#well this might not be the last goth link i draw I have a need to draw more now

[daeyumi]

saw a post on twt that said something like “draw ur fave character in ur fave outfit”

SO

i present to u goth link 🖤

[sp00kworm]

Who needs lights?

Pairing: Durzub (Goth Male Orc) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warning: Suggestive Themes

This wonderful piece is based off a very lovely OC by @of-devils-and-drawings. Durzub belongs to her and I adored him too much not to make this for him. I’m a sucker for anything scary and/or orc.... and/or metal....and/or goth. 

---

You’d always found a little bit of comfort being in the alternative scene, even when others stared and watched in the street as you went past, going about your business, bundled in black layers or flares and platforms. It was something unique and different and it was very much a part of your life. The bars were always better places too. You laughed at the bar at your friend as the bar tender tied his platinum, lilac streaked hair back and started to mix the cocktail for the jug. It was easier to order in large pitchers and watch the band playing from the platform the bar was on. You watched the alcohol mix as the Fae grinned at you, revealing incredibly dangerous, sharp teeth and placed two straws into the jug before sliding it closer to the two of you.

You paid for it before laughing and turning a straw to the Faun, “To our health! Well, and my new job!” You cheered.

“Oh, for sure, finally you’re not broke and can pay for drinks!” She jeered as she pursed her lips and leaned down to take a few long sips, “Jesus Christ, Flix!” She coughed, “You trying to get us drunk and make us easy, or something?”

Flix rolled his eyes as he flipped a cocktail shaker over and caught it, “You wish Pip. You two haven’t ever been my type.” He snorted as his lilac, gossamer wings fluttered behind his back in irritation. He laid his burning black eyes on a group in the corner, “Though, I like the look of those troublemakers.” A claw raised to point at the group of Orcs who were gathered in the corner.

 Pip’s brown ears flicked before her hooves clicked against the black floor, the sparkly tiles reflecting the strobes from the stage. She grinned and flicked at the ring in her nose, her shaggy black hair flopping back over her dark eyes, “Oh,” She purred, “I didn’t know you were into the rowdy muscle-head sort.”

Flix flipped the cocktail again before giving her the middle finger and moving to serve the cocktail to a woman who had just come out of the crowd watching the band.

“Who are they?” You asked after taking a long drink of the cocktail, “I haven’t seen them here before?” You looked over at the group again before realising how perfectly they fit in here in the bar. All were dressed in a variety of fashion, from heavy leather, to chains, to netting. Others donned fancier items with flowing sleeves and long, tailored skirts and trousers. The majority were green in skin tone, but you looked at a few lighter coloured, grey toned orcs with interest as they were from the mountainous regions of the old country.

Pip clicked her tongue, “Muscle heads and trouble, the lot of them.” She took another few drinks before hopping back onto her bar stool and adjusting her net top over her ripped shirt. Around her waist was a thick leather belt, the studs dripping with thin metal chains that hung around her furry hips, “They come to shows like this and usually start fights.” She commented off-handedly.

 With a frown, you looked from her, to the group again, “They just seem to be drinking and watching?” You commented.

Pip snorted a short bleat again, “Yeah, wait until this gig really kicks off, then you’ll see what I mean. Last time I was here with them one of them decided it would be a great idea to upturn tables, and by that, I mean, upturn my drinks over my new dress.” She hissed venomously, “They’re assholes, the lot of them.”

“They don’t look like it…” You uttered as one of the Orcs stood from the group and dragged his friend up with him to get drinks. The rest of them hollered their orders before some of the group split off to join the crowd watching the band.

“Oh great. Here they come!” Pip cheered before moving two seats down and dragging you along with her.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Pip.” Flix commented with a hiss and flutter of his wings, “They’re all lookers, I don’t see why you can’t look past that.” He shrugged his shoulders before smiling at the two male orcs at the bar, “What can I do for you two handsome fellas?” His eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings at them and you snickered at the scent of lilac flowers that drifted from him like a thick perfume.

 “Come on, Flix. Lay off it for one night will ya!” One of the orcs laughed before he elbowed his friend, “This guy’s new here. Don’t go scaring him off already. You lot need our custom.” The orc leaned back and scrubbed at his mohawk, adjusting his heavy cargo trousers. Fabric belts hung between the legs and down them and he wore a heavy half tartan kilt over the top. His face was littered with piercings and you could see why he looked like the sort to be causing problems.

“You know I love you all equally, Xurek.” Flix laughed, “But I was more excited for your lady friend over there. She’s new too huh?”

“Jesus, you never give up! Anyway,” Xurek took the other orc around the neck, “This is Durzub. He’s new in town. Just moved in from out from the sticks. He might look like a foul piece of work, but you’ve met Rakuh, so he’s not as scary.” Xurek laughed before he let the darker skinned orc go. The other male reached up to brush his black hair from his eyes. Most of his long black hair was braided in tight long threads, the braids sequenced with small beads along them with the rest straight and hanging over his shoulder beneath the wide brim of a black hat, emblazoned with a silver trim around the base. He turned, dressed in a black long shirt and coat, the end trailing behind him as he ducked out of Xurek’s grasp, brown eyes angry.

 Durzub snorted and tossed his head, the braids sliding back out of his way over his shoulder before he reached up to move his tangled chains from the ends of his hair, the necklaces hanging with silver teeth, “Will you stop dragging me around like a child, Xurek!” He snorted as he dragged his arm out of Xurek’s grasp and adjusted his hat again before sighing and taking it off, “Any way I could get you to store this behind the bar for me? Its new and these lot have a habit of throwing beer the later it gets.”

Flix fluttered his eyelashes again, “Sure thing, sweetheart.” He took the hat and turned around to hang it near the aprons, “Just grab me before closing and I’ll get it you.”

“Thank you.” Durzub rumbled before pulling his hair back again, tucking the straight length on his left side behind his ear, revealing rings of silver and studs of obsidian, which matched the rings, linked by a chain, on each of his short tusks.

“Don’t be nice to him, Durzub, he’ll eat you alive given the opportunity.” Xurek snickered behind his hand as he flapped his band shirt, trying to cool himself down, “His family ate children back in the day.”

“That was five hundred years ago!” Flix scoffed as he slammed two, pint glasses down on the bar, “So, was it two ales or two lagers?”

“We were thinking mead actually.” Xurek stuck his pierced tongue out before he played with the bar, “And not that piss water Weldrick buys for the goblins!” Flix ignored him and turned for the taps down the other end of the bar.

 Pip scoffed at the exchange, but you found your mouth opening at the sight of the long-haired orc and his scowl. He watched Flix’s wings before he turned away from Xurek’s chattering and pushed his hand over his mouth. You watched the exchange as Xurek stuck his tongue between the other’s fingers and couldn’t help but laugh loudly as Durzub cringed and recoiled.

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting.” Durzub rolled his eye and took a napkin from the holder to wipe the spit from his fingers and the skull rings which sat above his knuckles.

“Mmm, you taste like fresh meat.” Xurek hissed like a comically bad vampire, and you laughed again, but this time louder. It was loud enough that the two orcs looked down the bar to where you and Pip were sat with your cocktail jug.

“Well done! Now we have their attention.” Pip hissed in your ear before she kicked at your chair with one shoed hoof, clanking the metal with a vicious bang.

Xurek’s smile made you regret everything, as you watched his gaze shift from your face to the larger orc stood next to him, “Looks like we have an audience, Durzub.”

 The other male turned slightly on one heel, looking at you both with a raised eyebrow, looking over the two of you perched at the end of the bar, “Don’t mind this freak. He’s got a way of making everyone hate him.”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ cold!” Xurek hissed at him, “After I introduce you to those bands too!”

Durzub rolled his eyes again as Xurek slinked around him to laze across the bar on one arm, his head propped up on his fist, “Bands which have given me nothing but persistent headaches.”

“Headaches but three magazine features!” Xurek wound his middle finger up before he smiled at the two of you again, “Ignore him. He was castrated at birth.” The statement earned him another gruff noise from Durzub.

“We don’t want your attention, Xurek.” Pip gave him a sardonic smirk, “Not unless you’re replacing those drinks from last time.” She leaned on her own open palm and bared her teeth at him, her hoof clicking against the bar stool.

“You’re a cold bitch, Pip. You know that was an accident.” Xurek whined, “Highlander honour.” He crossed his heart, “Anyway, why don’t I introduce you to my new friend here?” He wrapped his arm around Durzub, making the other spill mead down his fingers as he dragged him over to the two of you, “This is Durzub. He’s a music producer, and part time good looker.”

 “You’re a music producer?” You asked in awe before you turned and looked at the stage, “Are you here for these guys?” You pointed at the industrial band on stage as the lights went low and they started the intro for their next song. At the back here it wasn’t as loud, and you could readily hear the two orcs.

“Yeah. They’re a new signing.” Durzub rolled his shoulders in a shrug, “I never really sign their sort, but it seems like they have a decent following.”

“Come on, mate, we’re here to chill out, not to talk work.” Xurek groaned and laid against the sticky bar top before recoiling in disgust.

“I know, you great oaf.” Durzub placed Xurek’s drink next to him, “Are you both here to see the show?” He asked, his voice slipping from ‘totally pissed off’ into something that was ‘gruff but polite’. Either way, his soft country accent made you smile before you took a few mouthfuls of cocktail for courage.

Pip answered before you could swallow, “We come on a Friday to wind down. The gigs are always just a bonus.”

 She shot a look at you with her dark, goat eyes, warning you from speaking as she steered the conversation, “What about you guys? You here to bother people on their nights off?”

“Well, we know where we ain’t wanted.” Xurek shrugged his shoulders at Pip’s rudeness, “Sorry to harass you, but you don’t have to be a salty asshole about spilt drinks, you know.” He watched Pip’s temper flare and you ducked back as she slammed her hand against the bar top.

“You listen here you little asshole!”

“Little?” Xurek scoffed, “I tower over you, babe.”

Pip gave a bleat of anger before she swept her leg around you and cracked Xurek in the shin, “It was my new dress you ass for brains!” She hissed at him before she stood up to walk around you and face the orc head on.

“What do you want me to say, huh?!” Xurek goaded, “Oh I’m so sorry that my accident ruined something I couldn’t stop. Get over yourself thinking I did it on purpose!” He fumed with anger.

You leaned back before hopping out of your chair, taking the jug of cocktail in one hand and a tall glass in the other before you turned to Durzub, “Hey come on. They’re going to be screeching for a while. Want to go and sit on the balcony and watch?”

 Durzub seemed a little taken back by the offer, “Oh, sure.” He uttered as he pulled Xurek’s drink away from him and then took his own in hand and following you towards the stairs, leading to the viewing area above the pit. You found two stools and a table and happily placed your drinks on it before leaning on the railing to look down at the band as they headbanged together on stage.

Durzub sat awkwardly for a moment before he coughed behind his head, “So, what is it that you do?” He asked as he leaned over the table, eyeing the mixture of liquor and fruit juice in your jug.

You turned from the show and smiled, “Oh nothing as interesting as music production. I just got hired at a new modelling agency.”

“Do you model then?” He asked with wide eyes, “Because you’re certainly…”

“Oh, God no. Nothing like that. I work with brands and secure deals and shoots. I work with Skull Crusher and Tombstone mostly.” You smiled and sipped cocktail through your straw.

Durzub tucked his hair back again with a sweep of his hand, “That explains the look then.” He smiled softly, “Do you get some sweet discounts?” He asked.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. It’s never been cheaper to be a goth!” You cheered as you looked down at the rowdy beginnings of a mosh pit, then back to the bar.

 You gave a great laugh, “Well, looks like their argument is sorted.” You pointed at Xurek with his bruised cheek. He slammed back his drink before storming away into the pit, rushing through a mosh pit before his eyes caught sight of a human among the others. You grinned at his expression. Dumb struck.

“Jesus. I hope they’re ready to be pestered.” Durzub chugged a few mouthfuls of mead before he scoffed, “Whenever he gets that look, he ends up heartbroken a week later.”

“Well, it might be different this time, you know?” You smiled back at Durzub, “Maybe this is the one!” You cooed.

“You’ve got fairy tales in your head and cotton candy to go with it. He’s going to have a one-night stand then not shut up about her for the next three weeks.” Durzub held up three fingers as he drank some more, “Or he’ll relay every little detail to us on our next outing. He has zero filter.”  

“I can tell that much.” You laughed as you shuffled back in your seat, “What about you then, have you met your one?”

“My one?” Durzub scoffed, “Hardly. How old do you think I am?” He leaned on his fist and pointed back at himself, giving you a curious look.

 You felt like this was a trap, “Are you doing this so you can get mad when I guess wrong?” You asked as you pushed the ice around in the glass.

“Hardly. I’m not sensitive.” He grumbled as his painted fingers tapped against the side of the pint glass.

“Hmm, if you say so.” You leaned over the table to squint at his face. You’d worked with a few orcs before, but most were young models, sharp featured and tall, broad in the shoulders. Durzub was the same, though his face had wrinkles in places which would suggest he was far over twenty years old, “Thirty-six.” You decided with a smile.

Durzub let out a low laugh, “Not far off actually. I’m thirty-eight.” He pointed to the stage, “And I used to do that. Played in a band until about five years ago. Started as a producer then. Never looked back.”

“Oh wow. Who did you used to play with?” You asked in awe.

“A gothic rock sort of deal.” He replied before he looked into your pleading eyes, and relented, “Zi Gijak.”

“No way.” You rushed to stand from your seat as you recognised the Orcish name, “Black Blood!?”

 Durzub ducked his head, reaching for where his hat had sat before he realised, he wasn’t wearing it, “Keep your voice down, please.” He begged quietly, “I don’t need people in this place to recognise me.”

“How could they recognise you now? You look nothing like you did back in the day.” You stated before realising what you said sounded rude, “Not that you look bad now it’s just…”

He laughed at your awkwardness, “I know. I ditched the netting and bones a while ago.”

“You didn’t look half bad in it though, even five years ago.” You winked at him with a sudden rush of confidence, “Though I think this outfit suits you just as much.”

Suddenly, it was as though the intimidating exterior melted, and you watched Durzub’s face go flushed with embarrassment, “Thanks. It has been a change.”

Without making him any more embarrassed you changed the subject a little, “So what bands do you produce for now?” You asked.

“Quite a few. I used to work with SIREN before they got huge, but that sort of metal was never something I could do rather well, I thought.” He shrugged, “They’re with a more focused label now.”

“No way…This keeps getting better and better!” You uttered again.

 “Better and better for you. They were a headache and a half for me!” Durzub chuntered into his drink before he swallowed the last bits of it, “I’m glad they’ve moved up. They were good for business.” He smirked over the edge of the pint glass.

“Only thinking of the money.” You tutted playfully, “That’s no way to treat your bands.” You joked.

“Oh no, but that makes me feel better knowing my weekly migraines are worth the agony.” Durzub chuckled as he watched the band on stage, “These guys ain’t half bad for a show though. I think I picked the best from the bucket.”

“They have an interesting ensemble.” You smirked at the leather clad demoness as she slinked along the stage before she growled from her stomach, a crop landing against the hand of a handsy looking fan in the front.

“Interesting but it’s the sort of thing that gets you recognised.” Durzub noted as he watched, “This place is a refuge for all kinds of people. I’m glad Cal has got this place running with Weldrick.”

 “Who’s Cal? I’ve met Weldrick. Giant bright white minotaur, right? Build like a brick shit house with all the piercings?” You recalled.

Durzub nodded, “That’s him. He’s about eight foot tall too. Scariest mother fucker I ever did meet.” He shifted in his seat, “Cal is the co-owner, but he’s not around that often. He’s a vampire, but he’s not people fond.” The orc shrugged before offering you half a smile, “We all used to work together, believe it or not.”

“Wait…” Your mouth dropped open, “I’m actually stupid.”

“Cal was the singer of Black Blood. Weldrick ran our security back in the day.” He laughed at your open mouth before he leaned over to close your mouth with two large fingers. He brushed his fingers over your chin before leaning back and pointing to your drink, “Do you want anything else?”

“I’m okay thanks. I’ll keep your seat warm.” You joked as he stood up with a nod and grumbled about having something better than ‘shitty mead’.

 “I’ve never seen Durzub ever sit and talk with someone in a bar.” A deep, gravelly voice rang out from behind you. You turned around in your chair to see a tall, human looking male watching you, his sunglasses perched on the end of his nose as he regarded you with a mild amount of curiosity from over the lenses. He reached out a hand awkwardly, “Cal.”

“As in…” You took his hand, and flinched at the stone coldness of his grip, “Co-owner of the bar, Cal?”

“The very same.” He shook your hand lightly before his hand disappeared quickly back into his pocket, “I just came to say hello. I was curious. He hates attention in these kinds of places…”

“Just like you then, apparently.” You observed as you turned on your seat to face him. He was a giant man, but stony cold, and overly pale, looking almost grey around his reflective, steel-coloured eyes. They shone red as he turned, the bouncing curls of black hair spilling over his shoulders before he reached for a cigarette packet and cursed, seeing it was empty with only his lighter inside.

 “Cal?” Durzub returned with a large looking ale in his hand, “Weird time to show yourself. Unless you were planning to steal this one for a snack, hmm? As usual.” He scoffed.

“You know I’ve been off the blood for years…” Cal whispered as he rummaged in his other back pocket, before finding a small, slim packet of chewing gum, “I don’t…”

“Yeah. Save it. That’s what you said last time, Clarence.” Durzub huffed into his drink.

Cal’s back went ridged before he stooped over and unfolded the wrapper of his gum, “You don’t get to call me that.” He whispered again, his gravelly tone rumbling in the back of his throat before he slunk away, back into the shadows, and disappeared in a shadowy wave of his black hair.

“Sorry you had to see that.” Durzub rumbled from across the table, “Its…complicated.”

You span back around and smiled, “Don’t worry about it. I think Pip had more of a fight with Xurek.” You snickered as you turned to spy her sat at the bar, batting her eyelashes at Flix as he served, “Though I think she’s okay now. She’s turned her eyes on a certain someone.”

Durzub looked down at the bar and laughed as well, “Well I guess you know her type now.” He joked as he sipped at his ale.

“Yep. Scary pretty boys, who aren’t part of your friends.” You snickered as you sipped at the last of your cocktail and refreshed the glass.

 The band on the stage purred their final song as you took another drink, and you looked at your phone with wide eyes at the time.

���I have to get up tomorrow for errands.” You lamented, looking at the clock. It was almost midnight, and you knew Pip would be here for hours if you left her to her own devices.

“So, this is where the night ends.” Durzub laughed before he finished the last of his own drink, “Here.” He tugged out his phone, “Let me give you my number?”

You nodded and took your phone out to exchange numbers before checking it was working and showing him the message came through okay.

“Thank you for tonight.” You smiled at him, “We should do this again.” You leaned over and carefully placed a kiss on his flushed cheek, “For an grumpy music producer, you’re funny to be around.” You took your bag and looked at Xurek, who was busy pressing a human against the far wall, “And look after Xurek, huh? Looks like he might just get himself into trouble again.” You descended the stairs just as the orcs started cheering for the male and shook your head.

 After speaking to Pip, and confirming she had a taxi to get home, you exited the bar and shivered in the cold, before you felt a warm presence behind you, and a hand catch your own.

“Hey!” Durzub grunted as he caught your hand, “Let me walk you home?” He asked, “No way in hell I’m staying to watch those lot gawk at Xurek strip a human down.” He sneered. His sneer softened as you interlinked your fingers together and squeezed his hand before looping an arm through his own, leaning into his body heat.

“Sure. You can walk me home.” You leaned into his arm again and smiled, “I live three blocks away, so it’s a bit of a short walk.”

“Better to spend time with you.” Durzub whispered before he looked at the night sky, “I’m still sorry about what happened with Cal…”

“Honestly, it never happened, okay?” You patted the orc’s large arm, “We all have our differences and reasons.”

“Still. I was rude.” He huffed before he reached for his hat and tugged at the brim, “I’m glad I got to meet you at least tonight.” You tried to ignore the way he tugged at his bottom lip before he adjusted the decorative chain over his lip and smiled, still a little awkward.

“Me too.” You purred back at him.

 The messages started off polite between the two of you, but it was quickly a regular thing for you both to message back within a minute or two depending on if Durzub was working in the studio or you were in meetings. You were both enamoured. It didn’t take long for you both to meet again, eating together in a restaurant which was a little bit too expensive for you. It was high end, and suited Durzub as he sat there eating, looking intimidating as he ate couscous and chopped vegetables before smiling and blushing with embarrassment as you complimented him and his outfit. For such a giant orc, with a bigger scowl, he was softened whenever you said something nice. Several nights together on dates lead to this one, finally going to his studio to see what he did, and to listen to something he had been working on. Excitement churned in your gut as you looked at the choker around your neck and touched the spikes around its surface before flicking the dog tag and grinning at yourself before you rushed for the door to meet Durzub.

 “Hey!” You shouted at the orc. He was stood out on the pavement, dressed in an old print of a Black Blood shirt with a screaming orc and vampire on the front, blood dripping from both of their mouths. He was dressed in dark jeans, littered with pocket chains and a heavy leather duster to combat the cool breeze. He looked up from beneath his broad rim hat. Instantly, Durzub’s perpetual scowl turned into a small smile, and you took hold of his hand before leaning up to kiss his cheek before placing a soft kiss against his bottom lip. He was always a little slow to catch up, but he returned the kiss with a gentle rub of his tusks to your chin.

“Hey stranger.” He rumbled before he gestured to the building, “My studio is on the sixth floor.”

“This doesn’t look much like a record label building to me.” You hummed as Durzub led you into the reception. A naga waved him on up with you, looking back at her work with a hiss and a grumpy frown.

“Not yet it doesn’t. Wait until we get into the actual building. This is just the polite front for greeting people.” The elevator dinged as he pressed the button and the two of you climbed inside. He pushed the button for the sixth floor and you jittered with anxiety as it moved upwards slowly.

“I’m excited and nervous.” You whispered as the doors opened on floor two and let some more people in.

“Don’t be, baby. You’ll be fine.” Durzub soothed as you continued up.

 The sixth floor was littered with records on the walls, gold, red, black and mixed dyes. You looked along the walls before Durzub tugged you down the carpeted hall. You followed a step or so behind, trying to read the framed records as you toddled behind him, little out of your depth. Durzub’s coat trailed behind him and you moved to not step on it as he stopped at his door. He unlocked it with a click of an electronic card and you watched the black door swing open to reveal the sound room.

“Wow.” You stepped inside in front of him and looked at the expensive sound equipment, keeping your hands to yourself to avoid being told off or ruining anything, “This is some expensive gear.” You grinned at him, “And pretty.” You peered past the soundproof glass to see the guitars and drum kit in the recording box and smiled at the pointed-v design one, knowing it was from when he played with Black Blood.

“I knew you’d spot that one.” Durzub said mildly before he threw his coat over a speaker and collapsed into his large office chair, the leather making him shiver with the cold against his arms, “This is where I spend most of my life, making kids realise that riffs are stupid in the wrong places.” He scoffed before tugging you a chair from the other soundboard and patting it, “Come sit. I have some things to show you.”

 Carefully, you placed your coat on top of Durzub’s before joining him by the large computers, eyeing the two screens as he logged in, squinting at the screen.

“Fuck. Glasses.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled free a set of circle frame glasses, putting them on before cringing and looking back at you, “Not as young as I used to be…”

“You look cute in them.” You gushed as you scooted the roller chair forwards and made sure to sit as close to him as possible, “Being able to see is important, even if you don’t look as scary with glasses on.” You teased.

“Yeah…” He let the words drop off as he found what he was looking for and pulled free two sets of expensive headphones. Durzub leaned over and gently tucked them over your ears, holding them and holding up an ‘okay’ sign before he donned his own and pressed play. He leaned back in his chair and you sat impatiently before the noise of a gentle synth graced your ears, opening with a gentle melody before a guitar followed the same rhythm before chugging to life with slow riffs. It was gentle somehow still as the guitar started on a slowly moving rhythm along into the beginnings of a verse, sung by a vocalist you recognised as Durzub. The lyrics lilted about roses on a hill, growing in a graveyard around a forgotten tombstone before you grinned at the references to old vampire movies that the two of you enjoyed. The chorus was met with a litany of soft guitar and synth before a drum solo full of soft cymbal carried on. It was something made for the two of you, and you wondered just how long Durzub had spent making this song. Looking at the poorly hidden bags under his eyes, you figured it had been most nights after work.

 In the closing synth of the son, you laid your head against Durzub’s arm, against the tattoo of the roses around the gravestone. You pressed your lips to his skin gently before smiling and tugging the headphones down to around your neck, smiling up at the orc. Durzub copied the motion with another small smile, reaching to stroke at the top of your head

“That was beautiful. It’s hard to believe you made that just for me.” You whispered against his warm skin as the orc flushed with embarrassment, “Did you mean the part about making love on graves?” You teased gently before you slipped from your own chair, and into his lap, your fingers sliding up over the tattoos on his arms, tracing the thorns of the roses down before you traced the edge of the stem curling over his collar bone.

