#The background I wish I had done more with but I was drawing a blank on ideas so... the outside of Mary's house it is

[socially-awkward-chocobo]

Happy Kagepro Day!!!

[writing--whore]

Holding Out for a Hero

Pairing: Tangerine x (mafia daughter) Reader

Summary: After your bodyguard dies, Tangerine is assigned to protect you. He's not too happy about it and neither are you. But you get date raped while at a club and Tangerine comes to your rescue.

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Canon typical violence, date rape, sexual assault, the aftermath of that

Contains: Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slight blood kink??, fighting kink??

“My job is to kill people, yeah? I’m not a fucking babysitter. Find someone else.”

Tangerine’s voice filtered up towards the balcony that overlooked the foyer. The ridiculously large angel statue kept you hidden as you crouched down to eavesdrop on that strange Englishman and your father. 

Brogues squeaked furiously on the marble floor and you peaked around the statue to see Tangerine pacing. Your father, Louie, wore a blank, serene expression as he watched Tangerine, hands clasped behind his back. It was never possible to tell what your father was feeling. 

“Al is dead.” Louie stated.

The pacing halted. 

“Yeah… I heard. I’m sorry. He seemed like a great guy.” The last sentiment seemed forced. 

Even you wouldn’t have labelled Al as a ‘great’ guy. Al had been decent. In all his years of service to you, you’d never grown attached to him. There was nothing to become attached to, his personality had been blander than plain porridge. 

Louie spoke, “It will only be temporary. While I find a more suitable replacement, you are the only person I trust to protect my daughter.”

Tangerine’s mouth opened to protest. He wanted to say that his skills lied in impossible missions, in executing too many people to count when the stakes were piled against him. He was not a bodyguard. But as he looked into Louie’s eyes - usually a dark, impenetrable slate - he spied a faint glimmer of vulnerability, a crack in his stone. That man had a weak spot. You were his whole reason for living. And Tangerine knew he would have to protect it.

