied, offering the ceramic mug. He managed to wrap his fingers around it, but found his hand shaking too much to keep a grip on the handle. "Maybe I should hold it?" his wife offered, to which he nodded in agreement. "Okay… take it slowly, but you'll have to drink it all." She raised the mug to his lips and gradually tipped it. When he nearly gagged on the first mouthful, she instinctively pulled the offending vessel away, fearful that it might be too much right now, but Killian shook his head and reached for her.

"It's fine, Love," Killian assured her despite a crinkled nose and a frown stretching across his lips. "It's a bit much. Rather distasteful, to be honest, but I can do this…" The frown melted into a weak smile as he cupped his hand around hers, still trembling from even such a slight exertion. His fingers stayed with hers as she brought the mug back to his open mouth again. Killian wasn't shy about displaying his displeasure at the foul-tasting liquid but he drank all of it. Emma lowered the mug and passed it to Grandmother as Killian forced himself to swallow the last of the potion.

"Feel any different?" Emma asked, remaining at her husband's side while Grandmother placed the mug on the counter next to the sink to wash later.

"Burns a little," Killian responded, his fingers latching onto Emma's upper arm for support. "Kinda like heartburn after eating that noxious substance Granny calls chili…" That statement had Emma trying to stifle a chuckle even as she felt his grip tighten.

"You sure you're okay?" Emma asked, no longer amused. "You've got a death grip on my arm."

"Sorry… Don't know my own strength…" Killian grinned, but the forced smile was soon betrayed by a powerful spasm that sent his body tumbling into his wife's arms.

"Killian?!" Her arms immediately wrapped around his torso as she caught him crashing into her, nearly knocking her over. His heart was thumping against his chest wall; his breaths coming rapid and shallow and suddenly, the electronic monitor behind him was beeping in time with his racing heart. This was definitely going to draw attention they didn't need.

Sensing what was happening, Grandmother shooed Carlos away from the door as Emma clung to her trembling husband. These spirits weren't going to give him up without a fight, but the old woman recognized that an interruption by medical personnel at this critical moment would disrupt the process so she moved swiftly to intercept the nurse before she entered.

"Is everything alright here?" the nurse asked suspiciously as she saw her patient clenched in his wife's embrace, apparently wrought with tremors. The first thought as the monitors had lit up with alarms was that Killian Jones was suffering another seizure. "This might be another seizure so if you'd please, move out of my way so I can examine my patient."

"Everything is fine," Grandmother insisted, voice calm and steady so that she might sound more convincing. "It's not a seizure. Mr. Jones merely woke from a very visceral nightmare – the poor man forced to relive the horror of being stabbed by an assailant that has yet to be captured. His wife is attempting to comfort him. She gave him a little bit of water and is holding him while the shaking subsides. Please, give her some time before you interrupt them. You might startle him anew." The nurse relented, partially because she noticed that the monitor displaying the patient's heart rate showed his pulse returning to normal and partially because she didn't want to argue with this old woman standing before her.

"I'll be back in two minutes to check his vitals," the nurse insisted. Grandmother responded only with a nod, returning to the room to find that Killian had passed out, his body slack in Emma's arms as she eased him back against the mattress, lowering the bed's angle to a more comfortable sleeping position.

Once Killian was resting seemingly peacefully, Emma drew her arms back from beneath him, but then raised her right hand to sweep away the unruly strands of dark brown hair that had cascaded over his temple when he'd fallen forward. His forehead still felt a bit warm to her touch, but perhaps not as much as earlier? "Please let this work." Her plea came out in a barely audible whisper.

"I don't sense the evil spirits here in this room any longer," Grandmother stated as she extended a hand to help Emma to her feet. Emma's gaze remained fixed on Killian as she stood, allowing him to rest without crowding him.

"I sure hope you're right," Emma responded, her voice quivering as she allowed only a single tear to escape. "I guess only a little time will tell us for sure…"