“Maybe not. Stone gives you a bad back.” He rumbled as his pupils went wide, watching your fingers as they slipped under the collar of his t-shirt, “But I would worship you just the same.” His hands moved from the computer to your hips, his fingers pressing into the meat of your backside before he leaned forwards to kiss you. You gladly accepted the advance, kissing the orc back, your tongue licking at his lips before you traced the rings around his tusks and wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

 A soft moan escaped Durzub’s mouth as you pulled away. His lips were puffy and you leaned forwards to bite his lip, enjoying the second croak that escaped him as you leaned back on his thighs.

“What about this desk?” You asked under your breath.

Durzub grumbled, “There’s a lot of…” Your hand meeting his crotch shorted his brain for a moment, “I can make room.” He grumbled before he pushed the keyboard and monitor aside, leaving the desk free for you both. You laid back over the wood and grinned as you tugged on one of his tusks, forcing his face down so you could lay another kiss on his lips. Durzub moaned again as you reached up into his dark hair, tugging the braids at his scalp.

“Maybe you should make good on your song lyrics.” You purred as you kissed his cheeks and then bit at his neck before sucking a mark under his ear.

“Fuck.” Durzub hissed before he leaned over you, his fingers tugging at your clothes before he admired the collar around your neck and gave it a tug, “I hope you didn’t have any other plans.”

 Neither of you saw the audio recording button flashing red.

 ‘Everything was recorded. I’m keeping it. See you at the bar. x’

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

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After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[yodawgiherd]

Incantation of Incineration pt.2

>>>Read on AO3<<<

As we were blessed by a continuation of the GODLIKE fanart, I have decided to keep my word (for once). Check the picture out if you didn't yet, you are missing out O_O -----> https://twitter.com/NxngOna/status/1388902556693405706/photo/1 Anyway, this one is a bit longer and a tad more sinful than the first one, so beware. Unless you are here for the filth, that is.

How does one control a demon?

That was the question at the forefront of Mikasa’s mind in the last week. Despite her doubts, despite all of her previous bad luck she finally managed to summon one but he was not obeying her in the slightest. The opposite in fact, she very much remembered his whispered threatening question.

“Do you feel in power?”

She didn’t, not back then, and Mikasa wanted to be prepared for the next time. Of course that there would be a next time! She had so many questions to ask, so many wishes to fulfill so many…

Ok, easy, first the controlling part.

The last time he was here the Demon was doing whatever he wanted. While it was only eating her out, for some reason, it was done out of his will and the goth was simply swept in it. Never again. Next time they meet, she will be the one in control.

Yet it was hard to fulfill such a wish.

The internet gave her dozens of websites, hundreds of articles and discussions, but combing through them Mikasa didn’t see anything that caught her interest. Searching the amazing book she found in the library, she didn’t find any help there either. If there was a demon-binding ritual, she missed it.

In her anguish the goth asked the smartest person she knew – her friend Armin.

“Ar, any idea how I could control a demon?”

He looked at her, pushing his glasses up a bit.

“What are you talking about?”

“I summoned one last week but I couldn’t make him do what I wanted.”

“I see…”, he didn’t believe her, of course he didn’t, but Mikasa didn’t mind that.

He would still help her because Armin was a ray of sunshine and the best friend a girl could ask for.

“Any specifics about this demon?”, he asked, “Might help me in my search.”

“Well, he was human-looking, but with horns and black claws. He also had strange markings under his eyes and there were torn shackles at his wrists.”

“Horns, markings, shackles…”, dutiful as ever, Armin marked it all down, “Okay, I’ll do some searching and see what I can find.”

Leaning over Mikasa hugged him, whispering a quiet thank you into his ear.

As always, Armin delivered.

It was in the evening when Mikasa was laying on her bed, eyes rowing over the text in her new spellbook when her phone pinged.

A: Found an article that matches the demon you told me about. Apparently you can bind him to you by the shackles.

M: what do I have to do?

A: You need a key which you have, use the one you keep wearing.

Mikasa did like to wear an old key around her neck, an old trinket she didn’t even remember where it came from.

A: The spell is described in the article, use that and the “Demon” should obey :)

Yea. “Demon”. Whatever.

M: thx, I owe you one <3

Opening the link Mikasa’s eyes quickly scanned the spell, muttering under her breath. She lacked a few key ingredients, the biggest one being a live bird (?) for some reason. The required red scarf – that was another thing that Mikasa owned, making her wonder just what kind of spell this was.

Luckily her parents were gone on another business trip and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks, giving her ample time to gather these things. She bought a canary in a pet shop, a new set of black candles and few flowers. Back home she made those into a flower crown, just as the spell required.

In the middle of the room stood the birdcage, the canary watching Mikasa prance around. The key was put in front of the cage, the flower crown around it. Last the scarf – the goth circled it around the crown before putting the candles in required positions, lighting them up.

There, that should be everything.

Keeping the article open on her phone Mikasa began chanting, strange words once again leaving her lips. Whatever those meant she had no idea, but the effect was almost immediate. First of all the candles snuffed out. Then the flower crown caught fire, burning into nothing in a split second. After that the scarf moved, flying towards her and wrapping itself around her neck without anyone touching it. Last it was the key – it turned on the ground with a screech and suddenly the birdcage sprung open, the canary flapping its wings and disappearing out of the window in a split second.

Mikasa stared at it all with wide eyes.

Well, that was quite something. When everything calmed and nothing moved anymore, she concluded the ritual. Hiding the birdcage and scarf and putting the key back around her neck, the goth prepared the usual pentagram with candles, pulling out the knife. Ready to cut herself under the eye again, she said the spell, raising the blade to her skin.

Yet before it could make contact, the smoke explosion was back.

Knocking her backward same as before, the Demon was there in full glory, eyes immediately flying to Mikasa. Thin lips twisted into a grin that exposed the sharp teeth.

“You don’t have to cut yourself anymore, my beauty, I have your scent now. When you call me, I will answer.”

Collecting herself from the ground, Mikasa took a deep breath and straightened, staring the demon in the eye. With just a slightly trembling hand she gripped the key around her neck, thrusting it towards him. It glowed, his shackles did too, and the demon’s face changed from smug to surprised.

“What is this?” he wondered out loud, raising his hand to inspect the torn chains.

“A spell I used.”, Mikasa said triumphantly, all giddy inside that it worked, “I bound you, you are now under my control.”

“Is that so…”

Slow, testing, he took a step towards her, the chains rattling slightly. Summoning all her mental strength Mikasa stood fast, clutching the key like a lifeline.

“S-Stop!”, she commanded the demon, praying to the dark god that the spell will work.

The demon’s whole body shook as he tried to take another step, muscles refusing to move.

“You…”, his eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering them, “You don’t know what you are playing with…”

With a grunt he threw himself against the invisible bonds, straining.

“Release me! Or I will make you regret it.”

Despite all these dangerous words, despite all the threats he was forced to stand still and Mikasa felt her lips curving into a smile. She won. Finally, she had a demon under her control.

“I don’t think that I want to do that.”, confident she circled the frozen statue, admiring his body now that she could take a good look, “I think that I will keep you.”

He had a lot of scars, crisscrossing all over his skin, cuts of all shapes and sizes. Fascinated by one that went around his throat, Mikasa reached out, running her fingers over it.

And that was a mistake.

Fast as lighting the demon’s hand caught her wrist, pulling her body against his. Suddenly staring upwards into his smirk, Mikasa felt all her newfound confidence melting away because there was pure rage hidden in the emerald orbs.

“That was a good spell you had prepared, witch, but unfortunately for you, I am very good at attaining my freedom.”

“I-…”, she tried defending herself but the demon wouldn’t let her speak.

His other hand came up, circling Mikasa’s neck and for a second she feared that he will choke her to death. That fear didn’t come true as instead of pressure she could feel his fingers drawing patterns into her skin.

“Let’s see how you like being controlled.”, he whispered, and suddenly there was searing pain on Mikasa’s neck.

She stumbled backward, released from his embrace, and fell to her knees, hands clutching her throat. It burned like hell itself and Mikasa screamed in pain, but as quickly as it appeared it was gone, leaving nothing but a memory in its wake.

Or not, as there was something hugging her neck now.

Carefully tracing the thing with her fingertips Mikasa identified a new choker. She had one before, a simple strip of black leather, but this one was different. It was more like a tight collar, adorned with metal spikes all around.

“How does it feel, being collared like a dog?”, the demon rumbled, getting her attention.

“I… Strange.”, she gulped, realizing that having this “gift” from a demon might not be a good thing for her wellbeing,  “C-Can you take it off?”

“I can but I’m not going to. First I have to show you what amazing things it can do.”, he pointed one black claw towards the magic book, lying on Mikasa’s bed, “You do love spells, don’t you? And what better magic is there than demonic one.”

“Wha-“

Again, the demon didn’t let her finish.

“What’s your name?”, he asked.

Mikasa didn’t want to tell him. Names had power, even more so in magic, and telling yours to a demon is a bad move. But as soon as the question left his lips she found herself answering, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

“Mikasa Ackerman.”

He grinned upon seeing her confusion.

“See? I own you now, mortal. As long as the collar is on you, I can make you do anything I want.”, his eyes raked all over her body, a hunger appearing in them – the same one that was there the last time they were together.

“Anything…”

The thin, abnormally long tongue slid out of his mouth, licking his lips.

“And there is a lot I want to do with you.”

Despite literally owning her right now, Mikasa didn’t hear any malicious intent in his voice. There was the primal hunger, lust, and also a fair bit of anger but no real hate or resentment. He would make her pay, but it would not be done in a way that she couldn’t handle.

The implications left not only a tingle of fear in her, but also a tingle of arousal, and the goth unconsciously pressed her thighs together to hide it. Only it didn’t escape the demon’s ever-seeing gaze.

“Stand up.”, was his next order and Mikasa did so, body moving on its own.

“Take off your skirt.”, this time her face boiled red as she mechanically obeyed, and still the demon wasn’t done with humiliating her, “And your stockings too.”

Just as she unclipped the first garter, a new order followed.

“Do it slowly. Give me a nice show, I like watching you.”

And she did so, rolling the black material down her legs in the most sensual way she could muster, unwilling and unable to meet the demon’s eyes. She could feel them though, as his gaze burned its way all over her pale legs, now bare of any clothing. With her lower half in nothing but the black panties Mikasa straightened, waiting on the next command from her infernal master.

He was breathing heavily now, she could hear, every exhale laden with maddening hunger for her. Watching her undress got all the fires going, it would seem.

“As much as I would like to get on with the fun, I do have to punish you for trying to bind me.”, he twirled his long fingers, “Turn around and bend over, hands on the bed.”

Again, her body mechanically obeyed, turning around and bending over, exposing her ass to him. And what an ass it was, even better than the demon remembered. Pale, firm, and perfectly shaped, the memories of it in his hands made his mouth go dry. Not to mention the thighs right under, because those deliciously thick and muscled legs…. He was beyond hungry.

Not yet, he reminded himself, first the punishment. Then the fun.

There was a clink behind her and because peeking was not forbidden she looked over her shoulder, seeing that one of the multiple belts came loose from the demon’s black pants. He was twisting the leather between his fingers, snapping it.

The image itself was almost enough to make her fall on her face.

“I believe that a few lashes with the belts will do you good, wouldn’t you agree?”

It wasn’t an order, she realized, it was a question. The demon, a literal demon from hell, was asking her consent. Normally that situation would be so funny that Mikasa would burst out laughing, but that did not fit what was happening inside her body.

Logically she should say no, of course, but logic didn’t have a place here. She summoned a demon – one that gave her some incredible oral pleasure during their first encounter, one she tried to bind, unsuccessfully, and one that was about to give her some good old spanking in retaliation.

Fuck, she wanted it, she wanted it so much.

Biting her bottom lip Mikasa nodded, but the demon wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Words, Mikasa, use those.”

This time it was an order but he didn’t use the magic collar and when the goth girl spoke it was completely out of her free will.

“Yes, I deserve it.”

“Were you a bad girl?”

“I was… I was a bad girl, sir.”

Mikasa added that last bit unconsciously, and from the deep grumble she could guess the effect it had on the demon. Ooh, he liked that.

“Where I come from, there is plenty of sinners like that, so I have a good idea on how to fix you.”, the buckle clinked as he swayed the belt, “I want you to count the lashes, can you do that for me?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

A satisfied huff and a bit of silence after, making Mikasa wonder if…

The first blow landed on her ass, the slap of leather against skin loud. Taken by surprise she cried out, the flare of pain running through the whole body.

“One.”, she pushed out and was rewarded by a second sting. It was painful, sure, but it also sent pleasurable tremors towards her core. Mikasa was always a bit of pain enjoyer, and this rough treatment was something from her wildest dreams. Being punished by a demon was more like fanfiction than reality, but it was happening to her -right here and right now, and she couldn’t be more turned on.

By the fifth hit, there were tears in her eyes.

By the tenth she was dancing on her toes, clenching against the belt.

Fifteen was enough to satisfy the sadistic demon, and when she cried that number through her tears, the belt dropped to the ground. Suddenly Mikasa was picked up, turned around, and practically slammed against the wall. Her legs automatically hooked around the demon’s waist while his hands held her, one around the neck while the other caught her wrist and pressed it against the wall, immobilizing her.

He was sweating, droplets of liquid sliding over his scarred skin but it wasn’t because of the physical exertion. No, it was caused by the inhuman effort it took to hold himself back from ravaging the teary-eyed goth right here and there.

Even as a demon, he had certain standards.

“You took the whipping well, too well even. Tell me, do you like pain?”

“A little bit…”, she muttered, very conscious of the fire raging between her slick thighs.

A grin spread across his handsome features, the demon couldn’t help but admire her face, now that they were this close. Her grey eyes were regarding him with a hint of fear in them, but there was also the undeniable arousal smoldering, and he wanted to see that fire burn.

Letting go of her for a second the demon grabbed the bottom of her black top, bunched between their bodies, and pulled upwards, revealing her chest. Nice pair of firm tits, covered by a simple black bra, just as pale as the rest of her.

Fuck, he wanted to suck on them.

Returning his hand to its previous place, anchoring Mikasa’s wrist against the wall, the demon spoke up.

“I punished you so now we can move on to a more pleasurable activity. However - I may be a damned soul but despite your stunts I do not wish to force myself on you. So I’ll ask now, and I order you to answer me truthfully – do you want me to go on?”

The goth girl in his arms shook with what he guessed was pure lust, squirming against the restrictive hold he had on her body. Her midnight hair slid over his nose, the addictive scent reminding the demon of just how amazing she tasted.

Forcing himself to wait was torture, yet he held on.

Meanwhile, Mikasa’s mind was doing leaps and bounds all over the room. Her ass hurt but it was nothing compared to what was happening in the other place – she was beyond wet at this point, so turned on that stopping her hips from rubbing on the demon’s amazingly muscles stomach was a chore. Yes, she had to prevent herself from humping him like a sex-starved maniac. His words weren’t an order, just like last time, and when Mikasa spoke it was her own lust doing the talking, nothing else.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to touch you?”, he continued.

“Yes.”

“Now…”, he leaned closer, next words a whisper, “ Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Hng... I…”

“Answer!”

“Y-YES! Please!”

The self-satisfied smirk grew even wider.

“Well, all you had to do was ask…”

Letting go of her wrist for the second time the demon moved his hand between her legs, rubbing her place of weakness through the dark underwear.

“So wet for me, so willing…”, gently he nudged her face with his nose, rubbing skin on skin, “Is this what you want so much? To be railed by a demon?”

PleasePleasePlease

Unable to speak from the sheer amount of want inside her, Mikasa settled on nodding rapidly.

The hand moved again, much to her dismay, this time stopping in front of Mikasa’s face. A bit of transmutation magic later the claws were gone, replaced by black fingernails.

“Open.”, an order this time and Mikasa’s mouth fell open immediately.

Pushing his fingers between her lips, a new command followed.

“Suck.”

Again she obeyed, swiping her tongue alongside those long digits.

“As much as I want to take you right now, I must stretch you out a bit first.” The demon went on monologuing, his eyes glued to her face, “I’d prefer it if you screamed in pleasure when I fuck you, not in pain.”

Those words went right into Mikasa’s core as she throbbed, impatient to finally have him touch her. Maybe sensing her eagerness the demon pulled the fingers out, dropping his hand between her legs instead. Panties nudged aside and suddenly he was rubbing her directly, fingers parting her dripping pink lips. A slight tap on her swollen clit had her gasping for air, but the opened mouth proved to be a mistake.

The demon practically attacked her, lurching forward to press his lips against hers. The abnormal tongue was back, once again slipping into her mouth and caressing the familiar places. At the same time, his digits finally pushed inside her, slipping into Mikasa’s wetness with a somewhat disgusting sound. The moan forced from her throat by the penetration was swallowed by him, keeping her silent.

For now.

Even without the main treat it was still a full meal. The demon fingered her expertly, curving his digits to rub the good places inside while also keeping his thumb occupied by toying with Mikasa’s clit. The kisses were rough and breathtaking, sucking any oxygen from her and he only left her lips to attack the neck instead, biting and kissing everywhere, renewing the faded lovebites from a week ago. Again and again, those sharp teeth sunk into the porcelain skin and Mikasa felt like she was going to go crazy.

Not even fucking her yet but she was already on the edge. The demon sensed it, of course, having his fingers deep inside her, feeling the contractions of her walls grow faster and more desperate. Smirking into her skin, a single word fell from his lips.

“No.”

The collar burned around Mikasa’s throat and she found her body obeying, disregarding her wishes. On the edge but not falling, she found herself unable to climax, somehow being prevented from doing so by vile demon magic.

“You bast-“

Her protest was cut short because her lips were slammed by his own, stealing Mikasa’s ability to express herself. Whining in protest she was rudely ignored by the demon, who took his time to scissor the fingers inside her instead, stretching her open, preparation for what was to come.

Despite being denied her release Mikasa’s body was more than enjoying this. She was moaning into the kiss, writhing on his fingers, ready and waiting for him. Seven hells be damned, he couldn’t wait any longer. Tearing the panties away with a flick of his wrist and letting his pants dissolve into a puff of black smoke, the demon grabbed his painfully hard length as he angled it correctly against the inviting wetness.

Push.

Mikasa’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open when she felt the head of his member parting her. She didn’t get a chance to look at it but judging from how it felt the demon was rather well endowed. The girth was impressive, stretching her beyond anything she felt before right down to her limits. This was a lot she was taking, and the demon was unyielding, hands gripping her waist as he impaled her, inch by inch. Insistent he forced himself in and Mikasa couldn’t do anything about it.

Yet her body accommodated to this fullness and the unpleasant feeling was replaced by a pleasant one. He went on and on until she feared that he will ram himself all the way into her guts but just as she was about to ask him to stop, the demon was fully sheathed.

Mikasa had never felt this filled in her life. The head of his member was pressed against the deepest part of her sex, no more space and no more length combining.

“Fuck,”, he cursed, “we fit together perfectly.”

On her part the goth couldn’t say a word, so full of him that thinking was impossible. Not that the demon mind that.

Gripping her waist he slowly pulled out, letting his length rub all the nice places inside her. When only the tip remained he reversed his move, pushing in again. In it went with a wet sound, out it went glistening with her juices, and he almost went feral upon seeing that.

Pushing down the need to ravage her, to split her open by ramming himself inside with full strength he continued this gentle dance of his hips, forcing her body to get used to him. Only when he felt her muscles weakening - when she gave way did he speed up.

In and out like a jackhammer, the demon was finally rutting into her with added strength and Mikasa couldn’t take it. She whined and moaned and gasped, unable to control her body at all. Her head fell back, knocking at the wall while her fingers curved against his back. She was holding onto him for dear life, black fingernails creating bloody lines in their path and adding to the plethora of scars on the demon’s back.

Still she couldn’t climax, still the collar’s magic prevented her from doing so and the goth could feel her sanity slipping away. She would beg if she could but Mikasa’s voice wasn’t of any use to her, anytime she opened her mouth only a sound of pure pleasure came out.

Helplessly open, Mikasa’s “Ah-Ah-Ah” was a direct feed to the demon’s ego. Oh, and what an egoist he was. Her voice was one thing, but when she throbbed down there – that was a feeling the demon etched into his memory with each thrust.

Edged, led on, and denied with the orgasm at the border of her vision, Mikasa was truly losing it.

She couldn’t speak so she screamed, screamed in pure desperation because the demon was now ramming the deepest part of her over and over again, grunting into her neck. Mentally she begged – with her eyes, with her touches, with her legs that squeezed his waist.

This was some truly hardcore fucking she was on the receiving end of, and Mikasa needed to let go, she would go crazy otherwise. The coil in her stomach was wound impossibly tight but unable to snap and it was getting too much to handle. The tears that fell from the grey eyes slipped over the red cheeks and landed on the demon’s body, finally waking him up from whatever pit of pleasure he was in.

Watching her, listening to her, and feeling her all around him, the demon deemed the punishment complete. Not even slowing down in the wild hammering of his hips, the slaps of flesh against flesh echoing through the room, he spoke. Three words, one sentence, and it was the most beautiful sound that Mikasa ever heard in her life.

“Cum for me.”

The collar’s magic was gone, the barrier dissipated, the coil snapped and the dam broke. Mikasa howled, her eyes rolling back and vision going white, black spots dancing all over it. The orgasm ripped through her entire being, from the tips of her curled toes to the ends of her sweat-matted midnight hair. She clutched to the demon because he was the only link to reality that she had, and the goth had to hold onto something otherwise her mind threatened to break completely, swept away by the overwhelming raw pleasure.

Sensing that if he kept it up she would truly go insane the demon slowed down, letting himself fully enjoy this feeling. Her walls fluttered like the wings of a trapped butterfly, the already tight passage grew even tighter and pulsed around his whole length. It felt amazing, out of this world and if he wasn’t a demon he would call it heavenly.

The slight wiggle of her hips woke him up from that place, putting him back to reality. Mikasa was watching him with wide grey eyes, pupils completely blown, the movements suggesting that she wanted to go down from her perch against the wall. She probably thought that this was it, that one mind-shattering orgasm is enough of a gift.

She was wrong.

“None of that.,” he denied her, tightening his grip on her sweat-slicked body, “I am far from being done with you.”

With those words, the most intense night of the goth’s life began.

During his aggressive fucking Mikasa’s remaining clothes, namely the black top and bra, were torn to shreds, leaving her in nothing but the spiked collar around her neck. In some strange need to bare her completely the demon even snapped her own choker away, leaving only the one he gifted her on.

The key was also allowed to stay and it dangled uselessly between her now fully exposed breasts, reminding Mikasa of her failed attempt to capture the demon. Now she was paying for it, when his sharp teeth closed around a nipple, sweetly tormenting the sensitive flesh.

Overall the demon took his time with her chest, kissing, licking, groping, and biting all over her breasts. Her chest was ravaged and Mikasa was bound to have so many bruises bloom on the skin tomorrow. Yet that was a problem for the future Mikasa to handle, the current one cared only about how great it felt, to have the demon’s teeth and tongue all over her tits.

She was taken in more positions and in more places than Mikasa could even count. The bastard spiked her pleasure with pain, slapping her ass while taking her from behind, irritating the welts that didn’t even get a chance to fully form.

Every suitable, and some unsuitable, place in her room was defiled by their activities as she was being maneuvered here and there by his unyielding touch. The demon expertly shifted his torment from denial to overstimulation, giving her more than she could handle and then some. He fucked her right into an orgasm and then right through it, holding her writhing body as she lost her consciousness in an unending stream of pleasure.

A sharp bite into the neck woke her, but if Mikasa thought that she was getting a break she was wrong. It felt like the longest night of the goth’s life and it was far from over.

Mikasa came a lot, losing count early into the debauchery, but the demon never finished, holding his release back. He also never tired, his demonic stamina far outpacing the one of a poor mortal. While at the start Mikasa was an active participant in their activities, by the end of it she was practically limp, praying to the dark god that she will survive this endless assault on her body and mind.

When the morning sun peeked at them from behind the windows, when the demon saw that his partner was on the verge of total blackout from sheer exhaustion, slipping in and out of consciousness, did he allow his iron self-control to break.

Coherent enough to pull out at least, he decorated her muscled stomach with spurts of unnaturally hot release. Wouldn’t want any half-demons running around now, would he? It was a lot, a night's worth of it, and Mikasa felt some splash as high as her face, but she was too far gone to care. Being a perfect demonic gentleman he even cleaned after himself with a muttered spell.

Only after himself though, so Mikasa’s filth was left behind for her to take care of. Whatever it was the limitation of the spell or just the demon’s twisted sense of humor, that would remain a mystery.

Just like that, it was over.

He was slipping out of her embrace and soon would be gone, leaving Mikasa with nothing but the ache and exhaustion. A deep part of her needed something, anything to hold onto, a word to connect these memories to, and “the demon” didn’t cut it anymore. She reached out, weakly grasping his wrist but he didn’t pull away, turning back to look at her.

“Please…”, she whispered, only half-coherent, “What’s your name?”

“My name? Demon’s names have powers, great powers, we do not give it lightly.”

“You know mine, it’s only fair.”