“Oh for bollocks sake, fine.” Tangerine accepted the job.

~~~

You couldn’t say you were much more excited about the prospect than he was. Al faded into the background and most of the time, you forgot he was even there. You’d grown comfortable with that, with knowing what to expect. But you didn’t know anything about Tangerine, you’d never even spoken to him before. All you knew about him was his loudmouth that sent foul exclamations echoing around your house. You were very sceptical of his ability to fade into the background as well as Al had. 

Today more than ever, you hoped he wouldn’t be a problem. You’d been planning on going shopping for a dress as you’d been invited to go clubbing with your friends later. You’d been looking forward to it for a while and hoped that Tangerine wouldn’t mess this up for you. 

The man in question was waiting for you outside your door, arms folded across his chest in visible distaste. 

He spoke no words as he fell into step besides you, following you down the staircase to the entrance way. On instinct, you waited for your bodyguard to open the door for you, as Al had always done.

Tangerine looked between you and the ornate double doors, his brows drawing down in incredulity. He pulled open the heavy door for himself and walked through, allowing it close behind himself. A draft shot through, ruffling up your hair, and you let loose an agitated groan.

You shoved the door open and kept your shoulders straight as you strode over to the car. 

“Good day, madam.” Your chauffeur, Rodger, greeted you.

“I wish I could say that it was.” You retorted as you and Tangerine climbed into the car.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love.” Tangerine commented, strapping his seatbelt in.

“Look I’m just as unhappy about the situation as you are, and-”

“Oh I’m not sure about that.”

“And there’s no need to be a dick.” 

You stared pointedly at him as the car rumbled to life. 

Tangerine shifted in his seat to face you. He was about to make a retort but you spoke before he could.

“I’m aware that you would much rather be out there busting kneecaps or making a knife disappear into someone’s chest, or…” An image of Tangerine forced its way into your mind. You pictured him looming over a pile of dead bodies, blood splattered across his entirety. “Or… whatever else it is that you do.” You swallowed thickly, “But it seems like we’re stuck together for now, so we might as well try to be civil.”

“Me? I’m perfectly civil. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes and found your arms crossing over your chest - a mirror of his own. 

Well having him around was certainly going to be fun… 

He said nothing further and the silence allowed a chance for your shoulders to unwind. Towering buildings flowed past the window and into the centre of your attention. In front of the tall windows, people strolled by, carrying coffees, or walking their dogs - providing you with a welcome distraction (which lasted you the sum of a few short minutes). 

For as much as you hadn’t cared for Al, it was difficult to not think about his death. A heart attack, supposedly. But from the way Louie had hardly let you out of his sight recently, and the way the housekeeper, who had found Al’s body, seemed to stutter every time she spoke, you questioned whether that was true. 

Your hairs stood on end when you realised your father’s choice in hiring a psychopath might have been deliberate. Had someone killed Al? And was that killer now after you?

The mechanical drone of the car window switch drew you away from your thoughts. Cool air wafted through the window, dancing across your skin and sifting through your hair. An earthy smell, like cinnamon and citrus, carried on the breeze. You took a deep breath to inhale more of that smell, it brought you comfort like the warmth of sunlight reaching through the gaps in between tree branches. You stopped breathing entirely once you realised it was Tangerine you were inhaling. 

You dared a panicked side eye glance at Tangerine to see if he’d noticed but he was too busy looking out the window to have any idea. 

You jumped when the car rolled to a stop. 

“We have arrived, madam.” Your chauffeur announced.

You forced a smile, “Thank you, Rodger.” 

He turned to smile back at you. 

Danger or not, you kind of wished you had someone like Rodger as your bodyguard instead of this murder machine. At least Roger was nice. 

As you joined Tangerine on the pavement, you knew you were lying to yourself. A part of you was scared and that part of you found comfort in this stocky man who’s suit jacket was unable to hide the thick biceps that lay beneath. If you were going to be safe with anyone, it was (begrudgingly) Tangerine. 

Although, that fact alone was unable to stop you from letting the shop door go to close on his face.

Twisting your head over your shoulder, your smirk faded upon seeing his hand stop the quickly-swinging glass door before it could close on him. 

His glacial eyes stared daggers as he pushed through into the shop, they pinned you to the spot and made you realise how damned blue his eyes were. 

“I thought we were being civil?” 

“I am being civil.” You repeated his previous words with an easy smile and turned your back to him.

The store seemed to welcome you with its vast familiarity. And you had the whole place to yourself, besides the old woman who stood behind the checkout desk. They always closed the shop down for their number one customer. And this was your number one store. The most stunning designer dresses were stocked here; it wasn’t rare that you found pieces straight off the runway.

This shop was your safe space, you thought as your fingers trailed across the varying soft fabrics hanging from the rails. You took a deep breath. No looming danger nor Tangerine could ruin this for you. 

Your fingers paused at a velvet dress. Humming in concentration, you assessed its suitability. It was a midnight black dress with a high leg slit. That could very well be the dress. 

“Hold this for me, wouldya?” You tossed the garment at Tangerine.

Acting on reflex, he caught the dress mid-air, and then scoffed at being treated like your servant. He stared incredulously at the shop keeper, with a gaze that said: can you believe this chick? 

The shopkeeper returned a beady glare that said: don’t you dare drop that dress. 

Shaking his head, Tangerine turned his back to the both of them. This was hell. He couldn’t believe he was being forced to do this, to stand around playing obedient to some young girl. His experience of being tortured in Siberia after a failed mission was honestly preferable to this. 

Tangerine’s foot started to tap impatiently like a bouncy ball let loose on a drum. You purposefully chose to ignore him, leafing through garments at your leisure. A short dress in two different colours caught your eye and you held them both out. Head cocking to one side, you tried to determine which would best suit you. 

“They’re the same fucking colour, love. Get on with it.” 

Your head whipped over your shoulder to deliver your scowl to Tangerine. 

You snapped back, “Says the man wearing a suit in the perfect shade of blue to match his eyes.”

Tangerine was too taken aback by the fact you’d noticed that detail to come up with a reply. 