He snorted.

“A mortal name in exchange for an eternal one? Hardly equal.”

“Please…”, she begged again, “I want to remember you by it.”

For some reason he couldn’t explain, those words were tugging at the very base of the demon’s existence. He shouldn’t be this affected yet this mortal, this exhausted, sweaty, and filthy mess that could hardly string two words together after a night of demonic sex, this bundle of trembling muscles and pale skin marked by blooming bruises he left behind, this beautiful piece of ass that was welted by his belt just had power over him.

It wasn’t any spell the demon knew, but it was perhaps the most powerful pull he ever felt in his whole damned existence. He couldn’t say no to her.

He simply couldn’t.

“Eren.”, he said, “My name is Eren.”

Leaning down he pushed some of the sweat matted hair away from her angelic face.

“I hope that I won’t have to wait long until you summon me again, Mikasa.”

Giving in to the temptation the demon pressed a last kiss to her forehead, strangely loving and very un-demonic. And with that he was gone, disappearing back to wherever he came from.

On the ruined bed Mikasa sighed, already missing his warmth.

Was there a way to make him stay longer? Maybe even… permanently? The thought of having a full-time demon boyfriend made her giggle and she pressed her face into the pillow to muffle it.

The leather choker-slash-collar was still on her neck, gently tight around the skin, most likely left behind as a gift, and Mikasa already knew that it would become her everyday accessory. The spiked looked might be a bit too aggressive for most people, but she couldn’t care less. It was a gift from a demon, her demon, and she would treasure it.

Eren. His name was Eren and she would be seeing him again.

Soon.

[jawllines]

WEREWOLF BLURB PLEASE!!!! ☺️✌🏼

:D YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND

i. 

Y/N’s flustered. 

She hadn’t started the day out flustered – she had actually started it rather composed. After coming back from a small trip home, she had been more than ecstatic to see Harry, Niall, and the rest of the pack. To reorient herself with Maisie at the bakery and reunited Grandpa with the pups in their playroom (who, from several videos sent by Harry, were missing Gramps terribly and were rolling around in his bed and whining every time Harry brought it into them). To climb into Harry’s too large bed and only use a quarter of it because they’re snuggled so tightly together they account for merely one body. 

Being away from Harry for the first time since they’d bonded felt more or less like she was leaving a limb behind and promising to come back. Which was to be expected, or at least that is what Harry told her. They were bonded, linked in spirit, through the rush of blood through their veins. It was nowhere near in the theatrical high schooler way of panic when a couple spends the weekend without seeing one another – it was a legitimate concern amongst their kind when a mating pair had to separate large distances. 

The yearning was like an ache that consumed them both all over, like icy needles of want that pricked them. Sure, they could call, but it had almost made it worse – she could see his face and hear his voice but she couldn’t reach out and fiddle with the hair at his nape, and he couldn’t worm his arm around her waist and draw her nearer to him in the middle of the night when he heard her shiver. Y/N couldn’t hide her face into the base of his throat and let her eyes flutter shut when they were cuddled on her couch, Grandpa warming their feet. Harry couldn’t hold her hand as they walked along the stream on the grounds, with the crystalline water that glittered in the beams of sunlight, and she couldn’t feel his laugh rumble through his chest when she says something that makes him pull her close and chuckle. 

In more direct terms, it fucking sucked. 

And maybe Y/N had forgotten how flirty guys and girls could be, but she was almost a hundred percent positive that she had never been the usual target of people’s conquering affections. If anything, she used to feel as if she practically repelled it, especially at home where she spent most nights alone and having her “dates” to dances be her friends. It was just something she was used to…the majority of the people she went to school with knew her from when she was deep in an attempt of a goth phase that never really stuck and saw her cry over Polar Express about thirty times, so she wouldn’t much want to fraternize with high school her either.

Yet, when she returns, it feels like the eyes on her are endless. Not in a confidence-boosting way at all – it was a way that made her skin crawl, the way it appeared like they were drinking her in, their eyes rolling up and down her body. When she and her old high school buddies went to a club one night, there had been a group of people and 6 out of the 8 found an excuse to hug her at some point. Some of them she could hear breathe in deep and at first, she had attributed it to everyone really liking her perfume, but when the next question that followed was, “Do you have a boyfriend?” She began to become a bit suspicious. 

She brought up to Niall – asked him if it were possible that there be other werewolves, who instead of staying sacred grounds, galavant through clubs and go around sniffing people. After a lengthy lecture about how she should have let him come with her like he asked, he kindly let her know that all packs were different, and while his and Harry’s had a pretty hefty mistrust for humans that were not her other packs may not care. May roam about and fuck around till their heart’s content, some even change people for fun. He told her that most likely, the people spotting her extra attention that they otherwise wouldn’t give is because she’s coated not only in the scent of a wolf but the potent scent of an alpha. One so strong and inviting that they can’t not find their way to her, caught off guard by the human body carrying it along like she’d spritzed it over her pulse points and walked out of the house. 

So they were intrigued beyond belief, wanting to sniff and to understand, hoping to question her but she was always creeped out enough that she slipped away before they had the chance. She forgets how intimate the wolf community is, surpassing human limits of personal space the nth degree, especially when she hasn’t been around them for a second. At first, where there had been snide glances and uncomfortable shifts in her presence, she is now greeted with arms encompassing her tightly, deep breathing and warm laughter as they share stories with her. They enjoy how she squeaks when they squeeze too tightly and even more so how Harry grins, watching them. 

“You are family,” he once told her, “They love you as I love you – though I do love you most.” 

And she was okay with that – with them – but strangers who like hugging tightly, whom she first mistakes for people her friends are introducing her to (or re-introducing her to), who just go in for a whiff? It’s unsettling, and she was far more cautious in the rest of the time she spent away. Along with far more yearning from the wolves she had become used to, this switch up left her rattled. 

So it’s safe to say, save for missing her friends and family back home, she was excited to go back. Ecstatic, even, and Harry was absolutely buzzing as well. 

“I will be there for you at the station!” He had exclaimed to her when she explained she was now boarding the train, “With a big ol’ sign, and flowers, like in them movies you showed me.” 

Low and behold, as promised, when she finally made it out of the terminal and into the main area of the station, Harry was with Niall, both holding up a large sign that had that read WE MISSED YOU  and the messy painted prints of the pups that had tracked all over the white paper. A bouquet of flowers the size of her head, ones freshly plucked from Miss. Tealy’s garden on the grounds (she let Y/N eat some of the berries she’d been growing once, and when Y/N had told her they were the best she’d ever tasted, Miss. Tealy frequently began requesting her if she and Harry weren’t caught up with something else), and a box of her favorite cookies from the bakery that she knew Maisie sent in her place (she was leaving for a week-trip to Germany that day, so she had to be at the airport). 

It was hard not to let her eyes well up, almost tripping over herself as she rushes over to them, walking briskly she had taken on the persona of someone in New York who has no time to get to the places they need to go. Her arms found Harry’s neck in seconds and he squeezed her so tightly that it was just about bone-crushing – if she hadn’t known any better, she would think that this was his intention. 

Even if it were though, she couldn’t say that she minded it. Being in his arms again felt drinking a cold glass of water at noon, on a sweltering summer day. She was overcome with such immense love that it felt like it might burst from her orifices, ooze from her until she’s melted into a puddle on the train station floor. The only reason she pulls back is to smother his face in kisses, from his forehead to his chin, his cheeks, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. And he giggled, trying to kiss her back but he barely could do to the onslaught of her own peckish kisses. 

“I missed you too,” she murmurs, nestling her nose in the bed of his throat and breathing in deep, though as she relaxes when Harry does the same he tenses up. Rigid as a board, and it’s so akin to how he was when they had met the very first time she recognizes it instantly. 

In her attempt to drawback and question him, his grip around her tightens, and she feels a low rumble of a growl threatening his chest, “You do not smell of me,” he notes – not in accusation, but annoyance is clearly laced through his words as he holds onto her tighter, “Niall told me of the people troubling you with unwanted attention but I had not known they were so close. You reek of them.” 

Her face drops into a pout, wiggling out of his arms with her brows furrowed, “You know the last thing you want to hear from your boyfriend after being away for two weeks is that you reek,” she chides him, turning to grab her suitcase, but she notices then that Niall had already grabbed the handle, “I showered about ten dozen times, so I don’t know why I still smell like them. I’m sorry.” 

His features soften at her words, head shaking urgently, “Do not apologize,” he tells her seriously, “It is to no fault of your own – you do not…reek in that sense of the word. I smell the others more than I can smell myself on you, so I must re-scent you.” He reaches out for her again, taking her by the wrist and pulling her back towards him, to which she goes easily, allowing him to burrow his face in her hair and wrap his arms around her in a much less organ popping way, “Which is not a problem by me.” 

Before Y/N can question what “re-scenting” actually indicates, Niall clears his throat dramatically, and Y/N and Harry both turn to face him, “Listen, I know the lot of you are lovebirds and s’precious, but I have not gotten a single ounce of attention for the five minutes you’ve been here, and I would just like to remind everyone I’m the reason you two met in the first place.” 

Snorting, Y/N rolls her eyes and slips from Harry in favor of giving Niall a hug, “Hi Ni, you know I missed you too.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he wraps the hand not occupied with the sign around her shoulders, giving her a firm squeeze, “Missed you too. Missed your cookies and Grandpa most though.”

Grandpa, who was now being retrieved from his carrier by Harry (who did not believe that any animal should be kept in a crate, and only allowed it when Y/N explained that he had to be), was wiggling happily in his arms and licking and slurping at his face. From a jealous puppy to werewolf correspondence, to being the only two beings in a room who understand each other wholeheartedly, was a wholesome development on their part. Harry adored Grandpa (if not for being bonded to him, Y/N would have assumed he missed him far more than he missed her), and when the security guard walks up to him to let him know that animals are not allowed outside of their carrier  in the station if they are not a service animal – she could see the flicker in Harry’s eyes that he was not going to allow it. 

“He will stay out of his crate,” he said sternly.

“Sir –” 

“Would you like to be put in a crate?” His voice is deepens, a dull growl that makes Niall stiffen and her heart race; it’s the voice of an alpha that encourages Niall to stand up taller, Y/N’s veins sizzle and her abdomen twinkles and warms, and the security guard shrinks away, “He is living and breathing, has his shots, and in no way violent. He will not be put in a crate.” 

The security guard nods, “Very well, Sir.” 

The power he emanates and oozes is maddening, radiating throughout the entire station, from wall to wall, and it is so all-encompassing that Y/N feels swallowed whole by it. In the absolute best way possible. Over the phone and on the screen, she forgets, because he doesn’t use that voice with her but when he is around his pack, or if she’s ever gotten him in public and something is occurring that is not up to part with his standards, he uses it. She hates the way it makes her insides twist and thighs squeeze together; the response is instinctive and apart from her – she’s usually got such a handle on her arousal, but when it comes to Harry and when it comes to that voice, she doesn’t have a handle on anything. 

Harry turns to them, a goofy smile painting his lips as Grandpa pants happily beside his face, a complete contrast to the man that had just been standing there before, “There is a great feast, awaiting you, my Love, we must go at once.” 

                                                       .                           .                           .

It was a second homecoming in the span of two weeks when she steps onto the grounds and inside of the now-familiar foyer. Werewolves, she finds, do not take well when their assumed human leave for any amount of time and come back smelling of others. So she was passed around like dinner plate as they all welcomed her with hugs, Grandpa following suit, sniffing and licking all of them, and in their own way, they were all scenting them both. At least taking the edge off of the other wolves, is what Niall said, when he embraces her one last time as to not look like he didn’t care that she apparently “reeked”. 

Dinner was set up already and her assigned spot besides Harry had already been set with food – all of which her favorite that she had tried since she’d been here. From vegetable shepherd’s pie with duchess potatoes to marmalade sponge pudding, about three separate slices of chocolate pie coated in rainbow sprinkles. The scent of the dining hall, in general, made her mouth water, and as Harry holds her chair out for her (as he always does), she tells him as such and he reaches out, stroking at her face tenderly. 

“The chefs have done their best work for you, I’ve made sure of it.” 

They eat till their stuffed full; Y/N feels as though her stomach had expanded three sizes and one more bite might make her pop. She tells them stories of her hometown, what she did in her absence, and how every single one of her friends just about gushed at the fact that she was with Harry. “They talked you up so much, I was almost jealous,” she told him as she cut into her slice of pie with the side of her fork, “Got irritated when they would be saying, ‘Oh he’s so hot’ or ‘God, look at the mouth on him!’ ‘cos like, no shit I know that – and they weren’t even bringing up how absolutely sweet you were. Didn’t want them objectifying you, s’why you didn’t video chat with any of ‘em.” 

Harry had made a point to keep their fingers interlocked the rest of their time at dinner, squeezing every so often, and she revels in how much she loves the feel of his hands on her skin. It almost feels urgent that she gets him to his bedroom then, and from the way they lock eyes towards the end of dinner when they’ve come around to collect the plates, she knows Harry is aware. More than aware, actually, of how she’s feeling, because not only has his body grown to match it, but he can smell it. He once told her, that the smell of her arousal commands his attention almost as instantly as her heart starts to pump a little faster, the blood rushing to her groin. 

(He told her this, because she had been trying to hide how needy she was for him when he was particularly busy. Though as they sat quietly in his office, him bent over papers and Y/N silently reading, he had slammed his palm against the desk in a clap that echoed through the room, dragging her attention to him, “How am I meant to focus, when you smell so enticing? Why have you not asked me to tend to you?”) 

However, both of them were filled to the brim with food and feeling sluggish and slow, and so sleepy. Y/N couldn’t fathom doing any vigorous activity other than trying to find a suitable snuggling position in bed, and when she tells Harry as much he looks grateful. Though, just as soon as Y/N lies beside him after switching into her pajamas (made of the finest threads of silk, from Harry as a gift for Christmas, despite him feeling it was a baseless holiday and he feels he should be able to gift her things because he wants to and not out of obligation for the season), he drags her to him so closely that barely a slip of paper could fit in between. He dips his nose into her neck and rubs the tip against the skin of her throat, his arm encircling her waist so that she could barely even wiggle. 

Soon, where his nose was, his lips meet in a soft press against her throat. She thinks at first he’s just being sweet – he liked neck kisses – but then he captures the skin, sucking it between his lips and pinching at it with his teeth. A gasp slides from her throat, her eyes opening up wider as she’s hit with a short gust of liveliness from where she had been slowing down for bed. The hand of his arm tucked around her, is tucked between her and that mattress as if to hold her even closer, as he works the skin over, only parting to lick the broad of his tongue around the tender skin. 

When she cranes her neck to look at him, he pushes their mouths together with little warning or thought, a smear of lips that makes her body tingle. He slides his tongue in between her lips and curls it around her own, no hesitation, no playful flirtiness to it like he sometimes did, but full, needy strokes like this was all he had been thinking about. All that he could think about. 

The hand that had been at her side, slides up to her cheek and cradles her face, aiding her in turning so that he could more adequately invade her mouth. He shifts so that he is halfway on top of her, his thighs astride her own, his cock throbbing to life in the small, tight pair of boxers he wore. They were the ones he chose when he couldn’t be arsed to go fetch his laundry. He’d long since outgrown them, but Y/N is often grateful that he kept them around, given they left very little to the imagination and the cotton – while worn – was soft (which, in filthier connotations, was very nice to grind against). 

“Need you to smell like me,” he parts from her mouth but doesn’t stray far, speaking the words against her tongue as she flickers it against his plushy, swollen bottom lip, “Inside and out.” 

______________________________________________________________________

Harry has always been an impassioned and fervent lover. 

Ever since the first time, when she’d been thrown into a false heat, he was diligent and dominant, made her thighs quake, kissed her breathless, held her close, rocked into her hard, and made her melt in the best way possible. He was enthusiastic and always came in what felt like waves, filling her so full that she leaked of him. Sex with Harry had always felt like such a transcending experience, she came out feeling enlivened and refreshed – exhausted as all get out but like she could conquer the world if she really wanted to. 

And right then was no different. 

He slides his tongue against her in these slow, stroking movements, his hand cradling her jaw in his palm so gently. Harry had wiggled over so that the heavy, heated bulge that sat heavy between his thighs was hovering just over where she coveted for him. Their noses were pressed together, where his other hand is at her hip – the fabric of her shirt had skated up her side, so his fingers dug into the bare skin. It felt like touching white-hot fire against her, her hips rolling upward idly, and just barely grazing against him. 

Harry’s so hard, she knows that he must be aching for it, and when he tucks his covered cock to the crotch of her panties, he rolls his hips in these deep, digging motions. Her veins fizzle and spark, her own fingers finding themselves burrowed in his curls, bucking back up against him with her toes curling. A wet, throaty gasp pops from her throat against his mouth as she curls her legs around his hips to keep him close, as he undulated his hips against her. 

It’s so good and hot and sweaty; she’s full, sleepy, her eyes heavy but she feels so nice. She’s being satiated in every way she could think possible, as the fabric of her panties grew damper with each roll. He parts from her only to breathe but they’re so wrapped up in one another they’re just sucking in each other’s air. It’s humid, her skin beginning to perspire, and Harry was always so warm in general that it contributed to the growing heat, especially the one that pulsates throughout her entire being. 

“Sweet little thing,” he murmurs, his lips stroking against her own with each word he spoke, and she pushes forward to capture them for a second but he parts, “I can smell how wet you are. Can practically taste it,” he pauses the ministration of his hips and laughs when she whines, their noses pushing together for a moment as he draws backward, “You want me to taste you?” 

She nodded quickly and Harry hums, slipping down to her chest, displacing the soft material of the pajama top she wore and sliding her breast in the divet of his thumb and forefinger. He takes her nipple into his mouth, pursing his lips and suckling, and her back arches some to press closer to him. It felt so good. So incredibly, horribly good, and he was nowhere precise or meticulous; it was truly feral, wet and sloppy. When he switches, he drags the fabric further, only this time he tears the fabric down the middle and Y/N gasps loudly but he couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he drags her other nipple into his mouth and wettens it with his tongue, sucking and nipping at the bud as it pebbled beneath his attention. 

Icy hot tendrils of arousal spike down her abdomen; she feels herself pulsate, feeling herself drip into her panties. His movements downward are brisk, but harsh suckled bites at the tender skin of her belly, his fingers digging into her panties and ripping them at the elastic. It snaps back against her, a sting that strips up to her hip bone but she has no time to mourn the black cotton because Harry’s burying his face into her cunt like he was starved. His tongue slips between her licks, deep grinds of the wet muscle from her hole to the swollen bud. 

She’s throbbing, all the blood rushing to her clit as Harry demonstrates his desire wholeheartedly. Slurping and lapping, moving is head side to side and moaning; it’s so wet, like he’s drooling over her, sloppy and messy, these groans that rattle through her body and vibrate her bones. One hand slaps down beside her side, fingers dug into the sheets beside her, and the other tangling up in his hair, which was now even more unruly than when she had left. His eyes had long since fluttered shut like he was soaking in and enjoying every moment of tasting her. He always licked into her like it was his first and final time – like he had to commit it to memory in every way he could.

“Harry,” she moans breathlessly, and Harry hums against her as his response – her whole body quivers, “Fuck, you feel so – you feel so good.” 

He hums again, removing his hand from where he was pressing on her thigh to keep her spread out for him, and her parts for just a moment so he can place two fingers at her entrance. Her mouth drops open soundlessly but her breath gets caught in her throat, as he sinks them in slow, looking down at it with a small smile before his eyes glitter up to hers, “You haven’t touched yourself since we were together last, hmm?” 

Her cheeks warm at his inference, nodding her head – it was true; no matter how hard done by she felt, there was no use in her own hands anymore. When she tried, she was just left with an unyielding want for him, a distinct tugging at her chest that beckoned for his fingers, his cock, his tongue. To have his nose smushed up against her mound as he slurped and sucked and licked her dry. Harry had completely ruined her for anything bringing her an orgasm that wasn’t him.

And the bastard knew it! He knew it so well, from that stupidly cocky and beautiful smile that tilts at his lips, “You’re going to cum already.” He remarks thoughtfully, sighing, “So sensitive today, Pet.” 

“Stop teasing me,” she whined, shuffling down, letting her hips thrust forward against his hand. He’s got two fingers inside of her, stroking against the soft, spongy bump that makes her thighs squeeze and tremble, her walls rhythmically throb around him as his palms pressed close to her clit, “How m’I supposed to hold off when you’re doing all that?” 

Tutting his tongue lowers his palm and lets his other hand slide into his ministrations, using the pad of  his thumb to gently guide her clit in smooth, round little circles that make the muscles in her abdomen visibly tense, “I’m not teasing.” He tells her, eyes trained on the wet little gash between her legs, “If I were teasing then I would just –” he slides his hands from her, leaving her empty, and cold, pushing his fingers into his mouth. 

“No!” She gasps, wriggling to try and get closer to his fingers and his mouth again, “No, no, don’t –” 

“Look how needy you are,” he hums, framing her pussy with his hands, his thumbs holding her open as her hole clenches and squeezes, “Begging me to claim you – make you smell like me all over.” He murmurs, leaning down and letting the very tip of his tongue dip inside of her, groaning against her, and sinking in further. She thinks if it were up to him, he would lick her completely dry. 

Harry giggles against her as he swirls his tongue in a circle, before peeling back again, only this time he scales up her body, pushes a kiss to her mouth so she can taste herself on his tongue as he draws his boxers down. His cock slaps up against his abdomen soundly, stiff as a rock, with the aching, purpled head leaking precum in a rivulet down the side. The tip was shiny and her mouth waters instantaneously like she’s one of Pavlov’s dogs stuck in a Cathedral. 

She would beckon that he let himself into her mouth, maybe rock his hips into with his hands cradling her jaw like she’d asked him to before, but he’s got a way about him when he isn’t in the mood for a blowie. The way his eyes are blown, his movements are gentle, yet quick, and the urgency in which he lines himself up with her are a few telltale signs, to say the least. He circles the head around her soaked lips, his pillowy mouth dropping open just a little, his brows furrowing in pleasure as he revels in the feeling. 

He sinks into her slowly, groaning out loud that he muffled by latching his teeth around the juncture of her neck and shoulder (his favorite spot). Y/N struggles to keep from pushing him deeper, but she refrains from it, letting him ease in how he likes. Harry wants to feel every ridge, every curve, every wall; like he’s memorizing how she feels inside. She wonders if he closes his eyes, he can feel her – she can feel him when she focuses on it enough. Can feel the wide head stroking against her insides, nudging and bumping into all the spots that make her toes curl.

The first rock of his hips is just a small roll, where his hips are still tucked against her thighs, and it shifts her body upward against the sheets. This is when Y/N’s legs wrapped around his waist, holding him closely (“Are you trying to keep me in, Baby? Don’t have to worry about me pulling out – might just have to walk around with you snug on my cock.” He had once said, and she almost hates how much she would love it), her arms around his neck, so that their fronts are mashed together. Another pretty noise leaves his lips, this time as he unbeds his teeth from her skin, moving so that he was slipping their mouths together again. He slips his tongue between her lips, drinking in the heady moan that leaves him when he starts up a steady pace. 

They’re so close that she can feel the muscles in his stomach tense and relax, moving beneath the skin as the filthy sounds of him fucking into her begin to feel the room. The thwack their bodies colliding that reverberates in her ear like a beat, his fingertips dug deep in her thigh while his other hand kept him held up as he pressed it against the headboard, working with the balance he’s deviating onto his knees. 

Y/N would ride him if she could but she knew well enough that he needed this and she needed this. Needed the raw, primal energy of him fucking into deep, hard, alternating between slow and quick – it made the both of them feel better. She had missed him so desperately, to feel this close after being so far apart was like stumbling upon a hot spring in Antarctica. Their souls have tied and knotted, their hearts beating as one, her eyes water from the undulating pleasure of being loved and getting brought to a mind-shattering orgasm after weeks of nothing. 

She reburies her hand in his hair, tangling her fingers up in the strands and she clenches around him when he lets out a low growl as she tugs, “Make you smell like me, Puppy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to her, “Bloody fucking bastards had their hands all over you – don’t they know you’re mine?” He cradles her face, running a thumb over her cheek and Y/N peers up into his soft, green irises with a blurry gaze. Harry doesn’t worry when she cries during sex – mostly because he can feel deep within his being when she’s actually upset, but partly because he just knows…he knows she gets so overwhelmed by the sensations of everything, she can’t help but tear up. “Don’t they know I’m your Alpha?” 

“They know,” she feels the first telltale sign of her orgasm bristling at the edges, “You feel so good – you smell so good, they know, they know and if they don’t I’ll tell them myself. Show them all my bite marks.” 

Harry groans, nodding and leaning forward to smear his mouth over hers, reaching down to her clit and rubbing tight little circles into it. Y/N’s thighs squeeze around him tightly, her orgasm ripples through her in hot waves of static, that sizzles through her body in electric waves. She moans against his mouth and he swallows the sound down, his own orgasm striking him, his knot slipping inside of her. He’s cumming in hot spurts that coat her walls, filling her up and despite his locking with her some still manage to slip out (she can feel it). Harry cumming in her is one of her favorite feelings, as he throbs and pulses, his hips twitch and buck, his grip on her – wherever it may be – tightens up and holds her close. He empties everything he’s got until she feels full and she revels in it. 

As they both come down, Harry’s eyes flutter open with a dreamy smile that he gives her, and her heart leaps against her ribcage, “I missed you.” He tells her for at least the twentieth time that night, “With my whole being.” 

She returns his smile, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, “I missed you more.” 

His brows tilted, “There is no possible way,” he repositions them so that she was lying on her side and he was spooning her from behind, his arms wrapped back around her, one palm warm palm on her stomach. He dips his face into her throat, breathing in deep, and a low rumbled purr begins to rattle through him. To know that he’s comfortable soothes her even more than she had been, as her eyes began to flutter. The exhaustion that they had felt prior catches back up with them, she can tell as they melt into each other. 

“Come with me next time,” she tells him, “Come meet my family.” 

He pauses, raising his head and him shifting makes Y/N crane her neck to peek at him, “You want me to? Even though I am – I am –” 

“Perfect?” Y/N finishes for him, not allowing him to get insecure about his nature, “Yes, I want you to, even though you’ll definitely show me up.” 

And Harry breaks into a cheek splitting grin, moving forward to kiss her again, his hold on her even tighter than before.

[telesthisia]

v. | HIDE HIDE HIDE ALL YOU WANT BUT THERE’S NOWHERE TO RUN. 

Ooooo, ooo! Before spooky month ends one more spooky verse for the spookiest of princesses!! Modern verse is very rare for any of my blogs, but this isn’t the good old “coffee shop au” no no this is a “holy shit i’m in a slasher horror movie” au where anyone and everyone can be the victim, where there’s no final girl in Ze/lda’s story because the killer is that determined to destroy everything in her life due to how long she’s evaded them. Let’s get into some key point, shall we?

So first thing’s first no fun draws for this one! Sorry folks! I didn’t think modern verse design would be interesting enough to warrant some notes. Maybe I’ll do a creepy draw or something, the inner goth/horror lover in me is tempting me too... BUT UH! OK! So the year is 202X. Ze/lda is a daughter of the mayor in the small town of Castle Town in a European country, a sleepy town filled with history where royals once ruled the entire small country of Hy/rule but with reforms and history changing government, the country is no longer an absolute monarchy. Her family is well known in that they descend from the royal family. The castle from the times her family lived there is still around and is a historical place! Zel/da has no plans of continuing the family tradition in being the mayor of Castle Town. She wishes to become a novelist who travels around the world, writing scary, spine chilling stories with romance on the side. As of now, she’s in college but due to circumstances involving a certain killer she had to drop out for a brief moment if only to run away.  

A ghost looking girl with PSI, she’s able to see the future, sense, see, and hear ghosts and has a connection with the supernatural. It is said that the royal family all had mysterious powers of their own and Ze/lda is proof of that rumor. Her visions are always accurate and rarely do they change despite how hard she may try to change them. The problem? No one believes her visions or claims of seeing ghosts. In fact, many avoided her in Castle Town due to eerie she was as well as the bad luck that seems to follow in her wake. As such, unless she feels the need to like if someone’s life were in danger she will not talk about her visions. But that doesn’t stop her from acting on them, meaning she’ll let her actions do the talking for her. She’s pretty much a cryptic person filled with a melancholic and mysterious air. For those who wish to get closer to her, she often disappears and pushes them away. For very valid reasons that we will get into. 

Everyone in her life dies. It doesn’t matter what the relationship she had with the person. Strangers, family, friends, enemies, lovers, they all die and it’s all thanks to that killer who’s stalking her. A true stalker, they are a meticulous killer who’s able to memorize routines all for the sake of adding fuel to the great fear she feels towards them. Yet, they don’t attack Ze/lda unless she involves herself in whatever kill they are trying to accomplish; in which case she manages to get away with barely surviving yet the other person is not always so lucky. Always watching, waiting, and adding to the paranoia. It doesn’t matter where she runs to, they will always find her.  

It is possible to survive the killer if your name is not Zeld/a and that is: sticking with her and actually listening to her cryptic and vague warnings. :^) only one person has managed to do that, it’s Link! She’s not sure where he is at the moment since they lost track of each other during her travel to The States... but she hopes that he is safe. 

So while she’s in the US right now, and safe for now, the killer is on their way there with the intent to finally kill her off. 

So why are they so intent with killing her? Well, it’s due to the fact that she’s the final member of the royal family. Her mother was victim of a cold case and her father as well, dying last year before this whole mess started. On top of that, she was a witness to their murdering, seeing their true identity rather than the mask and cloak that they wear now. Try as she might to turn them into the police, she hasn’t had the luck with so many things stopping. It’s like... they’re some sort of supernatural being having the perfect timing of being wherever she is just as she’s about to say something...

ANNND that’s spooky scary horror movie verse I have in mind! As always if you’re interested don’t be afraid to lmk! 

[fuckress]

I dare you to answer every single question in the "weird asks that say a lot" (tho you can decline the dare, or just answer one you really wanna answer)

me? declining a dare?? HELL NO! So buckle up, this is a long one!

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?–> coffee mugs

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?–> hmmmmm… chocolate bars.

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?–> neither really… there aren’t many stores where I can buy cotton candy just like that. So I guess bubblegum.

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?–> quiet, reserved, smart. I think that’s about it.

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?–> actually cans. But I’ll settle for bottles if I can’t get cans

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?–> hm… a mix between tomboy, sportswear and formal.

7. earbuds or headphones?–> both. earbuds while on my phone and headphones while on my computer.

8. movies or tv shows?–> tv shows. Keeps me occupied for longer and I don’t have to pay attention too much.

9. favorite smell in the summer?–> that fresh breeze when at sea or ocean. Or, the smell before a thunder storm.

10. game you were best at in p.e.?–> dodgeball, along with basketball and volleyball. which doesn’t mean I’m any good at either, those were just the ones I didn’t suck as much lol

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?–> usually, I skip breakfast and have lunch. But if I want something, it’s usually a sandwich with either avocado, fish or something else.

12. name of your favorite playlist?–> uhh.. don’t really have one.

13. lanyard or key ring?–> both ^^ key ring to keep all keys i need together and a lanyard to lock them to my pants or something.

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?–> popcorn. I’m not entirely sure tbh, I’m simply eating popcorn now so that’s why it came to my mind lol

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?–> ooh, good question. hm… catcher in the rye is up there… life of pie too… killing mr griffin…. hm. most books from my english classes it seems. the german ones sucked.

16. most comfortable position to sit in?–> sitting on one leg with the other angled. it’s kinda hard to explain, I guess.

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?–> gray sneakers

18. ideal weather?–> sunshine, not too warm (maybe around 25°C), with a little breeze.

19. sleeping position?–> any position and every position

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?–> either computer or mobile phone

21. obsession from childhood?–> hm. I guess drawing might be one. Other than that, I don’t think I have an obsession from back then. Maybe anime and cartoons in general, but nothing specific.

22. role model?–> don’t have one

23. strange habits?–> can’t think of anything right now..

24. favorite crystal?–> opal

25. first song you remember hearing?–> I don’t know the song titles of those, sadly. I do remember the ketchup song

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?–> either taking a walk or sleeping in the sunshine. Not really much interested in activities.

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?–> sleeping..

28. five songs to describe you?–> Alone in the room by asking alexandria, haze by tessa violet, choke by i don’t know how but they found me (the vibe of the song, not much of the lyrics), bones by emily finchum, dreamin by the score

29. best way to bond with you?–> oh, there are many ways tbh. either ask me about my obsessions and if they are similar to yours, let’s talk about those for hours. or just show up and talk bullshit, I’m always up for bullshit. or let’s rant about stuff that we both hate. just. yeah. I’m really not that hard to please, if you don’t treat me like shit, we’re good.

30. places that you find sacred?–> nothing comes to mind tbh. that doesn’t mean i don’t think places shouldn’t be treated without respect.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?–> jeans, sneakers, black tanktop and a blazer. or hoodie. things I’d usually wear as well. best to kick ass and take names while wearing what you like most, right?

32. top five favorite vines?–> “two bros, chilling in a hot tub, five feet apart cause they’re not gay.”“Say Colorado!” “I’M A GIRAFFE”“THIS BITCH EMPTY! YEET!”“Shit, duck!” “Oh, cause of the duck is it?” *gets hit by a flying duck*“Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage. LETTUCE, LETTUCE, LETTUCE!”

33. most used phrase in your phone?–> yaaaaaaf, yaaaaaaaas, rip, mood, aaaaaaaaaaargh, wtf, eyyyyyyyyyyyyy, oooh, fuck, ehehehehehehe (usually after a dirty joke), yay~, yehi wasn’t able to just pick one

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?–> none. thank goodness

35. average time you fall asleep?–> maybe.. 30min?

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?–> oooh boy, I don’t remember.

37. suitcase or duffel bag?–> suitcase. They’re easier to handle

38. lemonade or tea?–> tea

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?–> neither.. I don’t really like cakes or pies

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?–> there was a warning of a school shooting due to some internet posts. Nothing happened at our school, but people were scared. Other than that, constant firealarms due to bullshit reasons like cooking or dust. And being late for school due to flooding and casually walking in to class with zero fucks left to give.

41. last person you texted?–> a friend who sent me a cute pic.

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?–> BOTH AND BIG ENOUGH TO FIT MY PHONE IN PLEASE

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?–> Hoodie and leather jacket.

44. favorite scent for soap?–> something fresh like lemon grass or so. Or some herbs. Nothing too sweet and no nuts

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?–> I like a lot of superhero stuff, but fantasy is up there too.

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?–> I’ll sleep in literally anything, depending on how tired and lazy I am to change.

47. favorite type of cheese?–> none

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?–> a pomegranate i think

49. what saying or quote do you live by?–> none really. More like a motto. Be the best you can be and enjoy yourself as much as possible.

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?–> pfft. tons of things. i can’t possibly pinpoint one

51. current stresses?–> New job starting soon where I’m not really sure how well I’ll be able to handle it, sleep scedule is fucked, being on my own entirely with no friends nearby.. ah well.

52. favorite font?–> don’t have one

53. what is the current state of your hands?–> slight lingering pain, a bit cold, no injuries

54. what did you learn from your first job?–> my first ever job was as a waitress/barkeeper at age 14 or something. What I learned there… some people expect too much of you without helping you. And it’s ok to go away from a bad envirenment. Your own well being is most important.

55. favorite fairy tale?–> It’s either the tale of Icarus or the tale of Kunegunda. Those are actually the first ones I ever heard.

56. favorite tradition?–> hm.. don’t have one

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?–> School, College, emotional breakdowns

58. four talents you’re proud of having?–> drawing, being able to view at problems rationally and finding solutions, reading people I know, my bullshit kind of humor

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?–> Let’s get this fucking party started!

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?–> slice of life. They’re the most wholesome with weird and funny friendship moments

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?–> The risk I took was calculated, but damn, am I bad at math.

62. seven characters you relate to?–> I’m too lazy to think of seven, so have one: Killua from Hunter x Hunter

63. five songs that would play in your club?–> see number 28.

64. favorite website from your childhood?–> YouTube. Well, not really childhood, but early teenage years.

65. any permanent scars?–> I have one on my forhead from an accident when I was a kid. Don’t know if other scars are permanent.

66. favorite flower(s)?–> forget-me-nots

67. good luck charms?–> a d20 dice

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?–> hm… I think I surpressed any bad memory like that. Can’t remember

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?–> brown eyes can be changed permanently blue due to some genes and pigments being linked together

70. left or right handed?–> I’m right handed

71. least favorite pattern?–> anything with huge contrasts and tons of messy lines. hurts my eyes and brain

72. worst subject?–> history. Never was good at remembering dates and years and that shit.

73. favorite weird flavor combo?–> I… don’t have any..

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?–> a 6, usually. Except if i need to do stuff or I’m trying to sleep. then a 4.

75. when did you lose your first tooth?–> I think, around the age of 9..

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?–> chips

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?–> a succulent always grew really well with me. Or cacti.

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?–> Never had coffee at a gas station. I did have sushi from the grocery story, but they were never any good.

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?–> driver’s licence photo

80. earth tones or jewel tones?–> jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?–> wait… wat

82. pc or console?–> PC. Never had a console

83. writing or drawing?–> drawing

84. podcasts or talk radio?–> podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket?–> I had both growing up. As a kid, barbie. later on, polly pocket.

85. fairy tales or mythology?–> why not both.

86. cookies or cupcakes?–> cookies

87. your greatest fear?–> complete darkness

88. your greatest wish?–> to manage well enough not to have to worry about anything

89. who would you put before everyone else?–> parents i guess

90. luckiest mistake?–> I bet there were so fucking many but I can’t remember right now

91. boxes or bags?–> depends. boxes for organizing stuff at home, bags for shopping and gathering things like bottles or clothes

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?–> lamps and overhead lights

93. nicknames?–> Chan

94. favorite season?–> fall

95. favorite app on your phone?–> telegram, messaging my friends and all

96. desktop background?–> a picture I made a while ago I called galaxy marbles

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?–> around 4 or so

98. favorite historical era?–> don’t have one, the all sucked

there. I did it. holy shit that was a lot.

[readingwebcomics]

Analyzing Questionable Content: Pages 151-200

High school bully or not, I’d like to reiterate the fact that Dora’s presence is so terrifying that it can repel a trained government agent. That’s a level of badass we should all strive to be.

…I mean like, don’t actually beat people up and steal their cigarettes, lung cancer is bad. But still!

Before getting into things, I’d like to open with a little bit of bookkeeping: First, as was pointed out to me by at least two different people, I COMPLETELY misread #123 – it was Marten who was helping Steve out on a date, not the other way around. This was completely my bad, so I personally retract everything I said about Jeph’s timescale.

Secondly, on my point on Dora’s identity crisis, user Scarlet Manuka had this to say:

For the time frame of Dora's goth phase, I think that Jeph is actually trying to present this as a genuine identity crisis for Dora - but it's also likely one that's been a long time building up. She's probably been becoming increasingly disenchanted with it for the last couple of years, and given that Raven complains that she's missed fifteen or so meetings, it looks like she's already subconsciously let it go quite some time in the past. I think we're seeing more the conscious realisation of a process that's already happened. In many ways that's what an identity crisis is: the realisation that the slow incremental changes we all experience every day have added up into something big while you weren't looking, and that something you thought was part of you really isn't any more.

That’s a perfectly fair point and one I didn’t consider. Thanks for bringing this up, under this light the time frame of Dora’s realization and her gradual shift into a different identity over the course of the next few comics makes perfect sense.

Finally, it was pointed out to me by Marco on the QC Forums that it’s only fair to link to the comic itself in these posts. While I had figured it was really simple to find the comic for whoever’s reading it considering it’s one of the biggest, longest running webcomics out there, they do have a point that I at least owe it to supply links to the site in these posts. So from now on, the dumb intro blurb to each of my posts will hyperlink to the first comic in the batch I’ll be talking about. That way, you can read along with the analysis if you so wish. Cool? Cool.

Now with that all out of the way, let’s move on to the analysis. Agent Turing has nope’d out and Dora saw herself out, letting Marten know that if he buys her dinner she’ll call it even.

This is a weird case of me totally getting WHY Jeph’s going this particular direction – he needs Marten and Faye at an ice cream shop to reveal a bit more about Faye’s backstory, which we’ll be touching on a bit later – but the particular setup for doing this feels… off. This right here reads like a textbook case of a writer going “Fuck, how do I get these characters to do XYZ…” and this being the best solution they could come up with. What’s worse about this is that only a few panels later, Jeph offers a much better alternative:

Literally all he had to do was have Faye be the one to bring this up: Instead of the panel with Marten blatantly asking “So THAT happened, what do you want to do now?” have Faye be the one to bring up that Marten owes her a little something for helping out with the situation, he brings up the ice cream parlor and then the rest of the comic goes on as normal. This may sound pedantic, but it’s a case where just a slight change in wording makes all the difference between sounding contrived and sounding natural.

I have… issues with this comic.

On one hand, Faye is opening up more about her past. A small, innocuous thing spurred her on to open up a little more to Marten, the reminder cracking her mask and showing just how much trauma she’s really containing within. You can tell this is more than just “bringing back memories” – his death had a profound impact on her, there’s something she’s not wanting to bring up or discuss but is being partially dragged to the surface. This is good character writing, and an amazing step in Faye’s character arc. It spurs curiosity, sparks intrigue, makes you WANT to keep reading to see the next time Faye’s mask cracks because you want to see what she’s hiding underneath it.

On the other hand… there’s no nice way to say this – at this point, Jeph is not talented enough at drawing to portray this from an imagery standpoint. The faces are too stiff, the expressions to stock. Faye doesn’t look like tears are escaping from her despite her best efforts to keep a straight face, she looks like she’s mildly disinterested and a blue line to represent tears was drawn on top of her face. Writing can take you far, but the thing about comics is that the written word is only half of the story. Anything you sell with words, you need to also be able to sell with expressions, with physicality and staging.

I’m not an expert in art – not by a LONG shot, I couldn’t draw a comic to save my life – so I can’t exactly offer any advice on how he could’ve made this work better. I’m at least glad to say that with time Jeph came to improve his artistic style, making moments like this feel a lot more natural down the road. He eventually gets comfortable enough with his drawings that he’s able to tell a story using JUST body language, which is admirable. Clearly, we’re not there yet… and unfortunately, it hurts the mood that this comic is trying to sell.

After a week of guest comics, we continue the story with Faye sharing stories about her childhood with Marten, showing just how comfortable she’s become around him that she feels at ease sharing details about her past she likely wouldn’t share otherwise.

Oh, and we’ve got some revelations about Marten’s past here. The Thanksgiving comic where he talks about how his family drives him crazy is starting to make more sense now, isn’t it?

Here, we see three things displayed. First, the fraction used in Marten’s dialogue instead of just saying “half”. I… don’t get why that is. It makes me irrationally angry though. I’m aware that’s fully on me.

Second, this serves to showcase both Marten’s blasé attitude about his strange upbringing and offer potentially an expiation as to why he seems so passive about everything. I’ve offered up the idea in a previous post that when he goes out and makes a choice, it’s enough to completely shift his entire world, so that may have served to encourage him not to not want to rock the boat and keep his head low. This, however, might serve as an alternative explanation, or at least another piece of the puzzle – growing up in a… let’s call it “untraditional” household where his parents were clearly quite open about what they were doing with his son, the fact that Marten grew up to be rather milquetoast serves to make a certain degree of sense.

Third, Marten’s being sassy. I like when Marten’s sassy. As I said, his character kind of… devolves in later comics, so seeing him have a spine enough to throw this out is always fun to read. Plus, it also serves to showcase how comfortable the two of them are with each other that Marten can sling this stuff out without fear of retaliation.

Setup...

The next day, Faye’s leaving for work when a surprise visitor comes to their door.

Marten’s comment always makes me laugh. This comic in general is just hilarious, from Amanda – Faye’s sister’s name is Amanda by the way – triple bomb thrown right into Faye’s lap to Faye’s 404 error to Marten not even missing a beat in his reaction to what’s going on in front of him.

Honestly, I’m with Marten here. And once again, I’m afraid I have to point out the fact that Jeph isn’t quite talented at drawing facial expressions yet ruins the punchline to Faye’s joke in the last panel. At least the writing serves to keep the humor going strong, and don’t mistake me here – these next few comics are gut busters. I fucking love the chaos Amanda causes by just stepping into their lives.

Oh yeah, I guess I should talk about Amanda now, shouldn’t I? Well, uh. Hm. She’s a Lesbian. And she’s a bit of a troublemaker. And like a little bit of a ditz?

…yeah that’s literally all I can think to describe her as. Cut me a little bit of slack here though, at the time of writing we’re on page 4010 and I’d be genuinely surprised if Amanda was in more than 50 pages total. The only real significant things I can think to say about her as a character is how what she says and does serves to inform Faye’s character.

Like right here – we can see the whole “doesn’t plan much further than the very next step you’re about to take” mentality runs in Faye’s family. Also, Jeph’s trying different angles out! Good on him, even little changes like this can serve to make the action feel at least slightly more dynamic!

“Clitoriste” is an amazing word and I hope to find a way to work it into at least one conversation before I die.

Amanda hangs around the coffee shop, swapping sex stories with Dora as Faye desperately tries to claw her own eardrums until Marten comes along. And as I’m saying this, I realize with hindsight that Dora’s being super cool right now, not only letting her loiter around her business but also realizing she was kicked out of her house at least in part because of her sexuality and so is letting her know “Hey, fucking girls is AWESOME, right?” to keep her mind off current events. The more I talk about Dora, the cooler she gets, seriously.

“Aerodynamically curvaceous” is another amazing phrase, this one great enough that Jeph eventually made it into a T-shirt. Seeing as I have as many curves on me as a string bean does, there’s no way I could get away with wearing it myself, but the fact that the shirt exists makes me a little happier to be alive.

Anyway, this comic goes on to show that despite the circumstances, Amanda is taking this rather well all things considered, and Faye has faith that given some time to sit with the information their mom will come around… Also that Faye was a damn good student, which might go on to explain how she was able to absorb so much information about guitars when her ex rambled on about them so much – she just retains information THAT well.

This comic… raises a LOT of questions. The last comic involves characters from another webcomic entirely, making this a fun little Easter Egg/crossover sort of deal. That being said, this raises a LOT of questions about the continuity of QC. Does it take place within the universe of Diesel Sweeties? Or does Diesel Sweeties exist within the universe of QC? The fact that we have a humanoid robot here – does that serve to shed a light on AI development in the QC universe? Did Jeph consider what AI development there would be at this point in writing? I assume not, as thus far the only intelligent devices are Anthro PCs. Is Clango an Anthro PC? Is he a prototype of a more advanced synthetic?

These are questions that were never intended for me to ask, aren’t they? Yeah. That’s what I figured. Considering the fact that Amanda has a girlfriend is canon, and the following phone conversation on the next page is canon as well, the best way to rationalize this is to just pretend that last panel doesn’t exist. Remove it entirely, and this strip fits in perfectly with QC’s established continuity and universe thus far.

Unless you REALLY want to find a way to fit Diesel Sweeties into QC’s universe, which I suppose wouldn’t be that difficult considering it’s a non-plot focused gag-a-day comic, but that’s entirely up to you.

Oh, and speaking of the conversation the two have over the phone:

Credit where it’s due, Dora’s expression on the first two panels is clearly different from the standard set of facial expressions Jeph usually puts on everyone. It’s always nice to see some experimentation! And here’s another situation where Amanda’s main purpose is to drive forward Faye’s character – here we get another hint of something that happened in her past, confirmation that she hasn’t dated anyone in a long time and some kind of source of a reason why she hadn’t. The scar on her chest, the death of her father, the lack of a love life stemming from some event… pieces to the Faye puzzle are falling into place, but we still don’t have everything. We’re given just enough to inspire further curiosity though, which – and I know I’ve said this a hundred times before, but I will say it a hundred times again – is good character writing.

…all that said, I sincerely hope that phone was shock proof. I don’t think her Mom’s exactly going to be in the mood to get her a new one.

Considering Amanda stole her credit card and all, I don’t blame their mom for being furious at her. That said, it’s nice to see that it didn’t take long at all for her to calm down and want to talk things over.

And here, we have specific confirmation that there was a set of “circumstances” that led Faye to want to leave home and move up here. Another piece of the Faye mystery falls into place.

Amanda’s immediately heading off to the airport to return home, leaving Marten and Faye to reel in the wake of an… I’d say it’s fair to call it an intense day.

HAH! If you haven’t read all the way through QC, you don’t understand why that’s so funny in hindsight. Trust me, give it another few hundred comics and it’ll make sense. God, I wonder if that specific reference was intentional on Jeph’s part, or if he just likes Vespas? Then again… he IS an anime buff, it’s entirely possible both events stem from FLCL.

Oh hey, there’s that pink Anthro PC again. We saw them back at the LANPark. Haven’t added them to the character list though since we don’t even know their name, but it seems like Pintsize has friends and a life off-panel. Good for him! I do wonder what ends up happening to these guys later though… Most likely they all just drift apart and move on with their lives.

...Why am I so sad all of a sudden?

And here we see an example of the two of them openly flirting with each other, dipped deep in sarcasm of course but that’s just how these two roll. Their inter-personal relationship has progressed really well and at a nice, natural pace so far. At this rate, something should be coming to a head very soon – either one or the both of them need to acknowledge the fact that they’re getting closer, or something’s going to happen that will throw a monkey wrench into the dance they’re performing.

Ugh. I’m coming to hate whenever Marten says “What do you want to do now?” Maybe it’s just me, I’m willing to accept I’m reading too much into this, but whenever he says that all I hear in my head is Jeph going “I can’t think of a more natural way to transition into this next scene so I’ll have Marten ask this question to push the scene forward.” It just feels like bad storytelling to me, it really does.