Fuschia pink began to flush your cheeks after having exposed how much attention you’d paid towards his eyes. You held your breath, waiting to get bullied. But Tangerine said nothing. Your blush faded before it could become noticeable. 

“Just don’t take all day, yeah?” He finally said. 

You rolled your eyes and put the maroon dress back. You couldn’t figure this guy out. Did he ever stop being a dick? The urge to be a dick back overcame you. Giving into your desires, you flung the burgundy dress at Tangerine’s head. It hit him square in the head and the back of it flopped over his face. 

You stifled a laugh.

For a good few seconds, he was too frozen to even rip the dress away from his face. He just stood there, vibrating with rage.

He tore himself free as you returned to looking through the clothes. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him staring the sharpest daggers you’d ever seen at you. 

Not looking up from the clothes rail, you commented, “You know, you should really look into getting some anger management classes?”

“YoU ShOulD rEalLy gEt AnGeR manAgEMenT clAsSeS.” He retorted in a mocking accent 

He stared at you in such an exaggerated display of disbelief and anger. It was somehow comical. He would make for a great cartoon character, you realised.

“Case in point.”

“Unbelievable.” He replied.

As you continued your hunt for the perfect dress, he paced around the store like an agitated zoo animal. Each dress that you liked, you threw at Tangerine. You even sent some dresses his way that you didn’t like, just to weigh his arms down.

When you didn’t think he could possibly take anymore, you slid the changing room curtain open. 

“Fucking finally.” 

He hastily dumped the clothes onto the diamante wall hooks. 

He shook his head again as he brushed past you out of the changing room.

“Fucking princess.” He exclaimed under his breath, not caring that you might be able to hear it. 

Hearing Tangerine call you ‘princess’ did things to you that you were not ready to admit. You tugged the curtain closed with a swoosh, and you decided that you were not going to analyse your feelings. Not today at least. 

Tangerine slumped into a leather chair next to the changing room. God, he needed to smoke. But Louie would kill him if he found out that he’d left his little girl alone for even a second. He was tempted to light one up in the store, tell that wrinkly sultana behind the counter to shove it. But he eyed the fuckton of water sprinklers lining the ceiling, and he decided it wasn’t worth it. 

The shop must be haunted and a ghost must have possessed you. There is no other explanation for why you swung the curtain open to show Tangerine how you looked in the first dress, the black velvet dress you’d picked out earlier. 

Your heart definitely didn’t sink when Tangerine looked you over dismissively. 

“What do you think?” You prompted.

“It looks alright.”

Your face flushed for an entirely different reason; his anger was infectious. You tried not to slam the curtain closed, you didn’t want it to be obvious how much that pissed you off. God, you craved his approval. You hated that, and you hated how your hands now flicked through the clothes in an attempt to find a dress that impressed him. 

You pulled on the next dress that was among your favourites. A silver dress with a plunging neckline. Again, you were met with a bored glance over. 

Fewer and fewer clothes were left to try on and you were beginning to think that Tangerine was saying ‘no’ to every dress purely out of spite. There was only one dress left that was among your favourite picks, the burgundy dress. It was short and silky, from the Fall Dolce and Gabbana collection. You’d left it as one of the last dresses to try on because it looked difficult to get into, with the corset detailing at the back. It would be a struggle to get into it yourself. 

Tangerine.” You called. “Can you help me?”

You heard a sigh and then footsteps that faltered just before the curtain. 

“You’re decent right?”

You replied, not entirely sure if wearing a half-done up dress was considered ‘decent’. “Yeah?” 

At the sight of your exposed back, he exclaimed “Oh for christ sake.”

He caught a glimpse of your dark underwear from where the corset hadn’t been tied tight enough. 

If Louie found out he was seeing his daughter like this… He would be shot. No, his fingers would be chopped off one by one, along with his teeth, along other ‘appendages’. And then he would be shot. 

“I’m not doing this.” 

He backed away to get the shopkeeper to help but you grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“She gives me the creeps.” You whispered under your breath.

In fairness, that old woman creeped him out a bit too. 

He craned his head outside of the changing room and stared through the glass door just to calm his paranoia that no one was watching. When he was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed, he drew the curtain closed. 

He focused solely on the black ribbon as his fingers tugged each strand tight, careful not to touch your skin. His cautiousness made him slow and it was your turn to grow impatient, but in an entirely different way. The warmth of his fingers danced so close to your skin and you wished he would slip up and actually fucking touch you. But he had perfect precision. Of course he did.

“How tight do you want it?” He asked.

“Tight.” You replied.

You steadied your hands against the mirror as he gathered the ends of the ribbons. In the reflection, you could see his great hulking frame leaning over you. You started to imagine doing an entirely different activity that involved Tangerine behind you and a mirror in front of you. The corset suddenly pulled tight, constricting your movements and your breathing. You never knew a corset could feel this kinky. 

Oh God. You wanted to tear your brain out of your head, give it a little bath and pop it back in again. You couldn’t believe you were having these thoughts about Tangerine of all people. Nope. You would analyse this another day. For now, you would pretend that a wetness wasn’t starting to gather in your pants imagining Tangerine tying a bow made of rope instead of ribbon.

“Too tight?” He asked, snapping you from your thoughts.

“No, No, it’s perfect.” You smiled as if you had a full lung capacity. You didn’t want to wound your pride by admitting he had overestimated the strength of your ribcage. 

Your eyes flashes nervously across the dress once you remembered your goal to impress Tangerine. Ruched lines ran along the dress, emphasising your breasts, your waists, your hips. It moulded to your body perfectly, making you feel like the million dollars that you are. 

When you realised Tangerine hadn’t said a single thing, you spun around to face him. 

“Well?” 

His eyes grazed along your body, betraying absolutely no emotion. But you noticed that his eyes struggled to meet your own, they shifted to the carpet before finally finding the courage to look you in the eyes.

“You look…” He faltered. “It’s a nice dress.”

You made no attempt to hide the small smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. 

[A/N: This is what I based the dress on but if the corset bit was at the back hehe]