Now, I need you to hold onto your seats right now, because what you’re about to read next might just be the greatest comic you’ve ever read in your life. The mere act of seeing this may very well knock you out of your seat. Are you ready for this? I don’t think you are – I don’t think ANY of us are. Brace yourselves.

My man, Jimbo! And yes, he is officially called Jimbo now, so we’ll be changing the name in the character stats screen at the end of this post. And this man, this absolute LEGEND, is living the dream – quitting his blue-collar job to pursue his passion in writing! He’s worked hard to get where he is in life, and now that he’s here, the fruits of his labor are paying off! As a commercial electrician who’s writing on the side, I strive to be like Jimbo one day. God bless you, you absolute PINNACLE of human achievement!

I can’t NOT show off more Jimbo comics, he’s just that great. Also, Faye’s drunken antics are fucking hilarious.

Credit where it’s due to Faye for not only helping Jimbo out with his writing but also doing it as a completely on-the-spot Haiku, while totally piss drunk. Not even going to lie, that takes talent.

Faye’s willingness to engage in behavior like this raises… questions. Questions that I’m not entirely comfortable asking right now considering the author’s own past with alcohol. I’ll touch more on it when we reach the batch of comics 501-550, I’m going to need more time to prepare myself to talk about it in a way that’s as respectful as possible.

And finally… the moment of truth. When long-time readers of QC remember the Pre-500 era, there are two things that come to our mind: The actual conversation that happens at issue 500 that marks the transitional phase of QC into the kind of webcomic it is today… and the headbutt-crotch-vomit comic.

Behold.

I’m not even going to try offering commentary here. Absolutely nothing I could say can be better than what you just witnessed in this comic.

This page right here… it has an interesting dynamic between its first and last panels. Panel one, again, Jeph takes the time to make a new facial expression for Faye as she’s waking up, one that looks nice and works with the dialogue to communicate how she’s feeling. And then in the last panel… well, I don’t think it’s exactly controversial to say that her face in the last panel doesn’t communicate the confusion and rage she’s supposed to be feeling as expressed in the dialogue, is it? Jeph is getting there, his artistry is clearly evolving, but he’s not quite talented enough to pull it all off quite yet. Still, little improvements should be applauded!

And here we get another character confirming suspicions raised back in #172, that being Faye clearly has some relationship hangups stemming from something happening in her past. This raises some concerns considering their more flirtatious behavior around each other and their developing inter-personal relationship. At this point, SOMETHING has to happen to inspire a reaction or change out of one of the two, or they may very well find themselves trapped in stagnation… keep that in mind for a little while longer. On the art side of things, something to note that I just realized… Steve has a shine in his eyes to make them look more natural and full of life, but Marten’s doesn’t. Is there any particular reason for this? And why am I noticing it just now? Actually looking back a few comics, the “shine in the eyes” detail only started with #186… again, in all characters except Marten. Is there a significant reason for this? Or is it just a detail that’s easier to do with the shades of color in people’s eyes except for Marten’s for whatever reason? I don’t have an answer, but it’s something to keep in mind at least while we watch the art evolve.

Also, one more thing?

Either Marten’s a liar, or Faye’s ass is just THAT good that it converted him. My money’s on the latter, considering people routinely talk about how baller Faye’s ass is.

Yes, I did just use the word “baller” unironically. No, I don’t have any shame, thanks for asking.

…payoff. 

And again with the fucking contraction thing… It’s not subtle if other characters are pointing it out! I know, I’m the only person willing to die on this hill, and I KNOW it’s long-passed and nobody’s concerned about it anymore, but it genuinely bothers me! This is a stupid character traits that… bah, I’m not going to repeat myself again. On a lighter note, this particular comic showcases how much better Jeph’s gotten at drawing faces. It’s not much, but it’s better than the stock expressions that most characters usually wear, and you can see some subtle actions and thoughts expressed in the way Dora or Faye’s eyebrows move, in which direction their eyes are facing… it’s nice stuff.

I won’t show everything in these next three comics, but I wanted to showcase this series of events at least because this is some good character writing that says a lot about both Steve and the new girl Jeph introduces.

Setup…

Payoff…

…and subversion of expectations.

Sorry Marten, but I’m with Steve here 100%. That was clever, well-played, and EXTREMELY hot all at once. It’s too bad we don’t end up seeing much of Ellen after this because she has SUCH a strong established introduction.

And what fortunate timing – we have another collection of guest comics, which ends RIGHT at #200:

And here we go – the spark of conflict in the relationship dynamic between Marten and Faye that I predicted we needed. How’s Faye going to deal with this? How’s Marten going to deal with this? What if on this date it turns out he’s actually, seriously interested in Dora? Would this push Faye to action? She’s made it clear, at least to the people around her, that she’s not interested in pursuing something with Marten… so what if someone made her put her money where her mouth is? Well, we’ll find out one way or another come the next batch of comics.

While we’re still talking about this batch however, let’s do our usual deal of comparing the art shift between the first and the last comics in the batch:

This is a clear-cut example of a lot of small, subtle tweaks happening over the course of a long enough period of time making a clear, distinct difference. The biggest change, of course, being the faces of everyone as I’ve been bringing up all throughout this post – everyone looks so much more EXPRESSIVE. You can get a proper read on someone’s mood based on just how they look alone now, and I find that super impressive… admittedly, it also makes me wish that Jeph could/would re-do the ice cream comic in this newer art style to properly capture the expression on Faye’s face that he wanted to capture, but you know. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.

So what did I think of this batch of comics so far? Personally, I think it’s the best batch yet – the best improvement in art, the most introduced on Faye’s character, the best sarcasm from Marten… a LOT was improved in this batch, and that deserves praise. I like where the plot is going, I want to know more about Faye, and I am hooked on the will they/won’t they story, especially with the newer developments in the complexities of their relationship web coming into play.

All that said, let’s take a look at the data analysis for this particular batch:

Marten: 34/50 – 68%

Faye: 33/50 – 66%

Dora: 12/50 – 24%

Amanda: 12/50 – 24%

Steve: 6/50 – 12%

Pintsize: 5/50 – 10%

Jimbo: 3/50 – 6%

Ellen: 3/50 – 6%

Turing: 1/50 – 2%

Grand Total:

Marten: 166/200 – 83%

Faye: 163/200 – 81.5%

Dora: 51/200 – 25.5%

Pintsize: 50/200 – 25%

Steve: 22/200 – 11%

Amanda: 12/200 – 6%

Sara: 7/200 – 3.5%

Jimbo: 5/200 – 2.5%

Turing: 4/200 – 2%

Raven: 3/200 – 1.5%

Ellen: 3/200 – 1.5%

Scott: 2/200 – 1%

Miéville: 1/200 – 0.5%

Ell: 1/200 – 0.5%

Do note that in this last batch, 12 of the 50 were non-canon guest comics, so I didn’t count any characters showing up in any of them. Either way, it looks like Amanda was in enough comics to create a barrier in the stats between main and major supporting characters and minor characters as far as amount of time they’ve shown up in the comic goes. I don’t know if anyone else finds that as interesting as I do, I just think it’s neat.

In any case, tune in next week for the exciting conclusion to the double-date story! And a trip to the hospital!

…the two things aren’t related, I swear. See you then.

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

Part 3 – The Dance (Click for AO3 Link)

As Dinah trails Laurel down the familiar amber-lit hallway, she has to remind herself that this is not her first trip to this particular Oak Forest complex.  Seeing as Laurel lives smack dab between Felicity and Dinah, the convenience of her apartment made sense to conduct meetings of the anti-Diaz club Felicity formed while Oliver was locked up and which thereafter morphed into what Felicity calls ‘an unconventionally awesome three way Womance.’  Dinah also drops in to check on Laurel after particularly rough days, a gesture that while not received with praise is at least silently appreciated judging by Laurel’s tacit acceptance of her continued unannounced visits.  There is a modicum of resentment from Laurel that occasionally boils over due to feeling unfairly criticized or annoyingly henpecked due to the wanton villainy that characterized her recent, although Dinah has learned how to assuage those flare ups with honeyed reassurances that she is only concerned because she cares.  Usually that works well enough, and it when it doesn’t they just bicker it out until one of them invariably apologizes.  Lastly, during their collaboration on the Ace Chemical case, work twice spilled over into Laurel’s home and saw them laboring into the wee hours of the morning double and triple checking critical details tucked away inside the mountain of associated files. 

All of this means that Dinah a stranger to this sharp, stylish corridor, nor is she unfamiliar with the cozy confines of the abode lurking behind the door just ahead.  And yet the tingling in her extremities and the butterflies fluttering around in her tummy would suggest otherwise.  In the wake of their bonding experience at the shelter, the sensations being produced by Laurel’s proximity and their pending nightcap are not unlike those she experienced the night before her junior prom.  Only then her date was a six foot two, one hundred ninety-five pound star athlete with whom she was utterly smitten; whereas now...well, at least the last part is accurate if her slightly humiliating reaction is any reliable barometer.  

Get ahold of yourself for God’s sake, she tells herself as they approach Laurel’s front door, which displays a lovely ornamented wreath.  You’re not sixteen anymore and this isn’t a date.  Then she recalls Laurel’s anxious shifting as the invitation was posed, and how clearly it was meant as much more than a friendly gesture of thanks for her help at the shelter.  Or is it?  Hmm. Laurel certainly was acting like maybe it is, which is probably why I’m as big a bundle of nerves as she seems to be.  Holding her hand when we left the shelter didn’t help matters, either. As Dinah remembers how right it felt when their palms meshed and their fingers wove together, she watches Laurel fumble for the key to her apartment with shaky hands, swear under her breath, then glance back sheepishly before returning to her task.  The unmistakable hint of an incredibly fragile hope that flared through Laurel’s green eyes hits Dinah square in the chest.  Jesus.  Is this really happening?

Dinah gets her answer when Laurel finally slides the correct key home and pushes the door open, then hesitates in the doorway before offering a shy invitation that sounds nothing like the arrogant, flamboyant, dangerous vixen she first encountered on Lian Yu.  Unfortunately Laurel recovers her confidence too quickly for Dinah to comment upon that brief display of vulnerability then flicks on the light and enters to reveal a sight no one who knows this Laurel Lance could have ever adequately prepared for.  

Inside the apartment is a scene that would not be horribly out of place in one of the Hallmark Christmas movies Dinah enjoys indulging in during the Holidays.  Festive trinkets adorn virtually every piece of furniture from little knickknacks like porcelain elves upon the bookshelf to dual poinsettias with ribbons attached to the wrapping on the vase on the entertainment stand next to the door all the way up to an exquisite nativity scene upon the coffee table that appears as old as it is gorgeous.  Meanwhile a modest Christmas tree is tucked into the corner of the living room, neatly and conservatively trimmed featuring plain white lights and mostly silver ornamentation.

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” she says as she mimics Laurel in shrugging off her coat then depositing it, as well as her other unnecessary garments, upon the coat rack to the left of the door.  

Laurel smiles over her shoulder, an attractive blush coloring her cheeks. “Thanks.  I might have gone a bit overboard.  This is the first year I’ve decorated since...” she trails off then, brows drawing in, an oppressive sadness dimming the light in her eyes as she is transported somewhere in her mind, to another time and place Dinah is not yet privy to.  But as abruptly as the gloom descends, Laurel brushes it away with a shake of her shoulders and reattaches a wry smile to her face.  “Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time.”

Wanting to ask about what went through Laurel’s head just a second ago and whether or not it has to do with Quentin, Dinah opts instead for a safer track.  Some day she will get Laurel to open up to her about all she’s been hiding for so long under those impressive facades meant to distract from a secret anguish no one else seems interested in.  Except for Dinah, that is, and not just due to the cop instincts that make her want to dissect criminals and villains to determine what makes them tick.  She wants to know because it has been evident to her since she bothered to look past the jagged sarcasm, edgy goth wardrobe, and penchant for violence, she realized there was something significant there screaming to the heavens to be uncovered.  Once she knew what she was looking for, it didn’t take a genius to figure out there is so much hurt being bottled up inside Laurel that needs to be vented if she’s to maintain this positive course correction she’s made.  The problem is Laurel’s problematic lack of a support system makes any definitive progress unlikely in the near term.  Who in her life would she deem trustworthy enough to permit voyage beyond the as of yet impenetrable facade?  The answer is self-evident to Dinah.  No one.  Or not yet anyway.  Dinah is trying her damnedest to be that someone since no one else seems interested.    

With every one else important to Laurel life occupied with their own problems, such as Felicity and Oliver with their family and Team Arrow and all the peripheral shit that comes along with being the central figures of a Superhero outfit that spans multiple cities and Earth, or simply unconcerned about her welfare because they can’t let go of the past – ahem Rene and John – the burden of caring about and for Laurel Lance has fallen to Dinah alone.  And that’s okay.  She’s happy to shoulder it. Dinah has always been a caregiver.  It’s one of many factors that drove her to focus her military training into a meaningful civilian service.  That and Laurel, at least to her, is worth it.  If no one else can see that?  Their loss.  She’ll take this exceptional, infinitely interesting woman over the banal choices for company daily served up to her on a silver platter.  

“What got you in the holiday spirit if you don’t mind me prying?” she asks, following Laurel into the living room where her svelte hostess gestures for her to sit.

“Hold that thought and go ahead and make yourself at home while I go get the snacks,” Laurel says in lieu of answering immediately, then glides off toward the kitchen with her typical grace.  

Dinah obeys like a good guest, and to keep from fidgeting occupies her hands by trailing her fingers over the smooth lacquered finish of the figurines composing the nativity scene neatly arranged upon the coffee table.  The craftsmanship really is amazing, the precision unlike anything she has come across from her limited exposure to Christmas decorations.  As a kid her parents opted to celebrate the holidays in a non-religious manner seeing as both were lapsed in the faith they were born into, her father the son of Southern Baptist preacher and her mother’s family ensconced firmly within Reform Judaism.  But she had friends who made big to-dos about Christmas and often visited their houses to get a glimpse into a portion of modern life she was denied.  She used to marvel at the ornamentation on display and wish she was brave enough to ask her parents to make some allowances.  None of her friends had anything like this, though.

The manger is so intricate that she can feel imperfections in it as if it were real wood, the hay hundreds of individually constructed strings upon which a marvelously detailed baby Jesus lay, with ten tiny olive-tinted fingers clutching at the threadbare shawl wrapped round him.  Mary and Joseph are almost as meticulous, in their period clothing with accurate complexions and features, as are the equally diverse wise men and the astonishingly life-like miniature lambs tucked in round the manger.

“My great-great-great-something grandfather made that in the 1850’s, I think,” Laurel says, having snuck back in while Dinah was entranced studying the figurines.  A bit startled, she looks up to see Laurel rounding the couch with a tray in hand and tracks her progress as she continues on to deposit the tray carefully upon an unoccupied portion of the coffee table.  “It’s also the answer to your earlier question.  I mean, volunteering at the shelter this year got me thinking about when I was a kid and my parents would go crazy around Christmas.  Nostalgia hit me hard, so I started browsing through some of the boxes of Christmas stuff Quentin never got around to unpacking and found this nativity scene carefully tucked away in bundles of padding.  It’s exactly the same as the one my Quentin inherited, one of a handful of items that survived the family move from Germany after the war.  Incidentally, apparently family origin is one thing that doesn’t really change between Earths where we have doppelgangers.”  She pauses for a breath.  “Anyway, I wanted to put it out to remember both Quentins by but it seemed silly to have just that, so I put up a few more.  Which turned into a few more. Eventually...I looked around and this had happened.  Oopsie.”  To prove her point, she gestures around the apartment, its festive décor providing a merry backdrop to what Dinah hopes will be just as merry a night.

“Well, it’s absolutely gorgeous so I don’t blame you one bit for wanting to show it off.  Or for going overboard on the rest,” Dinah says, savoring the information she has just gleaned.  Not only does she now know that they share in a heritage that traces back to Germany before the Second World War and that family histories remain largely intact between multiple Earths when a person exists in each of them, but the most intriguing tidbit is that Laurel had a happy childhood at one point.  So what went so terribly wrong to make her into Black Siren?  Curiosity surges through her mind that she quickly tempers with a dose of reality by reminding herself why she’s here.  “The whole apartment is really nice. I’m very impressed,” she adds, meaning it from the bottom of her heart.  “Now that I know you have a knack for interior decorating, I’ll be blackmailing you into sprucing my place up for Hanukkah next year.”

Just because her late parents chose the path of unbelief does not mean Dinah has.  There was a time she abandoned her faith, but since moving to Star City she has slowly been building up to the loosely-observant Reformist she is today.  That means among other things that she attends synagogue whenever she can, which isn’t as often as she’d like due to her job, and eats as kosher as convenience and finance will allow.  She has never been big on tradition, so she prefers to practice her faith in a casual way that appeals to her modern, practical, and privacy-oriented sensibilities. That said, her belief is as strong as it has ever been, strangely enough thanks to the woman from whom she just washed dishes and mopped floors until her fingers pruned up and her back ached like a bitch.  If there was ever a sign from God that love and forgiveness possess a singular power to heal the heart, it has come in the form of her constantly evolving relationship with Laurel.

Ignorant of Dinah’s thoughts, Laurel chuckles at the jest she just made, which causes those amazing dimples of hers to peak out.  “Can’t wait to see what material you break out to get me to do your bidding. I’m not easily blackmailed, you know.”

“I know.  I happen to like a good challenge, which you most certainly are,” Dinah says with a wink that causes Laurel to blush for what seems like the hundredth time tonight.

“I’ve been called many things, but none with ‘good’ attached as a modifier.  Eggnog?” Laurel returns as she gently picks up a mug of eggnog and offers it to Dinah, who accepts it with a grateful smile.

Powerless to resist the creamy goodness cradled in her hands, Dinah takes an experimental sip and cannot stop a moan of pure delight from purring through her chest.  “Well, get used to it if this stuff is any indication of your talents.”  She then breaks off the arm of one of the gingerbread men, snaps the hand off, then samples the dismembered appendage.  Eyes sliding shut in rapture, a similar sound erupts from the depths of her chest.  The cookie is more like something out of a professional bakery than an amateur oven.  It is soft, perfectly chewy with a cinnamony and gingery flavor that coats her tongue with wonderfulness.  “Christ alive, Laurel!  This is divine.”

Not half as divine as those noises you just made, Laurel thinks, then chastises herself for what feels like the thousandth time tonight.  She has always been hyper-aware of Dinah’s casual sensuality and absurd level of hotness, but lately her inability to curb that awareness has proven quite the irritant.

“Where’d you learn to make this?”

Dinah’s question causes Laurel to reemerge abruptly from the haze induced by that sinful moan.  “I found it in my dad’s recipe book,” she answers, hastily to avoid any intensive scrutiny of her embarrassing biological response.  “I mean, Quentin’s.  Not that my Quentin wasn’t…that he didn’t...err, that he wasn’t...”  A soft hand touches her to mercifully prevent any further verbal flailing.

Dinah’s gentle smile eases the mortification, but only just.  “It’s okay. I know how much he meant to you.  It’s not wrong of you to see him as your dad.  He was.  If any man ever loved his daughter, that’s the way Quentin loved you.”  

Tears prick at Laurel’s eyes unbidden and she clamps down on her lower lip to keep from whimpering like some pathetic little girl.  That age old cliché that time heals all wounds is nothing but a bunch of bullshit to Laurel when it’s yet to get any easier for her to hear how deeply this Earth’s Quentin Lance cared for her.  The gaping, oozing sore his entirely preventable death left behind is a constant reminder of her unforgivable failures as a daughter upon two worlds. When her mother died in an auto accident and took her Sara to the grave with her, Laurel selfishly and foolishly blamed it all upon her father, who was behind the wheel, even though it was not his fault.  A truck driver strung out on amphetamines to stay awake ran a light and plowed right into the passenger’s side.  There was nothing anybody could have done, but that didn’t stop Laurel from berating her father at every turn until their relationship was in tatters and he could barely stand to look at her for fear of what she might say.  When he was gunned down two weeks after her sixteenth birthday, six months after her Ollie died in the Gambit, she blamed him for that, too. Or at least she did until realization set in that all of the tragedies were ultimately her fault.  Her parents had been on their way to pick up her from a silly after school program for advanced readers when that accident occurred, Ollie went on that trip with his dad because she was putting too much pressure on him to move away with her for college, and her father was killed interrupting a robbery while out buying ice cream for her because she emerged from the dreary foxhole of depression to actually interact with him for the first time in weeks.  

Guilt over her role in those events ate her alive over the subsequent years.  Haunted in nightmares, she was stalked from the shadows of her mind every waking hour of the day until she was reduced to little more than a deviant drug addict living on the streets, willing to do anything for a fix so the voice inside her head that sounded suspiciously like her dad would stop blaming her for their family’s demise.  Becoming Black Siren cauterized that wound fairly well up til being Black Siren cost her the exceedingly precious second chance at deserving her father’s unconditional love.  That day in the hospital, hearing Sara’s plaintive cries, feeling the blood rushing in her ears, unable to curtail the tears rolling down her face, tore it right back open again, as it has remained ever since.  And the only person who has seemed to notice her silent suffering is Dinah Drake.  

Miracle of all miracles….

As if sensing Laurel’s internal distress over her terrible comportment and her reticence to continue down this line of discussion, Dinah again proves her aptitude with regard to Laurel’s emotional and mental state.  A pat of Laurel’s hand precedes returning her own to her mug, and she then adopts a more neutral posture and tone as she indulges in another healthy sip of the eggnog.  After a satisfied little sigh, she asks, “So, what brought you to the shelter?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Laurel says, tone a bit clipped.  

One day she will tell Dinah about the months she spent living at place just like the Carmine Kanigher Emergency Shelter.  If her wildest dreams come true, she��ll finally be safe enough in a relationship with a woman who can handle the harrowing tale of a broken nineteen year old sexual abuse victim and heroin junkie who escaped her personal hell when S.T.A.R. Labs explosion bathed her battered body in Dark Matter in the midst of an agonized banshee wail.  Beaten half to death, face a bloody mess, violated beyond reckoning, angry cigar-shaped burns seared into the small of her back and the back of her neck, in tattered clothes that hadn’t been washed in a month, she stumbled eight blocks in the dead of night until she spotted the little facility tucked in between a decrepit old apartment building and an anachronistic Catholic church that looked more like it belonged in Gotham than Central City.  

As she stumbled across the empty intersection, her heart started beating uncontrollably.  Two steps out a cold sensation corkscrewed up her spine and she stopped right in the middle of the street, paralyzed. Out of the blue she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head, could smell the stink of vodka on his breath, and feel a grimy hand clamping down on her hips whilst the other snatched great handfuls of her hair with all the tenderness of a rabid grizzly. Panic descended upon her like a runaway train.  Unable to think, reduced to pure adrenaline and fear, she used every last ounce of willpower to force her feet to move and raced as fast as her unsteady legs would take her toward sanctuary, heedless of the cars barreling down upon her from both lanes, horns screaming at the crazy unkempt lady on a suicide mission to figure out the chicken’s motives for journeying to the other side of the road.  Only instead of a triumphant arrival, her toe got hooked on the sidewalk, causing her to face plant within a stone’s throw from what would soon become her only safe haven in life, fracturing her cheek and reopening the jagged cut on her lip.  

Laurel can remember so vividly how she literally crawled those last five yards to the front door on her hands and knees, panting for breath and keening in manic desperation, can remember how her bare knees were shredded on the unforgiving concrete leaving behind erratic streaks of blood that took the staff four hours to scrub out the next day.  How she got up the stairs and through the front door is not so clear, but she does recall smelling fresh popcorn the second she staggered inside, a scent to this day she associates with safety. She also remembers being greeted by the unbearably kind face of a woman not much older than she is right now, and how that same woman nursed her through the night so patiently and with such gentle care that she wept in her arms until she passed out.

That is why she was at the shelter tonight.  To at long last pay it forward in honor of Emma Morrison and all of the other men and women who filtered through her shattered life during her brief stay at Central Covenant Emergency Shelter.  After all they did to piece her back together into some semblance of a human being, a herculean feat Laurel still doesn’t understand how they accomplished, the least she can do is help out around the holidays at a place that is doing the same thing for people just like she used to be.  People who have been chewed up and spat out by the world, whose loved ones have left them by choice or via the grave, who have nothing and no one to care for them during the one season per year everyone should have someone.  Even a wretch like her.      

One day she will tell Dinah all of this, because there hasn’t been any one else in her life since Emma that made her want to talk about her past, to air out her anguish, to vent her immeasurable pain.  Dinah makes her want to, though, and not just because Dinah has proven herself trustworthy but because Dinah had the audacity to get to know Laurel for no other reason than for Laurel’s sake.  Against all objective logic, Dinah chose Laurel, and continues to over and over again.  Nobody else has done that since her Ollie and her Daddy died. So there will come a day she will sit Dinah down and divulge the ugly truth behind her radically abrupt spurt of holiday volunteerism. But not today.  Especially not on Christmas.  Talking about those dark days would sully something precious that has been building between them tonight.  Something Laurel can already feel slipping away from her, which causes her to react with her typical knee-jerk abrasiveness.  

Lids narrowing in accusation, she pins Dinah down with a cold stare.  “You were the one who followed me there.  Worried I was about to dive head first into the evil end of the pool again?”  Still on the defensive, she squeezes the mug between her hands more tightly to rein in her flaring temper.  She hadn’t meant to jump down Dinah’s throat, it’s just lashing out is her default response to emotional upset.  Once she told Felicity empathy was a work in progress – well, it is one of many works in progress in her life, coping mechanisms included.  

To her credit, Dinah does not take the bait other than to calmly reply, “Of course not.”  A pointed look from Laurel, replete with an arched brow, inspires Dinah to amend herself with a shy shrug and cute shrug of her shoulders.  “Okay.  Maybe a little.  Mostly I was curious.  You pawned a very important case off on an A.D.A. at the last minute, so I thought I’d find out why.”

Laurel does not understand the reasoning.  At all.  “You have history with Martinez.  I thought you’d be fine working with him while I took some evenings for myself during the holidays.”

For the first time all night, Dinah becomes visibly upset.  Her nostrils flare, the muscles in her arms and shoulders tense, and her eyes narrow sharply.  “Well, you figured wrong.  We worked that case together for over two months, Laurel.  You should have seen it through instead bailing on me!”

Taken aback, Laurel returns her mug to the tray.  Of all the things for Dinah to get her panties in a wad about, it’s this?  As far as Laurel knows, Dinah and Martinez get along swimmingly.  They have worked several cases together since Laurel assumed her doppelganger’s duties as District Attorney and have only returned glowing praises about the other in both verbal and hard copy reports.  Hell, they’ve even gone out for casual drinks a time or two and had a swell time, which irritated Laurel more than it should have considering she only recently retrieved her attraction to Dinah from the realm of impossible dreams.  

Strangely enough, it was working on this case so closely that made her reconsider whether her assessment of Dinah’s sexuality was as reliable as she initially assumed.  Maybe that’s why she’s so perturbed.  Maybe she thought the same about me?  I mean, I wasn’t exactly waving my bi flag for all to see.  What if working this case together has opened her eyes the same way it has mine?  What if…

Going any further down that road without context is so dangerous Laurel veers a sharp turn on the nearest on-ramp leading to attaining what she needs with a sudden desperation that is as terrifying as it is exciting.

“Okay...what’s this really about?” she poses, daring Dinah to try and finagle herself out of giving an honest answer.

“I just told you...” Laurel waves off Dinah’s sad attempt at deflection as if batting away a pesky fly.  “Yeah, yeah.  You told me why you were curious as to my so-called pawning off of the Ace Chemical case.  I couldn’t help but notice, though, that you’re truly upset about it.  And not for the specified reason.  This has nothing to do with your investment in this case.  Or mine for that matter.”

“Is that so?”  

Dinah’s brows shoot up so sharply it feels as if they’re about to clash with her hairline.  How did this conversation turn on her so quickly? She’d meant to get Laurel to confess that she dropped the case because her work at the shelter during the holidays had become too important for her to abandon, that she has finally found a purpose for that heart she’s kept so safely guarded with a charming misanthropy she wields like a sword and shield to repel any who seek entry.  Only halfway through the sentence it turned into accusation as the abandonment Dinah felt – and yes, she knows that’s irrational; but Laurel makes her irrational, okay! – superseded that initial noble goal.  Deep down, she knows Laurel stepping away from the case only hurt her because it meant they wouldn’t be spending any more late nights in each other’s offices or in Laurel’s apartment working into the wee hours of the morning. There would be no more sipping on coffee and chatting about sports during short breaks, no more furtive glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking, no more of their shoulders and hips brushing together as they huddled over a report they’ve both read a dozen times looking for potential weaknesses or loopholes in the prosecution the defense might exploit, and no more excuses to touch Laurel because she’s right there and available and one hundred percent engaged in their hypnotizing dynamic.

Dinah was aggrieved because she wants more of all that, craves it like a drug, yearns for it like a forlorn lover whose partner has been out of reach for far too long.  She is afraid that without a legitimate professional excuse to continue this closeness they’ve developed it will wither on the vine and die before ever bearing fruit.  And that hurts her, makes her chest and throat physically constrict and her heart ache painfully to the point she feels tears of sheer despair well up from within her very soul.  If she cared to examine that phenomenon with any degree of conviction, she knows she would invariably uncover the root cause to be a four letter word that she simply cannot be the one to say first.  There is far too much on the line for that, and not just for her but for Laurel, who has probably been hurt more than Dinah has.  

And of course Laurel took the opportunity to, in a matter of heartbeats, dissect Dinah’s outburst and arrive at the same conclusion she has. Sometimes the woman’s perceptiveness is downright infuriating.

“From my point of view it is,” Laurel replies with complete confidence. All of the sudden, those spectacular green eyes lose all hints of vulnerability and instead resemble those of a hawk who has zeroed in on her prey.  That prey being Dinah.  Which sends a jolt of excitement through Dinah’s veins.

Refusing to back down an inch, Dinah harrumphs.  “Well, then, since you’re such an expert in the subject of my motives, why don’t you enlighten me as to what they were?”

Laurel shoots her a warning glance that is not so much threatening as out of concern.  Dinah doesn’t quite know what to make of it until Laurel responds, then she understands that the concern is for them both.  

“You sure you wanna go down this path?  ‘Cause there’s no going back once we do.”

Dinah has never been more sure of anything.  Four hours ago she would have taken the out being dangled so tempting in front of her.  But four hours ago she hadn’t seen Laurel disarmed of the sword that is her double-edged tongue and disrobed of the impenetrable armor that protects a soft underbelly Dinah would wager has been exposed for none asides from Quentin in a very long time.  Four hours ago she hadn’t seen Laurel glowing under the adulation of people who clearly care for her as much as she does them.  Four hours ago she hadn’t witnessed Laurel giving heartfelt hugs to homeless folks who weren’t the cleanest or the best smelling and engaging them with a mega-watt dimpled smile that actually reached her eyes as she wished them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and meant every last word.  Four hours ago she hadn’t held Laurel’s hand and realized it felt more right in hers than anyone’s ever has – and that includes Vince.  Four hours ago she was not ready to trust Laurel with her heart, because believe it or not she is not as strong as everyone makes her out to be.  

But that was four hours ago.  Now, things are different.  Much different. In such an astonishingly brief window of observation she has seen Laurel express attributes she knew were there along just waiting for the right moment to be unfurled and has at the same time been given a glimpse at a potential future that is so beautiful it takes her breath away.  All she needs is for Laurel to make the first move. And if that happens, Dinah is ready and willing to meet her halfway.

Until then, however, she has to maintain the pretense of ignorance, and not just for her sake.  Like a skittish dog who has been ritually abused only to be rescued by some compassionate soul, Laurel will need to feel like she is in control of the progression of their relationship or she might panic and bolt.  Some might see that as an obstacle they could not overcome, but Dinah is not one of those types.  Pride within intimacy has never been her problem.  Adaptability is her strength.  Take charge or be submissive, so long as she is being shown proper love and respect she can cut either direction depending on the mood.  With Vince she liked being a little domineering because he could take it.  He had this sixth sense for when she wanted to wear the pants and when she needed him to take the reins.  It seems that with Laurel, the sixth sense belongs to her.  Maybe time will bear out a different result, and if so she is eager to experience the journey, but if not she is just as happy to be for Laurel what Vince was for her.  Hell, it might even be the change of pace she didn’t even know she needed.

For now, though, she can just tell that she’s going to have to give a little bit more than she’s used to, bend a little more readily so that this new, fragile, incredibly thrilling development between them doesn’t break right out of the box.  

Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrows her eyes dubiously.  “Pssh. You act as if your theory is going to blow my damn mind or something.”

“Maybe it is,” Laurel says matter-of-factly, then softens almost imperceptibly.  “Maybe it’s already blown mine and I’m just trying to make sure you’re ready for the fallout.”

Internally, Dinah is squealing like a school girl whose crush is just about to make her dreams come true.  She has honestly not felt this way in so long she can’t remember the last time.  Externally she utilizes her many years of training, both from the military and the police academy, to maintain a neutral expression.

“Don’t go pulling punches on my account.  Not now.  One of the reasons I like spending time with you is because you give it to me straight. So if you have something to say, say it.”

Laurel nods, then does not hesitate to accommodate Dinah’s command. “Alright.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  Here she pauses briefly, inhales deeply, lets it out slowly, then squares her shoulders before launching into her speech.  “So...I think that me handing the case off to Martinez means our collaboration ended earlier than scheduled.  I think that hurt you, and way more than you could have predicted.  I will concede that you might not understand why that is, exactly.  Or if you do, you’re too scared to admit it.”

Getting hot.  Keep going.  Figuring Laurel might need a bit of encouragement to see this through all the way, Dinah decides to inject a bit of a challenge.  Laurel always responds well to those…

“I’m not afraid of anything.  Especially a loud-mouthed bean pole like you.”  

Laurel’s grin tells Dinah her tactic worked like a fucking charm.  She gets herself a well-deserved mental pat on the back as Laurel scoots closer rather than reeling away as most would.

“Getting defensive.  I hit a nerve, I see.  Don’t worry, you didn’t offend me with that cute little barb.  In fact, you just proved my point.”

“Which is?”  C’mon.  You’ve come this far.  Just a little further...

“That you like me.”

Score! 1-0 in favor of Drake.  I’m liking the direction this is going more and more by the second.

To really sell her being utterly dense of what is going on here and that Laurel is the one in charge, Dinah furrows her brow in confusion. “Come again…?”

A daring hand hovers over Dinah’s arm, then a long finger begins trailing down the underside of her forearm, which is still bared due to her having neglected to roll her sleeves back down.  The touch of tapered nail scores a line of fire into her flesh, leaving behind a trail of heat so intense Dinah would not be shocked to discover on the morning that the line has not faded.  The thought draws her eyes down to the tattoo of a flock of birds on the outside of Laurel’s right index finger.  The sight elicits an electric buzz low in Dinah’s belly.  

Unbidden, she imagines lying on her side upon a reclined chair, Laurel sitting next to her and holding her hand as a carefully selected artist etches the finishing touches into a custom design upon the skin high up on her left rib cage – the side closest to her heart -  that appears to be a laurel wreath bisected by a knight’s lance.  The image does things to Dinah that cannot account for.  Never before has she been stricken with the impulse to get such an intimately personal tattoo to join her Marine Corps insignia, as if she subconsciously is already harboring a desire to be branded as Laurel’s woman.  

Shit! Dinah shudders as the image dissolves, leaving her excited and frightened and a little turned on all at once.  Thankfully, her return to the present is timely, as she glances up just in time to receive Laurel’s languid response.

“You heard me.  You like me.  And not just because I keep it so real for you.”  Lifting her finger from Dinah’s arm, Laurel slides her hand down until her palm slides into place against Dinah’s.  Just like at the shelter, their fingers thread together as if designed to be mated.  The expression on Laurel’s face then turns decidedly emotional.  “You care about me.  For me.  Not just because I look like someone you used to love or am a useful ally because of my job, my kickass ninja skills, or my meta powers.  In spite of all the hurt between us, you see something in me worthwhile.”  She ducks her head, looks up at Dinah through her long lashes.  “I can tell because it’s the same way that I care for you.”

Dinah exhales sharply as if punched, just without all the consequential pain.  This is it.  It’s really happening.  All of the tension that has built up since their eyes met across the crowded cafeteria at the shelter has come to a percussive crescendo. On Christmas Eve of all days.  Is this my present?  Is this what I’ve waited all year for?  All my fucking life for?  And not even known it ‘til now?  Hell yes it is!  How she knows, she can’t say, nor would she at the risk of killing the magic.  Some things are better left assigned to the mysterious and fickle hands of fate.  And since said hands seem to be favoring her tonight, Dinah is more than happy to surrender this one without a fight.

“Laurel...are you saying what I think you are?” she asks after tipping up Laurel’s chin.

Knowing instinctively that this is the moment, the one that will define the rest of her life, Laurel braces herself and summons up every last ounce of her courage.  For too long she has pined secretly over Dinah, often times secretly even to herself.  There was ample reason, to be sure, but all of those seem to have been rendered moot by whatever Christmas magic is operating to give her the one thing she has wanted more than all else since an audacious, slightly self-righteous, lionhearted woman kept her from murdering a federal judge after she bared her heart on behalf of someone she will always love and was cruelly shot down.  

That day Dinah saved more than the life of one heartless judge, she saved Laurel’s too.  That was the singular event, the axial minute, the pivotal hour that made her believe she could actually make a go of this good guy shit the other Laurel draped around neck like a cloak of calling.  Quentin had started her down this path and his death had kept her upon it by a thread most days.  But if Dinah hadn’t gone out of her way when she didn’t have to and all but told Laurel she believed it was possible for her to be redeemed, none of this would be possible.  Before then, a backslide was inevitable.  

And so Laurel mentally buckles up and floors the gas pedal, if for no other reason than she owes Dinah the truth.  Come what may.  

“If you think I’m saying every time I’m close to you my heart starts racing like it’s going to jump out of my chest, then yes,” she says, investing her heart into her words as possible never before. She squeezes Dinah’s hand a bit harder, willing her to hear and understand that none of what she is hearing is bullshit, that every last syllable is being wrenched from the bottom of what’s left of her heart.  “If you think I’m saying I think about you constantly, then yes.  If you think I’m saying I’ve never met anyone like you who makes me feel all the crazy, amazing, scary things you make me feel, then yes.  If you think I’m saying I daydream about what it would feel like to hold you, kiss you, and wake up with you in my arms, then hell yes to that, too.  Truth is, I’ve felt this way for a while now.  I think it started that day outside the Courthouse when you stopped me from doing something incredibly stupid.  The way you looked at me…I couldn’t remember the last time anybody looked at me that way, and all I knew was I wanted more.  These past few months, I’ve done everything I can to insinuate myself into your life because for whatever twisted reason, I’m drawn to you, and I just can’t seem to help myself.”

For an unbearable few seconds, Dinah says nothing, just sits there staring at Laurel while clenching her hand so hard that Laurel starts to lose feeling in her fingers.  Dread rears its ugly head shortly thereafter.  

Oh, God.  Have I blown it?  Have I scared her away?  Did I read this all wrong?  I’m gonna lose her.  Fuck!  No, no, no...

“Wow. I, uh...wow.”  

When Dinah manages that breathless response, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in Laurel that the panic clawing at her chest and clogging her throat are an overreaction.  At this point, addled as her brain is, all she can think of is that she needs to backtrack as quickly as possible and salvage their friendship.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to...”

“No!” Dinah’s interruption is a mini explosion that startles Laurel so badly she jumps.  “Just...stop right there.  That was a lot to take in at once, but not in a bad way.”

The sensation of relief that washes over Laurel is nothing short of blissful.  All of that anxiety might have been for nothing after all. If so, that means Dinah does feel the same as her.  And if that is true, it means they might actually make a go of this.  There is so much on the line here, so much to lose, that the thought is almost terrifying.  Almost.  An overpowering urge to kiss those hypnotically plump lips of Dinah’s is overriding all other considerations.  

With her heart in her throat all of a sudden, Laurel runs her thumb along the back of Dinah’s hand and is pleased to see Dinah shiver in response.  “Really?”

“Really.” Dinah smiles crookedly.  “Turns out you’re a pretty smart cookie, Lance.  Your theory may be more of a fact.  Working with you on this case has been amazing.  You’ve been amazing.  And I know I shouldn’t, but I want to be close to you, Laurel.  Closer, even. So much closer.”  

That last bit is hardly more than a whisper, which Laurel hears clearly due to their heady proximity.  A frisson of pure joy runs down her body because that is the exact same thing she wants.  And not just metaphorically.  Right now she wants to be closer physically, too, which has some of her old spunk reappearing.

“How much closer, Dinah?” she asks, eyes hooded, nostrils flaring to indulge in the scent of coconut and jasmine that is uniquely Dinah. She inches forward, drawing their heads and upper torsos ever closer. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure there’s some mistletoe in the vicinity I could scrounge up if I need to.  You know, if you need an excuse to ask for a kiss.”

Dinah taps her index finger against her chin a couple times, feigning pretending to weight the need for such measures.  “Hmmm.” Then she shakes her head gently as her lips slide into an impish smile.  “Nah.  Direct is more my style.”

“A woman after my own heart.  Which, incidentally, is one of the many reasons I love you.”  Laurel gasps aloud the instant that very heavy phrase slides off her tongue.  She hadn’t meant to say it. “I...I‘m so sorry.  That just slipped out.”

But Dinah does not appear shocked or appalled or angry or anything negative really.  Instead, she is still smiling as she leans in, her head tilting a fraction as their noses nearly come into contact. They are so close now Laurel can smell Dinah’s breath, sweet with hints of gingerbread and eggnog, as she speaks.  “It’s okay.  No need to apologize.  I liked it.”

“You did?”

“Mmhmm. Say it again, please.”  An emphasis is added when Dinah nuzzles the tips of their noses together.

Laurel has never felt so warm and alive.  And there is no way in hell that she would refuse that request, even if she had a gun to her head. She can think no better way to die than professing her love for Dinah Drake.

“Dinah.” She pauses, breathes deep, then opens up her heart and lets all of the repressed affection for this incredible woman spill out in three little enormous words.  “I love you.”

Heart in her eyes, Dinah responds with every bit as much emotion.  “Laurel. I love you, too.”  She then nibbles her lip affectedly, head tilting a bit further.  “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, you may.  Any time you wish,” Laurel says, her heart thudding in her chest as though it has been replaced by a Pamplona bull.

Dinah does not waste any time.  Holding Laurel’s gaze, she leans in until their lips are ever-so-lightly together, lets Laurel adjust and brushes them together from side-to-side until Laurel loses containment upon a high-pitched mewl that tears free from her throat, making her sound like a kitten being teased too long with the milk it so desperately craves.  Lips curling into a smile, Dinah stops the teasing at last and seals their lips together.  It’s their very first kiss, and it feel is so indescribable, so incredibly wonderful that Laurel’s brain short circuits.  In that moment, she is reduced to pure sensation, from the tingling of her lips as Dinah gently sucks upon them to the fire coursing through her veins, burning away every last vestige of doubt, fear, and anxiety over whether or not they might be ruining something irreplaceably precious and over whether or not she will ever deserve however much love Dinah is willing to expend upon her.  None of that matters when with one kiss

When Dinah pulls away a few seconds later, she hums in appreciation of what has just happened.  And then her eyes begin dancing merrily. “Just for future reference, was that little Wesleyan promise you made my Christmas present?  Infinite kisses?”

Laurel chuckles at the reference she actually understands.  They don’t have The Princess Bride on Earth-2, which is a crime in and of itself, but thankfully Dinah was kind enough to introduce her to one of this world’s classic romantic comedies.  Which was the reason she used that phrase.  How Wesley felt about Buttercup is pretty much exactly how she feels about Dinah.  Hopelessly devoted.  Willing to do anything and everything for her.  Willing to kill for her, and if she must, die for her.  That said, now is not the time for such declarations.  

“I actually was going to give you a Colt CQBP,” she says, smirking because she knows how much of a gun nut Dinah is.  “But now I’m thinking I like your idea better.”

“Ooo! How did you know I wanted one of those?  God, that’s so tempting. I think I agree with you, though.  The kisses sound like a much better deal.”

Laurel reacts accordingly, hands going to her chest as if flattered. Because she is.  Dinah turning down a gun for her kisses is a pretty big statement.  Almost as big as Ollie rejecting a new, spiffier bow in favor of his wife’s smooches.  

“Oh, my.  I’ve got a sweet talker on my hands.  Are you gonna make me regret...”

With a growl, Dinah interrupts the spiel Laurel was about to launch into about giving Dinah a brand new avenue of attack with which to get her way.  

“Shut up, woman, and give me more of what I really want.”

“My God, you are so demanding.”  Laurel caps off the comment with dimpled grin.

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” says Dinah, who then without warning surges forward to claim Laurel’s lips in a searing kiss with none of the tentative nature of the first.

After some indeterminate amount of time exploring one another on the couch with eager lips and combative tongues and adventurous hands, they draw apart reluctantly, their lips breaking contact with a satisfying smack.  As she leans away from the sole source of her current inundation with unadulterated bliss, Laurel inadvertently glances up at the clock only to note that it is, in fact, five minutes past twelve.  Christmas Eve is officially over, which can only mean one thing.  

Reaching out with her left hand, she tenderly cups Dinah’s cheek.  “Merry Christmas, Dinah.”

Burrowing into the embrace, Dinah’s answering smile is one for the ages. “Merry Christmas, Laurel.”

Which it most certainly is.  In fact, it will turn out to be the most Merry Christmas Laurel has ever had.  Until next year, that is, when she wakes up with a gloriously naked and happily sated Dinah sleeping soundly sprawled atop her.  Or the next year, where she awakens to a very frisky Dinah kissing and licking up the length of her inner thigh and doesn’t stop until arrival at the Promised Land.  Or the year after that when they are engaged and spend an unbelievably awesome Christmas with Sara and Ava back in 18th century at the winter home of the legendary Carolus Rex of Sweden.  Or the year after that, the best yet, when her present is little stick with two pink lines.

Some might say Merry Christmas as a perfunctory salutation to friends and family, but not Laurel.  She means it every time she says it.  And how can she not?  Dinah makes every Christmas a merry one for her.

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

The Myspace-era bands keeping the internet's weirdest music genre alive

The internet can be a deeply unsettling place, especially when you stumble upon videos that you probably should've left alone. But, if you were like me in 2011, you sought out the weirdest of websites and the creepiest of pastas, then shared your intel with all your post-emo friends.

By 2016, I was surfing the internet for some quality spooky material during my college years when I stumbled across something called witch house.

SEE ALSO: Meet the man who makes music with vegetables

It was a musical genre most had pronounced dead — and yet was still surviving and thriving in the weirdest corners of the internet. Two major artists from the early days of witch house, known as White Ring and Ritualz, have been instrumental in helping keep the genre going.

"I really don't know if witch house was ever really alive honestly," Bryan Kurkimilis, one-third of White Ring admits. "It seems like it's always going to be in a perpetual adolescence when it came out 10 years ago, and it's kind of stuck there now."

Kurkimilis' White Ring started off back in 2006 as a duo featuring him and vocalist Kendra Malia. In 2011, the duo went on hiatus, and in 2016 Adina Viarengo joined the band to serve as the group's second vocalist. Now in 2018, with their debut album Gate of Grief finally complete, White Ring is back on track and very much determined to keep witch house relevant.

According to Vulture, witch house music was birthed during the late 2000s and early 2010s during the end of the Myspace era. But the genre's deep, dark electro-wave sound, and the occult imagery in its lyrics, fashion, and music videos have continued to draw fans in well past the genre's prime. 

Early witch house artists typically produced spooky tracks that sampled from '90s and '00s horror films and hip-hop records. They layered these samples with heavy bass riffs, lots of synth, and sometimes vocals. Visually and aesthetically, people in the community reflected this dark music by incorporating magic symbols, upside down crosses, and pentagrams into all black hip-hop clothing. 

Like many things created on the internet, witch house had a relatively short shelf life. The term itself appears to have come about in 2009. Travis Egedy (known as Pictureplane) used it in an interview to describe the music he and his friends were producing. 

"Mark our words, 2010 will be straight up witchy," Egedy wrote in Pitchfork. 

Travis Egedy in his warehouse/studio

Image: Denver Post via Getty Images

He wasn't wrong about 2010, but mainstream interest in witch house didn't last long. The genre tapered off in the early '10s when it was overshadowed by vaporwave, another internet-fueled genre of music.

"I think people are still looking and hoping for witch house bands that have gone away to find a way to come back," Adina Viarengo of White Ring said. "I feel like there's a really devoted base that wants more of this kind of stuff. There's a need for it right now."

The demand for this type of music is something that drives artists like JC Lobo of Ritualz to continue to producing tracks. He started his career on Myspace in late 2009 with just a computer, and to this day Lobo continues to make music that is influenced by this largely forgotten era of music. He released a Ritualz album titled Doom earlier this year.

"It's really different now because witch house isn't as visual anymore because everyone's been a part of the scene for a while," Lobo explained in a phone call. "But the music is different. It's definitely a lot more techno and ravey compared to its earlier hip-hop sound."

"I'm not really a part of the scene anymore," Lobo said. "But when I'm on tour, I play witch house songs and all of the kids from the community come out and listen along."

Lobo posing for the camera.

Image: Courtesy of JC Lobo / Taken by Francisco Mendez

"Witch house was innovative," Lobo said. "It was new and dark, which was really important because it had been a long time since that kind of music was appealing to a large audience."

What made witch house such a strange phenomenon was its purposeful obscurity. Witch house musicians hid. When I accidentally stumbled upon the genre after listening to a witch house remix of a Charli XCX song by BLVCK CEILING, I was happy to know there were a ton of artists and tracks out there — even if they were hiding their names behind band names made up of random symbols.

While BLVCK CEILING was my own personal introduction to the genre, other artists from the community have made their mark on the scene, some even as early as the Myspace era. A few notable artists from the community include GR†LLGR†LL (pronounced GrillGrill), oOoOO, and Salem.

Artist names featuring crosses and inscrutable symbols are typical. For someone outside of the scene, it's a challenge to find specific tracks or musicians. While Ritualz hid behind the logo "†‡†," White Ring had an all-white Myspace page that required the user to highlight the entire page to see text about new tracks and announcements.

"I always think of it as having a punk spirit where everything is always a 'fuck you,'" Kurkimilis said. "It's like I'm gonna release a song, but I'm gonna do it in this weird way."

Having an immortal punk spirit is obviously cool and all, but the people who helped cultivate it eventually moved onto other projects. While White Ring and Ritualz are the only major figures to release full albums in recent years, other notable artists in the community find interesting ways to stay relevant.

Image: Nigel Ryan / Courtesy of white ring

Take witch house rapper Gvcci Hvcci (pronounced Goo-chee Hoo-chee), who was a major figure back in 2011. As one of the very few prominent women producing witch house tracks, Gvcci amassed a cult following.

In 2012, a post on crvckhouse, a Tumblr page dedicated to promoting witch house artists, claimed that Gvcci Hvcci had passed away. Lobo, who was apparently the last person to collaborate with the rapper, was the first to speak about the news, and confirmed her "death."

"Shortly after our track came out, people kept asking me where she was," Lobo said. "I eventually just started to say 'she's dead' because I was friends with her producer who said she closed all of her accounts and was going to stop releasing tracks." 

Prior to her "death," Kurkimilis says he actually had a brief interaction with the mysterious figure in 2011 over the phone. Around this time, rumors began to circulate that the pictures Gvcci Hvcci had used to promote herself were fake. Her entire identity was in question. 

"I know for sure it's an actual girl," Kurkimilis claims. "She was not the girl in the photos, because a friend of hers showed me a real picture of her. I know she's a real person."

After seemingly catfishing everyone in the community, Gvcci Hvcci had made a name for herself. Her infamy would continue to grow after her supposed "death."

Just two short years later, to everyone's shock, Gvcci Hvcci released a track titled "Bullet in the Head." The witch house community went into a frenzy. The rapper, who was now revealed to be alive, took advantage of the cultural moment. As the lyrics go, Gvcci was officially "back from the dead."

Had Gvcci Hvcci really faked her own death for recognition? The answer is murky. Some community members aren't convinced that the Gvcci Hvcci who returned is the same artist from 2011. 

"I just never denied anything and I was playing along with the myth of Gvcci Hvcci," Lobo admitted. "The producer found a different girl, or unreleased tracks, I'm not sure which. I didn't really keep up with the story but it's funny how people are still speculating years later." 

These days Gvcci Hvcci is relatively silent. An unfinished track titled "ttryan" which was released in January of this year serves as her most recent published work on Soundcloud. When we approached her on Facebook for a statement, the anonymous rapper responded with: "Guess what? Chicken butt," and sent a link to her Go Fund Me page. 

Gvcci Hvcci continuing to troll in 2018

Image: Mashable / Xavier Piedra

On the page, Gvcci Hvcci is asking for $2,500 to help produce and release her work-in-progress track, "Issa night." In the past six months, Gvcci Hvcci has raised $130 from three people of her $2,500. As of September 2018, there have been no updates on production of the new song.

Song titles hiding behind symbols and artists with mysterious personas are what makes witch house unique — and what's kept the genre fresh. 

When musicians like Gvcci Hvcci fake their deaths, or when artists like White Ring return from a years-long hiatus, it helps revitalize the community. Like any dedicated fanbase, lovers of the niche genre get excited when they hear news about their favorite artists, good or bad.

Without witch house, we wouldn't have mainstream artists like Charli XCX, Chvrches, and Grimes, who've attributed parts of their style and sound to this genre of music.

"It’s hip-hop for goths," Charli said during an interview with Self-titled magazine in 2012. "I like the whole scene – the cult imagery, the upside down crosses. I love witch house."

Charli XCX during the early days of her career in 2013.

Image: Caitlin Mogridge / Getty Images

Despite its age, witch house still has a place within our culture. While the dark aesthetic and sound might not appeal to everyone, witch house continues to persist, especially on the internet. In fact, Lobo's a firm believer that witch house marks a major chapter in the history of internet culture and music.

"I think witch house has amazing value as being one of the first generations of music born from the internet," Lobo said. "Before then you didn't have any dark or ambient music, so it was a really good balance for internet music genres like chillwave and vaporwave that had mainstream appeal."

The sound itself has shifted a bit over the past ten years, and whether or not it's a positive change is up for debate. Shifting from its hip-hop-inspired sound, witch house has become more clubby and electronic than ever. Lobo attributes this change to the need for faster music that people can dance to.

"I wish it would go back a bit to the days of droning sounds and anonymous artists," Lobo said. "It seems like a lot of people are trying to make it about dancing, and I notice that's a big focus for producers. But the appeal at first was to listen to this weird and dark ambient noise."

But why should anyone listen to this music in 2018? "I think its good to have a balance in your life especially with music," Lobo explained. "Listening to different music will help you understand different people and communities, so it's important you give it a chance and try a bit of everything."

Image: Courtesy of Ritualz / Taken by Daniela Quant

Like any genre of music, witch house has cultivated a community of followers who are dedicated to their favorite artists. Specifically within the witch house Reddit community, the page stays somewhat active as new artists create and share new tracks, or when, for example, White Ring makes an unexpected return.

"Once a genre is created, it can never really go away," Viarengo said. "I know there are pockets of people all over the world who are into witch house that are going to continue experimenting with it."

Lobo agrees and believes that witch house's hip-hop and electronic roots will allow it to evolve alongside these genres.

"I don't think it will ever get stuck," Lobo said. "Hip-hop and electronic music has been changing over the past 30 years, and witch house's sound will continue to be influenced by those two styles of music. Audience-wise it might get stuck, but it can get bigger still, it just need some more time."

With White Ring and Ritualz at the recent forefront of the witch house movement, the community and genre are still in good hands. While I wait for more tracks to feed my goth fantasies, I'll be casting spells to Gate of Grief and Doom on repeat.

WATCH: We made that scene from 'The Shining' a lot less scary with bad foley

[electriccenturypl]

“A drug and alcohol addiction after MCR split only made his side project Electric Century harder to handle – then Way learned to close the door on a dark chapter.

All the best bands are a ragtag bunch: The Beatles, Oasis, Spice Girls. A collection of weird and wonderful characters, the magic of a timeless musical group comes from their collective identity, Avengers-style, and My Chemical Romance were no exception. The ringleaders of late 00s emo were fronted by iconic, hair dye-wielding singer Gerard Way – a camp, glam-gone-gothic figure who could switch from whispered confessions to blood-curdling howls in seconds. He came backed by guitarists Frank Iero and Ray Toro, punk rock's prince and fretboard nerd respectively. And then there was bassist Mikey Way.

Perpetually shadowy and often sporting emo-staple horn-rimmed glasses, Mikey was MCR's mysterious heartthrob; the quiet yin to his brother Gerard's mad hatter yang. He became something of an anti-hero for many of the band's followers, his quiet demeanour perfectly aping the fragile, teenage anxieties much of their fanbase were battling with. But there was a more troubling edge to Mikey's introspection, hidden behind the eyeliner and that perfectly swooped fringe.

Self-medicating with drugs and alcohol to treat paralysing stage fright and help compartmentalise MCR's anxiety-inducing agenda in the wake of The Black Parade's explosive success , he soon found solace in slinking ever further into the shadows. Mikey became drug-dependent quickly, saying in a Kerrang!interview ahead of MCR's 2011 Reading & Leeds headline slot that he saw intoxication as "a means to an end", cocktailing drugs to both help him to get up on stage, and come down in the aftermath. His sole source of constant light through it all was long-time friend, Sleep Station vocalist and New London Fire figurehead Dave Debiak. The voice notes they sent each other back and forth became a near-decade long exchange of musical ideas for Electric Century, a barely-existent side project Mikey could never find the time for.

Despite living on opposite coasts, Mikey and Dave remain thick as thieves. "We text about music, and life, all day long," Mikey says today, across a patchy transatlantic phone line. Now, he's a notably more chipper character than the one portrayed in his MCR days, peppering his stories with a lively giggle and an almost childlike enthusiasm. His relationship with Dave kick-started at a pre-MCR barbecue held by Dave's brother Marc (former owner of MCR's first record label, Eyeball), where the pair bonded immediately over a mutual love of new wave, post-punk and Britpop. Even now, they share memories of early Duran Duran and Missing Persons shows, and a joint childhood dream of "being Simon Le Bon". "It kinda went from there," Mikey smiles, "We became fast friends, I became a fan of his music, and I was like, 'Man, if I ever want to do a side-project one day, this is the dude I would do it with'."

Electric Century's debut album For The Night To Control is the result of that longstanding friendship. A full-hearted embrace of those early influences, it's a who's-who of late 80s references, sweeping through sultry pop and onto the grittier gloom of new wave. With that joint dream of being Simon Le Bon come to fruition, you can hear the pair's half a lifetime of shared experience throughout – every twist and turn feels like second nature, evidence of a semi-telepathic bond between the two friends.

Before all that could form, though, Mikey hit crisis point. The effects of spending several life-changing years in one of the world's biggest rock bands and the major label "machine" that comes with it began to manifest. Long-standing drug use and a relentless schedule came to a head with the dissolution of My Chemical Romance in 2013. Unable to find an off-switch when things went from 100 to nil, Mikey instead threw himself into his sidelined project without a moment's pause. Struggling with overdoses and failing relationships throughout MCR's latter years, Mikey nevertheless insisted he still had so much to say, but launching straight into Electric Century only exacerbated the problems he was trying to ignore. "I had done MCR for 12 years straight, so I was very much in the 'let's go' mode," he says now. "I didn't want to take a break, I wanted to go right into it." It was a self-destructive measure that led to "complete burnout", he's quick to share. "I was emotionally drained – I was barely human at that time."

It took Dave's intervention to finally drag Mikey out of the shadows. Calling him out to the US' East Coast in February 2014 on the pretence of a recording session, Dave instead spent the time during Mikey's flight phoning every local rehab facility to find one that'd take his friend in. "When he arrived, I just got him in the car and was like, 'Yeah, we're not recording. We're going to rehab'," Dave says. Mikey didn't put up a fight. "He's done so well," Dave continues, "because he definitely knew that he needed the help – it wasn't something that he was in denial of. He was in full agreement that shit needed to change."

And so on the day Electric Century were granted their first magazine cover byAlternative Press, Mikey covertly checked himself into a month-plus stint in rehab. In his stead, Electric Century released just one track, "I Lied", which itself reads like a confession of guilt: "Everything that's weak goes through the window / I gently fill my veins, watching all the doors close."

What followed was a steady road to recovery. All music took a backseat, and Mikey wasn't even sure he'd be able to write again, sober. "I was used to being a certain way when I wrote music," he tells me, of how drug use felt an intrinsic part of his creative process. "I was usually medicated on some level." With Mikey newly sober for the first time in decades, Electric Century sat dormant once more, their hastily-assembled, almost-there debut album For The Night To Control existing as little more than files on a laptop for seven months – a memoir of a dark period Mikey would rather forget. "There's something in me I could never trust ," warns "Until The Light Goes Out On Me", while closer "Live When We Die" practically begs for redemption: "Wrapped up in the comfort of your love / Don't come undone ."

"You can really tell, like, 'That guy's going through something'," Mikey says of the record's subject matter, with a laugh. Flippant though he may be about their first LP, there's no denying its power as a tool of healing. While Mikey worked on rebuilding his personal life, Dave returned to New London Fire. "The healing that needed to take place," Dave says, "the band had to be secondary to that. It's not on the top list of priorities, when you're dealing with getting well." That seems a common sense attitude now, perhaps, but a world away from the relentless, major label "machine" that Mikey says he was trapped in during his darkest moments.

One day, though, that electric feel came flooding back. Digging out For The Night To Control, Mikey found himself inspired once more by the music they'd created. Months spent watching Gerard Way's solo career and Frank Iero's various new projects from the crowd had lit the spark – "I got to watch my brother do his thing, and I got to watch Frank do his thing, and they're fuckin' legends. It was fuckin' awesome!" – and now, the time felt right. Linking up once more in upstate New York come late 2014, they finally finished a story that had started back at the turn of the millennium.

For The Night To Control is a world away from Mikey's past endeavours. Sprawling synths draw on those gloomy, new wave influences like never before, and the bark of My Chemical Romance has been replaced with a more glistening bite. It's a whole different side to the goth kid's coin – a full-stop on a dark chapter of his life. Mikey is quick to downplay any suggestion that he might regret those years at the top, though, and keen to emphasise the importance of MCR's golden years.

"What we had done was once in a lifetime, and I'm thankful for it. That's why I look back and I'm not frustrated – I'm like, 'Dude, what we did? That doesn't happen.' Any amount of time that it existed was fine by me. Just to be there, I was thankful, and just to be able to be part of that was a dream. If it lasted five years or 12 years, it's all icing on the cake to me."

These days, Mikey and Dave have swapped prescription drugs for pancakes at a local diner as the precursor to their writing sessions. Mikey's spark has returned, too, due in no small part to a baby daughter, born this past May. The pair enthuse about "two more albums' worth" of demos and recordings they're now sat on, and talk feverishly about their complex plans for an upcoming duo of debut live shows. There's an energy and excitement that couldn't feel further from the gaunt, bass-toting mope Mikey once was known as. "I feel like the glue is set amongst the pieces now," he says, the caricature of his dark days at last a distant memory. "I feel like a complete person."

Photo credit: Jason Debiak.

Follow Tom on Twitter.” - noisey

[takaraphoenix]

Book Adaptations Wishlist

Let’s start with my biggest fandom that is based on a book-series. Percy Jackson and the Olympians, by Rick Riordan.

I’m one of the... very few who likes the Percy Jackson movies. Most certainly not in the sense of them being adaptations of the books. Hah. Good one. No, I view them more as “motion picture fanfiction”. I mean, damn the pretty cast they got. I love Clarisse and Chris in particular. And I will forever be grateful to the first movie because without it, I would have never in a million years found the books simply because I’m not a big reader so the only way I ever learn about books is by watching an adaptation and deeming it to be my taste.

Now, things with PJatO were a little more complicated than that. Back before the movie hit theatres, I was checking out all the releases announced for the year and among them was this. The word “Thief” in the title caught my attention because I love a good con movie or show. I clicked it and back then the link only lead to the book and a section about it getting an adaptation, so that’s how I found out it was a book adaptation. Reading the synopsis of the book, I thought it sounded pretty cool. Next step was, of course, to check the character list. Because I love Greek mythology.

Main character a son of Poseidon. That’s cool. I love elementals, particularly those with water-powers. And there, not far down, was the name that got me hooked. Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. HOLY UNDERWORLD YES. Hades is my favorite male god. That his kid was listed as one of the main characters of the series - and NOT as a bad guy, because if modern adaptations taught me one thing, it’s that American authors love to paint everything in black and white and anything related to the underworld had to be the devil.

So Nico di Angelo was why I went to see the movie. Needless to say, Nico wasn’t in it because he only joins the series later on. But I did like the movie, Percy was cute, I was still curious to meet Nico, so when I found myself on a classtrip to Munich weeks later and was dragged from store to store and ended up in a bookstore where all six books (I do count The Demigod Files as part of the original series too) were on display at the time, I impulse-bought them.

I loved them. A lot. We’re not gonna talk about Heroes of Olympus here because that will take too many hours of my time. Let’s just say I don’t love them.

But yeah, the movies are not good adaptations of the books.

Then again, personally, I think that no movie can ever properly do a book justice. You can’t take a story that unfolds in like 500 pages of book and cram it into a two hour movie. You’re forced to cut sooo much out of it. It just doesn’t work.

That’s why I’m a huge fan of this new trend of adapting books as TV shows. It’s a very good way of covering more ground, taking things slow and giving the plot its due.

I’m desperately waiting for a good Percy Jackson adaptation. But I don’t want it to be live-action, to be honest. I mean, between Grover’s furry butt, Chiron’s horse-hide, the monsters and pegasi and demigodly powers, the show would need a huge special effects budget. And that’s just not gonna happen. So it’ll look cheap as fuck. Which would be an utter shame.

No.

I want a Percy Jackson cartoon show. I’d entrust DreamWorks with this. DreamWorks has done some amazing cartoon shows the last decade - Voltron, Dragons, Trollhunters. Particularly the cooperation with Netflix is working well for them. And with the team behind Avatar, like they’re doing with Voltron, I could REALLY envision a Percy Jackson cartoon. Imagine Percy water-bending like Katara or Korra, Nico looking like Keith in goth-clothes, I’d be dying to see that. Particularly considering that Avatar and Voltron use this beautiful 2D art style. I wouldn’t object to quality 3D like Trollhunters and Dragons, but I’d prefer 2D. I’m an old-fashioned gal like that.

To me, that would be the perfect way of adapting Percy Jackson.

Aaand I got a little lost in Percy Jackson. It happens. Oh well, I guess this is gonna be a long-ass entry then.

What I wanted to say was that I thoroughly approve of the TV show adaptation of books. I know I love Game of Thrones and Vampire Diaries and, of course as you may have noticed if you know me at all, Shadowhunters. All books I haven’t read (though I’m trying to read The Mortal Instruments. I’m just slow). I’ve just always been more of a TV-show kinda gal than a book-reader.

Now, if only they’d adapt the books that I actually love to read. That would be amazing. But somehow, I read stuff that doesn’t even get movies. Sure I read Percy Jackson and that got two failed movies, but we already covered that.

Because yes, I actually do read. Books that I haven’t met through their adaptations.

My all-time favorite book is Wicked, by Gregory Maguire.

I started reading it back in 2010 when I was doing an internship at our cozy local little bookstore - a very homey little place that was specialized on fantasy and sci-fi books. And Wicked was relatively fresh out back then and stood there in the special display and drew me in because of the green-skinned lady. I have a thing for green-skinned ladies, but that’s between me and Shego. So I started reading it during my breaks, when I had nothing else to do. Ten pages here, twenty pages there. By the time my internship ended, I was too hooked to forget about it so I bought it.

I saw its musical adaptation twice. Once in Stuttgart, the German version, and then when I was in London for the first time, the English version.

I love that musical as much as I loathe it.

The same as The Lightning Thief movie. And I mean it. Literally the same. You can view it as live-action fanfiction, but you can not with half-a-mind view it as an adaptation. It has as much to do with the book as The Lightning Thief movie had to do with The Lightning Thief book. That is to say, the characters shared the same names, but neither their behavior nor their physical appearance actually fit. And the plot, if you cook it down to a very basic one sentence summary - “Percy Jackson has to find the Lightning Thief” and “Elphaba Thropp rebels against the wizard” - fits, but do not ever dig for actual details, because those do not cover what happens in the book.

As a musical lover and someone who can view an adaptation as a separate thing from the source-material, I thoroughly love the musical. But as someone who loves that book to bits and pieces, I hate that the majority of people have only ever heard about the musical and are most likely not even aware of the book or haven’t bothered reading it and are now actually under the impression that all it is is a cheesy love-story. Which it is not. The romance is a foot-note in this long masterpiece that is basically a metaphor for the holocaust. And I will never be able to forgive the stupid fix-it shit of “Oh, Fiyero was turned into the scarecrow and they lived happily ever after”. No. They don’t. Or the fact that they turned my favorite character into a vindictive piece of crap.

(Okay, so maybe I am not as able to separate the two as I like to think, but cut me some slack they turned Elphaba’s trusted friend into a literal heartless tin-man who wants to slaughter her. What the fuck is that even.)

And I got lost again.

So, yes, I want a Wicked adaptation done right. A TV-show. After all, this is a book that literally covers her entire life, from birth to death. It tells a pretty long  story and I’d like to see it done right, instead of turned into a high school musical love drama, as the musical did. Not to mention I want to see the polyamorous relationship between Elphaba’s parents and Turtle Heart, maybe if we take more time for her childhood, we’d get more feels for the threesome too. Her two gay friends Crope and Tibbett. Her own “maybe not quite just friends” with Glinda. Her bisexual son who was entirely cut out of the musical. I mean, maybe we cut the girl out who married the Cowardly Lion, but uh they never had sex because she was a rape survivor who had no interest of ever having sex again - perhaps was even asexual, though it was never explicitely stated in the books - and only married him for safety reasons and all that did connect them was deep friendship?

I’d also like to mention my favorite book-series - while Wicked is my favorite book and its direct sequel Son of a Witch might be the only book I ever read within a literal day because I couldn’t put it down, the third and fourth books were a little on the... drawn out and exhausting side of things.

The Bartimaeus-series by Jonathan Stroud.

Bartimaeus is my favorite book-series, because it is - from start to finish - perfection. And Bartimaeus himself is a sassy little shit. We’d definitely need voice-over narration to not forget his sass. Can’t decide if I’d want it as a cartoon or as a live-action show though. But either way, I’d kiss the feet of the person who would fucking finally decide to adapt that book-series. I mean, seriously, among all the many, many shows and all the many, many adaptations these days, how has no oneever thought about giving this book any form of adaptation? It deserves it. It really does deserve a good adaptation.

And then there’s just one more. My favorite childhood books.

The Woodland Folk, by Tony Wolf.

I don’t think many people have ever even heard of this. It’s from an Italian author and as a child, I only owned two out of the twelve books that existed. But they were my most often read books. I knew them by heart, literally.

I later on, as a teen, bought the missing ten books on the internet and devoured them.

Those books are the reason I got hooked on fantasy, why I am obsessed with fairies and mermaids and witches. Tony Wolf’s illustrations in those books are the reason I always wanted to draw. They are beautiful and sweet and they would make for an amazing cartoon.

I know out of all of those books on this wish-list, this is the one that’s most far-out-there and will probably never happen, but I’d be ridiculously happy if it did.

[radramblog]

Nintendo Direct E3 Takes

Well we’re pretty much done with E3 at this point, and it looks like once again Nintendo is carrying the whole damn thing on their back.

This is obviously a bit biased, because I’m not really into the AAA gaming industry otherwise, and the only other potential announcement I cared about didn’t happen. You had one fucking job, Capcom. One job.

Anyway as I did last time this came around I’m giving some hot takes like every single other person on this godforsaken internet because innovation is dead and react culture is king. Shall we?

Smash DLC Fighter…10 or something idk

I mean, look. I was hoping for an indie representative. Kazuya isn’t really that. But on the other hand, Tekken rep is something I can still get behind. They’ve already got Street Fighter and Fatal Fury in there, might as well get Tekken. What’s next, Raiden from Mortal Kombat? Hell, might as well get some Rivals of Aether character in there, might as well, don’t even have to change much.

From what little we’ve seen of Kazuya’s kit, it looks like his gimmick is going to be…complicated input combos for special attacks. Hm. Well, it’ll probably be fine. People managed with Ryu, they’ll manage with Kazuya. I do appreciate that they gave this guy his demon form- I guess they had to make him jump somehow, huh?

 Life is Strange

I haven’t played the original Life is Strange, but I did watch a playthrough so I know how it goes. Don’t really know much about Before the Storm or 2, but I don’t think 2 is part of this collection anyway? Look I’m probably not going to buy this, but it’s probably good that it exists. The original was like, actual good rep, I think, so they’re probably not going to fuck this one up. New character is neat looking, good for them.

 A Bunch of games, I guess

Guardians of the Galaxy? Damn dude, did I ask?

Worms Rumble said it had 32-person multiplayer, which I was like well hang on how’s that going to work with turn-based Worms combat you’d be waiting for ever. Except it isn’t turn-based. And it looks like ass as a result. F.

Astria Ascending…I’m reading this name and I already forgot what this was. Sorry if you cared about it I suppose.

I know nothing of the Two Point…series, I guess? I keep on seeing Hospital pop up on either Steam or the eShop, and I’ve scrolled past it without thinking twice every single time. Not about to change that.

 Super Monkey Ball

I understand this series was a lot of fun for a lot of people, but it just looks miserable to me. With that said, I have seen some speedruns of these games that look incredible, so on that axis I’m happy this is getting made. Makes doing a marathon-length run of this a fair bit easier.

 Mario Party

Look I haven’t even gotten around to playing my (very fake) Mario Party 3 cart, you think I’m going to buy another 80 dollar game on top of that? Nah.

 Metroid

Yoooooooooooooo lets fucking gooooooooooooo

Okay so I’ve actually never beaten a Metroid game. Got some ways into Fusion and Super but didn’t complete either of them. But this looks super cool and good and I’m here for it. They mentioned that this was the first new 2D Metroid game in 19 years, which I guess means Fusion was the latest one.

…wait how many Metroid games are there even? Like, the original, Super, Fusion, the three Primes, and that one we don’t talk about…is that it? That feels a lot smaller than I thought it was, but I guess it adds up.

Just don’t cock it up, I guess. Metroid and Castlevania’s absence have left indie devs to fight for the Metroidvania name, and it’s about time the big boys got to come back around again.

 More bullshit

Just Dance 2022. Is this one also coming out on the Wii?

Some racing game that looks cheap as fuck, neato. Man I feel bad for the devs working on these absolute shovelware games, like I bet they’re either working hard or being worked to the bone. But this is what the result is. R.I.P.

It’s about 13 years too late for me to be caring about Dragon Ball. Especially since this is just a port. Next.

Mario Golf

I mean we saw this earlier this year. I don’t even know what was actually new in this presentation.

Bowsers outfit is fucking clean though. Once again proving himself the best Mario character.

 Monster Hunter

Fuck off Capcom. Y’all are leaving Mega Man in the fucking dust and he doesn’t deserve it.

I mean I guess ill get into it here, I mostly just wanted something, anything for the Mega Man Battle Network series. It’s their 20th anniversary, and we haven’t gotten shit so far. Literally just a MMBN collection for the switch, that’s all I want. They were even on the Wii U VC, you can just port those again, I don’t care fucking give it to me.

Anyway. Monhun? Ehhh they already showed this at their lacklustre presentation who cares.

 Warioware

Look I haven’t played this series before, it’s probably fun, but I’m not sure how they stretch microgame content out into a fully-priced game.

Also, the multiplayer looks kinda miserable? Like, in case Mario Party was a little too efficient for ruining friendships, now you can yell at one person specifically for fucking the both of you up, and vice versa. Wheeeeee.

 SMT5

Shoutouts to Squiggy, they’re super hype for this and I’m happy to see it. I personally again haven’t played this series, let alone Persona (though 4 is sitting untouched in my steam library, oops), but it looks pretty aight. I’m sure there’ll be a huge pile of demons to fuck up, or friend up, and some level of story that people will like (I have literally no idea what the plot of the series is), so. Atlus (?) has been at this for a long fucking time, they aren’t goofing this up.

 Danganronpa

Shirtless Rantaro Shirtless Rantaro  (shamelessly stolen from u/ AnaLissaMelculo on r/danganronpa)

I’m interested to see Talent Development Plan develop into it’s own fully fleshed out game. It was surprisingly good for a tacked-on minigame, and I hope that they’ll fully take advantage of its potential.

It also looks like the 4 games are releasing separately on Switch, but there is a physical collectors edition with all of them, and I mean, I can probably afford that, riiiiight?

R.I.P. Ultra Despair Girls fans, snubbed yet again. Ehhhh fuck it aside from the dialogue that game sucks ass so its fine.

 More stuff

Fatal Frame looks spooky, I guess. I dunno, I was talking to mates through half of this one so I basically missed it.

DOOM Eternal DLC, cool. I still haven’t finished the original.

Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater should be on the Switch, and now it is. Or, it will be, in a couple weeks. Good.

There’s something on this list of notes called Strange Brigade, and I have literally no idea what that is. Oops again.

Mario+Rabbids 2, now with a Rabbid Goth GF. I’m terrified to go on any fuckin NSFW platforms for the next couple weeks, because I’m sure everyone is drawing incredibly cursed hentai of that thing. Ubisoft sucks ass, fuck Ubisoft, don’t buy this.

 Advance Wars

This sure isn’t Fire Emblem. Actually when I was explaining to my mates why this was cool, I called it Fire Emblem but with tanks instead of waifus, except I forgot this game still has waifus. I know strategy nerds love this series, so for their sake I’m happy to see it remade. This just looks unbelievably cute.

 Zelda

Oh look, Hyrule Warriors 2 DLC, Zelda gets the motorbike now, cool who fucking cares we got more BOTW sequel footage

It does kinda bug me that people keep calling this BOTW 2, because there’s no way that’s what it’s going to be called. Zelda has never done numbered sequels. I mean, they’ve also very rarely done sequels at all, but there are a few- Phantom Hourglass is a sequel to Wind Waker iirc.

It is kinda funny that right after I was saying boo who cares to Skyward Sword remake (still mad this is one game and not a collection) that the new game clearly has SS-ass floating islands and such.

I was hoping we’d get to see Zelda do things this game. Apparently not, she’s stuck in a hole now. Or dead. A shame. But Link at least looks kickass, so.

Look, they could not say a single other thing until release and everyone would still buy this game. Breath of the Wild was an incredible enough game that so many things that vaguely resemble it get compared- Genshin Impact comes to mind. This is likely made by the same (or similar) team, in the same world, and it looks fucking incredible. We all know this is going to be a good game. My hot take isn’t going to change that.

 And that’s the tea, sis. All the shit that Ninty had in their corner of E3. It’s a pretty solid lineup! It looks like they are bringing their A-game. I was kind of surprised not to see any Pokemon stuff- while it usually gets its own direct these days, BDSP is really coming up soon and they kinda need to win back the crowd on that one.

Oh what am I saying, it’s fucking Nintendo, it’s too big to fail.

[ecotone99]

i need an explanation, the curiosity is killing me

I’m in 7th grade. (so ill let you take a guess at my age) i live in a small rural town in Georgia, I’m not going to mention the name of the town just for privacy issues. i go to a relatively small middle school where everybody knows each other, so whenever there is a new kid people usually will approach you and attempt to create a camaraderie. I don’t really talk much, and I’m one of the few kids who is excluded from a lot of the more social events that kids in my grade will hold. I was always into more alternative music (bands like tool and nine inch nails) but i never really had the balls to get into the style. Just because of how conservative the town is. and my fear that i might get bullied/judged. the farthest ill go is skinny jeans converse shoes, and maybe the occasional band shirt. I’m probably the only kid in this damn town who actually has good taste in music lol. everybody here listens to country or hip hop. Two music genres i despise. I have always been looking out for other kids who might be into the same stuff I’m into. but i can never find anyone who i could bond with music over. the closest I’ve ever come is with my best friend. but he’s more into the cure and PULP. you know, the 80s new wave gothic stuff. but i like some of it so we can sometimes talk about it without disagreeing too much. Now with all of this background information out of the way, i can tell you about the strange series of events that have been happening since the begenning of last semester. It was during bus call, and i was walking to my bus: when i saw what i assumed to be an 8th grader i have never seen before. He was really tall, like- taller than anybody i have ever seen at this school! had long black straightened hair. The ends were dyed green, and he had on what looked like one of those REALLY expensive, slim fit, form fitting leather jackets. He also had on extremely skinny denim jeans that were black just like his leather jacket and his doc martens. (doc martens were a pair of boots i had been begging my parents to get me for a while. but they’re so expensive that no matter how many A’s i make they still won’t budge.)He also had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He was walking incredibly fast. like abnormal fast. Thinking back now it was probably because of how tall he was. his long legs enabeling him to take long strides. he was looking straight forward and was somehow managing to walk through the large crowd of kids with ease. but the way he walked. i already mentioned that he was walking fast. but it wasn’t like he was afraid he was gonna miss his bus. it was more like he didn’t want to be seen by anybody. and he was doing a damn good job at it too. nobody seemed to notice him, which is strange considering how if there was somebody at my school who stood out as much as he did. and if they were NEW, kids would have been pointing and staring and even calling him names. but strangely enough, nobody seemed to be doing that. i didn’t want to miss my chance to interact with this kid who i honestly though looked super dope. so i impulsively exclaimed “I LIKE YOUR JACKET DUDE!” But i guess he didn’t hear me because he just sped right by me while putting his earbuds in. i contemplated dashing after him just to try and create conversation. maybe get a social media. but then i would really be risking missing my bus. So i didn’t bother to pursue him. that next day during school, i looked everywhere to see if i could find him again. but during lunch (which my class shares with a couple of 8th grade classes) and during class change, i didn’t see him once. then during bus call i didn’t see him either. i asked a couple of 8 graders that rode my bus who i talked to sometimes, if they had seen the new goth kid. none of them knew who i was talking about. Which was incredibly odd. considering what i said earlier about everyone knowing everyone. and you would think that a kid who stood out as much as “mystery goth kid” would draw intense attention to himself. Then about a week and a half go by, i see him again. During bus call. walking super fast to get to his bus. i was in a different testing class for 7th period, so i was out in the bus lanes hella early because the class was right next to the doors that lead outside. and there he was: dressed EXACTLY the same as last time. Then i realized why i had been missing him. He would always get out to the bus lanes super early. and speed walk to his bus. Why he did it doesn’t make sense to me. it was like he didn’t want to be seen by anybody. This only further peaked my interest. A few days later, after not seeing him. i saw him for the first time in the school building. it was 7th period and our class was coming back from a presentation in the cafeteria. we walked by the library. i looked over through the large windows. and there he was, sitting there by himself: on a laptop. i assumed it was his laptop because our school only had stationary computers. What was also odd was that 8th grades 7th period was in the connections hallway. and there were no connections classes in the library. so what the hell was he doing there? I decided i would investigate. so when we got back to our class i told my teacher i had to go pickup a textbook from the library. she gave me permission but told me to take my backpack with me, considering that the bell was about to ring. But by the time i got to the library he was gone. I honestly don’t understand where he could have went. maybe back to his connections class? idk. but when i went over to the couch where he was sitting (yes we had couches in our library.) i looked around, and in the cracks in between the coushins, there was a flash drive. i looked around to make sure nobody would see me TOTALLY steal (what i assumed to be) his flash drive. but it was the end of the day, so there was nobody in the library except for me and the librarian. who was distracted by something on her computer. I snatched up the flash drive and took a good look at it. it was one of those “geek squad” brand drives. I inspected it some more. Now i don’t know a whole lot about technology, but i do know that 512GB is probably a lot…

The bell rang and i dashed to my bus. anticipating going home so i could see what was on the flash drive. By the time i got home, i had already locked myself in my room (just in case there was anything sketchy or inappropriate on the flash drive, my parents wouldn’t see it. lol) What was on it both confused me, and intrigued me. There was an MP3 file, titled “I Get Along Without You Very Well” i played it. it sounded really old. like 1940s slow jazz old. It was mostly piano with a man with such a nice voice singing. (i later looked up the song and found it to be written by Chet Baker” After listening to the first 20 seconds of the song i opened up the folder that was beneath the mp3 file. the folder was titled “SPILL INTO YOUR BODY” and the only thing in it was another mp3 file titled “brokenfingernail.mp3” i played it. it was a very short audio clip of somebody saying (and i quote) “This is whats known as a disaster bag, this is used by the coroners office to pick up victims of the…accidents…of the…freeway.” i Couldn’t tell if the audio was from a movie or something. but it also sounded INCREDIBLY old. like maybe it was also from the 1940s. Why mystery goth kid had a flash drive with a shit tone of storage on it, and only 2 files…i have no idea. But its summer now and schools out. I haven’t seen him since that day at the library. if anyone has any explanation to this this disappearing goth kid, his flash drive, or its contents: Please explain.

submitted by /u/AENIMA666 [link] [comments] source https://www.reddit.com/r/shortscarystories/comments/c6nixx/i_need_an_explanation_the_curiosity_is_killing_me/ via Blogger https://ift.tt/2XaiaAy

[angstylittlecatboy]

memories of my sprite comic nobody read

I'm not sure if I believe in the whole angel numbers thing anymore but I think they want me to reintroduce my sprite comic (saw 111 while thinking about it.) I just feel like talking about it, idk. I know nobody cares.

Barring a few standout strips I don't think Purrnout the Edgy Cat (covering my bases here, but the comic predates me meeting FP by two years, “edgy” refers to how stuff like Linkin Park and Shadow the Hedgehog is referred to as edgy) was a good comic, most of it's gags fall flat, the backgrounds and walking sprites were mostly ugly (if my more detail-oriented brother was downstairs he'd insist I do better,) and I could never get a story arc off the ground, but I only made it to kill the bore (in the description it said "updates whenever boredom strikes") and I had fun making it.

The idea was to be a sprite comic (believe me, I’d draw the comic if I were any good at drawing, but I learned my lesson from having DeviantArt) that was something of an affectionate parody of early 2000s sprite comics while avoiding a lot of the common complaints about them, also throwing in some punk/goth/emo culture. Specifically, all of it's characters were original, only one was a recolor (and his name was Recolor the Hedgehog, he was the deuteragonist and straight man, I planned to make him the only character who can't do cool superpower stuff for irony,) I didn't use backgrounds from Google Images, it didn't directly take place in the universe of something else (my idea was that it took place in a nonsense universe where every work of fiction is somehow canon, though I wanted to be pretty strict about seeing concepts and objects but never characters from other works, but other than showing Recolor losing rings, nothing ever came of it,) I tried not to mainly use reference or shock humor, and I tried to use a consistent sprite style for the characters and backgrounds (I confess to ripping effects.) I don't think it ever achieved parody of 00s sprite comics, I wanted to eventually make some stuff like DBZ-style sprite battles and teen melodrama, but I ended up making a gag-a-day strip mostly utilizing cringe comedy. At least, all the good or least bad strips are cringe comedy. I tried teen melodrama but it was mostly big lipped aligator moments that went nowhere, especially both aborted story arcs (though the latter was going to be less teen melodrama and more band melodrama.) If I reupload the comic, the arc comics won’t be reuploaded with the rest as I consider them non-canon since neither got past two strips and the first attempt would have honestly ruined the comic if it finished. I guess there were two continuous strips where Purrnout commited tax fraud (I think this predated the Yoshi meme) but I don’t see that as a story arc. Actually the first three comics were sorta a story arc but they mostly just introduced the main two, explained why Purrnout is living in an apartment (I think I needed to explain this as I intended it as a Chekrov’s Gun for a later story arc,) and made some obscure Green Day references. Maybe the arc comics could get re-added at a different place on the timeline if I felt like completing the arcs. A huge problem is that I didn’t make an outline for them tbh.

The style I settled on for the backgrounds and sprites was that of the Neo Geo Pocket Color. The panels were in either that system’s resolution or one close to it (they were tiny.) I ignored palette limitations, but so did most sprite comics.

I must admit that the title character is a self-insert fantasy to some extent, he was admittedly, like 16-year-old me but cooler. Well, not really cooler since the comic revolves around him being a loser, but he was an emancipated minor and a good punk/alt rock guitarist, both tying into my fantasies at the time, and he was a lonely emo teenager trying to not be mainstream. If I brought the comic back, I’d continue to write Purrnout as 16YO me and not as 18YO me. I’m still a loser, but my spiritual beliefs, dedication to kindness, and inconsistent attitudes towards life WOULD NOT mesh with the character. Purrnout cannot have reverence to things that control the world or talk about peace and love, he needs to be angry at the world and be a bit of a deliberately insensitive asshole to the people he doesn’t like. Sort of a much less extreme version of an incel (I identified as such at the time.) Wouldn’t call him a Mary Sue, though it’s not really my call to make since I’m the author and this is the only creative work of mine that can kinda be considered “completed” that I’m still fond of in a way. Maybe I’ll cringe someday, but not today.

There’s not much to say about Recolor the Hedgehog, he’s very much a pretty normal guy other than having nerdy interests and Purrnout as a best friend. He more or less exists to be a straight man. He was a composite of my brother and an ex-friend.

I might as well mention the comic’s other non-antagonist character since I’ve already talked about both Purrnout and Recolor. Love the Golden Retriever, a rich, smart, pretty normie girl with a Pollyanna viewpoint, a wish to heal people like Purrnout, and a crush on Recolor. She was based on a variety of girls who tried to become my friend out of pity and were nice enough but we didn’t connect. Purrnout finds her annoying, while she considers Purrnout a friend. I also introduced another one, but she was part of the first aborted attempt at an arc. 

A third main character was planned as well, but she was supposed to be introduced in a story arc that I planned but never even tried to start. She wouldn’t make it into the comic if I start it up again, at least not without heavy modification, as I eventually met someone who was very similar to the character I had in mind. So similar that adding them now would look creepy.

The comic’s most common antagonist was a cat named Muffin. He was basically Chad Thundercock, probably the most shallow character in a comic that wasn’t long enough to get deep. I also introduced another character intended as an antagonist in an admittedly-hamfisted way named Felicity the Once-Golden Retriever, Love’s best friend who used to be a highly optimistic normie with a promising modelling career before Muffin cheated on her, and then became an angsty anti-society rebel who thinks cutting her hair and dying her fur darker makes her ugly. She hated Purrnout because she felt that Purrnout hadn’t suffered like she had and is moping for no reason, which annoys her. I think I was trying to do a straw feminist character minus the actual feminism, but don’t quote me on that. I had a third antagonist that I wanted to introduce, my favorite antagonist made for the comic actually, and he already cameoed, but I never ended up writing him. Maybe if I had my PC through Summer/Fall 2018 I would’ve made more (the last one was Spring 2018.)

But anyway, it doesn’t really matter. My brother was the only person who really read Purrnout, but I do remember him getting a chuckle out of it. I posted it on Tumblr (now deleted) and I got one follower, who was likely a bot. I never posted a link to it on my main Tumblr, partially because I wanted to see it gain an organic audience first (it didn’t lol) and partially because I was scared of it being seen as cringe. You may have come across it if you browsed the “sprite comic” tag on here. I know Tumblr is a bad place to host webcomics (at least if it’s the only place you’re hosting the webcomic) but it’s free, I was familiar with it, and I wasn’t making any plans to profit off of or take the comic seriously (it ran Summer 2016 - Spring 2018 and only had twenty strips.)

I’m still hesitant to bring back the comic because I honestly want to use the universe (most of it, obviously modifications would need to be made) for a video game idea I have, though that would be 10+ years in the future if I ever have credibility as a game developer since I couldn’t see myself doing that one without a team (”3D hack n’ slash platformer” is a lot harder than “2D JRPG.”) Hell, I originally made the sprite for a Zelda II clone I wanted to make with Purrnout using side mounted guns (because Shadow the Edgehog,) but for some reason, be it laziness (not wanting to re-learn Game Maker) or wanting to use the character for something more character driven, I ended up making a sprite comic instead. Another route I could do is redesigning and renaming Recolor, and removing all sprites ripped from other games, but I’m extremely hesitant to mess with Recolor’s design since his worried face is a running gag and if I did continue I’d still want to eventually make jokes that don’t work without him being a Sonic recolor.

Also, it wasn’t a furry webcomic, at least not entirely. “pet sized” (cats, dogs, wolves, foxes, etc.) characters would stand on fours while characters of much smaller or much larger stature (cows, hedgehogs,) than that would be anthropomorphic.

[we-are-threadmage]

I've seen you post some really awesome stuff for a long while now, and maybe you can help me out. I have a friend who is a plus sized lady who needs 4x and 5x clothes. She loves dresses, nerdy stuff, and the hipster/ punk/ rockabilly style of clothes. She used to shop at Torrid and Hot Topic but she no longer fits their sizes. Do you know of, or can you find with your thready magical powers, a site or 9 where she can get her clothes? I hate seeing her so down because her wardrobe is ill fitting.

First, thanks so much for being such a good friend and proactively trying to help: finding out that someone went and did research or sought expertise on an issue you’re burdened with gives a warm feeling I can hardly explain (speaking as a disabled chronically ill person).

Second, I’m absolutely not an expert partly because I have the luxury of not having to deal with this- I may have trouble getting to the store and shopping without making myself ill but I can just walk into any store I want and find something that vaguely caters to my body size.

I therefore tried to reach out to my friends who do struggle to find clothes more than I do as well as doing research (of course I’m going to try and help!) but I just want that context clear.

I’ve accumulated linked suggestions, related posts, and general tips and they’re all also tagged “Plus size ask”.

Your friend is facing a mountain of unfair issues; to a great extent she has no choice but to spend more time looking, more money, more time failing, more money, and also in other ways more money, just to clothe her body at all let alone do so how she wants (to say nothing of how little choice she has in doing so given that if she doesn’t the nastiness increases exponentially).

Depending on how she feels, it may help her to know that her body size is just like my disability: we have essentially no control over it and it’s not wrong - it’s the context of our society refusing to acknowledge, respect and integrate us that makes it a problem.

And/or she’s like, yeah, no, I know and all but I need to not be naked so like get to the useful stuff, lady!

Most of the go-to plus size options me friends mentioned are the ones she’s sized out of; she’s running into the next ‘subdivision’ of access in that it’s a bit better than it used to be for people up to 2 or 3x but anything past that is almost invisible. The farther you go to the edge of any demographic bell curve the harder it is.

My very tall and large friendo did mention that she mostly found clothing by happening to befriend her cadre of trans ladies as they had similar issues to her when it came to clothing options; your friend may also find a significant overlap with the queer community that may or may not help them.

Places I personally checked:

Modcloth- up to 4x-specific plus size section, decent range of styles and types of clothing, inherently more expensive ranging from moderate to very much money, often have detailed reviews which helps one find good investment pieces or fit, personally I’ve had good luck with the support staff for advice, only to 4x not higher that I could see

Fat Owl Fashion- variably to 4x- very new queer, disabled company, selection therefore limited but they are also committed to each new piece being available to anyone and everyone, I suspect they will be very responsive to customers (especially loyal ones) so it’s one to support/watch

Rainbow Shops- variably up to 4x- specific plus size section with intensive filtering options, significantly cheaper (both in price and apparent construction quality), wide style range, wide clothing type range, struck me as a ‘fast fashion’ style store in that things likely change frequently and may sell out quickly although there is always a clearance section

Fat Girl Flow.com- variably up to 5, 6x- entirely geared towards the plus size shopper but with new and therefore limited stock (likely to expand), more than anything this is a blog and a resource goldmine for other resources by someone with actual expertise and worth trawling and following for tips, reviews, special interest articles like budget or swimwear, etc.

Killstar- up to 4x- specific (newish?) plus size section, very much a goth site so certain pieces might help her inject a nice edge or it’s a wash for her depending on her style, only up to 4x not higher that I could see

Chubby Cartwheels- up to 5x- entirely geared towards the plus size shopper, an independent designer out of her home so pros include unique/interesting style and customer attention ( ie “Custom sizing on skater dresses and bodysuits are free, so please don't hesitate to ask!”) cons being limited options/ runs at any given time, medium price point

NerdyKeppie on Etsy- up to 5x- nerdy, queer, disabled independent designer (and cool person if you wanna follow on tumblr at vaspider, Em’s gotten a number of things from them, some custom), dedicated to high quality, durable, ethical, and affordable to the community (a tall combined task, ye?), this means nothing is cheap ($) but also nothing is... cheap(shoddy), it’s also worth noting that they are happy to do custom orders (no extra charge) they just can’t spend the money on permanent listings so you just have to ask (I’m guessing if you require actual extra hours to draw a new image you would accordingly pay for that work but not to just put an existing image on a different shirt style, etc)

On the topic of etsy artisans I suspect there’s lots of others somewhere in there- finding them being the rub. I think it could be time well spent in that she might well find a small handful of designers who really speak to her and are worth being loyal to. If she has to spend more money, it may as well come with better customer service, unique designs, some assurance of quality, and supporting an artist. I think over time a sort of ‘stable’ of independent people she checks on will yield better investment pieces and, eventually, a piece of mind and return of the delight of shopping.

Similarly, I think her best bet is seeking the expertise of people who live this more than me- even if they can shop up to 3x, say, they will still be more likely to know the 5x options out there as well as have strategies on stretching a budget and wardrobe, etc. I recommend she check out plus size beauty/fashion vloggers as listed on this post (Nabela Noor is another). Again I’ve not gone through their work but only she can know what speaks to her (and might find it affirming and fun?)

I found one compilation list post here; I’d recommend either pre-screening for her or being prepared for a high fail rate simply because much of it doesn’t match what I saw and she’s experienced. My guess is it’s old (only a year but) and plus size availability is as inconsistent and ephemeral as gluten free stocks- you pray, dance, and sacrifice a goat plushie each time you go.

I think she’ll go the least crazy if she accumulates a bookmark folder of experts, blogs (like fff.com above), and artists that she can therefore peruse periodically and regularly. That way she has the breathing room to really pick and choose investment pieces, snap up great limited runs or deals, and generally minimize constantly being stuck with mediocre/good enough/ sale-bin-for-a-reason options while glaring at ‘sold out’ stickers mournfully. There’s just so many things limiting availability so I think the regular browse rather than only going ‘as needed’ will serve her better (the way things work at thrift stores or TJmaxx -type places for instance).

My last and either best or worst suggestion depending on her life is that she consider learning to sew. Many of the designers listed started out where she is and just threw up their hands and started making what they couldn’t find. There’s obviously the issue that it will pay off only after the time and money of learning and one-time equipment but with a decent sewing machine you can actually go quite far with a small handful of easy techniques. It only gets crazy when you’re into engineering complicated things like formal gowns, but once you have a couple patterns you like for basics you can make them over and over with endless fabrics or tweaks (one pattern may contain a few neckline and sleeve options for a dress, say, which you can also chop into two so it’s really multipurpose). These days there’s a vibrant maker community online and in person so you can teach yourself almost anything. 

It may be an expensive hassle she doesn’t want to deal with (and while you can get great budget fabric oh boy can you get in trouble :wiggles fingers in imaginary heavy plush weights:). But it might be something empowering that she can do and learn and take control of, so it was worth mentioning.

{Oh my gods I just looked up and saw how long this is, cool cool cool. One final note Chubby Cartwheels happened to incidentally come on my dash while I worked on this, so you will find that post in this ask tag too.}

Thanks again, and best of luck to your friend and her most excellent body in an un-excellent world!