~~~

When you met up with your friends, they glanced Tangerine up and down and then gave you a glance that said: well isn’t he attractive? 

Very surprisingly, he actually did disappear into the background. He was just a blue-jacket blur in your periphery, albeit a slightly agitated blur. Blessedly, as you began to forget he was there, as too did you start to forget about your feelings towards him.

Finally, you made it to the club and the hours sped by in a drunken haze. You enjoyed seeing your friends and being able to forget about everything for a moment. To just let loose and dance. 

Tangerine was starting to get extremely done with this night. He pulled his tie loose. Being surrounded by drunken idiots in a hot, dark and smelly room was beyond unpleasant. He itched for a drink or a cigarette so he didn’t have to cope with being sober for this bullshit. But, begrudgingly, he needed to stay sharp to keep an eye on you. Something he was growing extremely bored of. His head was leaned against his hand on the armrest of a sticky sofa, suit jacket draped over his arm. 

He’d been there for hours. And as your friends started to drop like flies, going home one after the other, he really thought you’d want to go home soon. But no. You continued to dance, with a seemingly endless well of drunken energy. It was just you and two other friends now. 

He had to admit your dancing had been shockingly good to begin with. But your movements had become sloppy and you even stumbled over your feet a few times, which you laughed off with your friends. Tangerine rolled his eyes. You were incredibly fucked. And he didn’t even see you drink that much. Lightweight. 

His head slumped further against his hand as he watched you twirl and giggle. He didn’t want to admit that part of the reason he felt so miserable right now was because he longed to be over there dancing with you, even if he thought the music was shit. 

He checked his watch. Right, he couldn’t take it anymore. It was 3 fucking am and he needed a cigarette. 

He strode over to you and placed a hand on your shoulder.

Shouting over the music, he spoke, “I’m going out for a smoke, alright?”

“Okay, have fun!” You beamed at him. 

He turned to your friends. They seemed a lot more sober than you. He looked between the two of them with a grave stare. “I’m going out for a few minutes. Make sure she’s okay, yeah?”

They looked between each other awkwardly, unused to your bodyguard approaching them, but nodded.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he picked up his pace as he headed for the alleyway. 

~~~

Something didn't feel right. Not as your vision started to swim. The outline of those around you started to fade and pulse, colours bled into each other. You squinted, trying to force your eyes into focus. Unfamiliar faces turned to look at you. Where had your friends gone? 

You forced a smile and carried on dancing to the best of your ability. This was fine. You were fine. Your friends would be around here somewhere, they’d find you soon. You just focused on dancing to the music and on keeping your breathing even. 

Your heart felt strange. You thought it would be racing with the panic rising in your chest. But it seemed to be slowing, which was somehow even more terrifying. 

Your eyes covertly scanned the club, desperately seeking out a friendly face. The lights flashed in your eyes, dazzling you with an overwhelming blur of colour. It hurt your head. Your eyebrows knitted together and you clenched your eyes shut. Everything was spinning. It was hard to think. It was hard to stand. 

A hand snaked around your waist, holding you upright. 

"Mmmm, thank you." You said, relieved by this sudden support. 

You twisted around to face this stranger and were met with a pang of terror that you couldn't place the source of.

The man’s face was a dark blot. As the overhead lights flashed in changing colours, you struggled to put a single label to his face. Attractive? Kind? He was a mess of blue, fading into green, flashing into red. You didn't recognise him. Had you expected to? 

It was too much for your drowning brain to process. You felt like a tiny insect beneath the claws of a predator. You tried to back away but your legs started to disappear from your grasp. You couldn’t feel them anymore, couldn’t control them. One of your heels gave out from under you and you stumbled backwards.

The man's grip followed you. "Don't worry, I've got you."

Your back hit something. The wall? Pain spread throughout your skull and you realise you must have whacked it on the plasterboard. Dizziness pounded in your brain. Folding forwards, you groaned and tried to hold your head. But the stranger grabbed your hands and placed them on his shoulders. 

"You're alright." He reassured, placing a hand on either side of your face. 

His thumbs stroked your skin and his eyes, whose colour you couldn't place, roamed across your face like he was devouring you. When he was finished using his eyes, his mouth delved towards your own. No. This couldn’t be happening. This isn’t what you wanted. You don’t think so at least? It was hard to tell what was going on. Had you made the first move? 

The stench of cheap booze closes in around you and you feel vomit rise in your throat but not far enough to spew. His lips finally hit and an unknown terror surges through you, which only intensifies when you try to push him away but your hand slides down his shirt. He catches your wrist and places it back uselessly on his shoulder. 

You try to will your muscles into action but they melt away from your grasp. So much so that it takes no effort for his tongue to slide between your lips, like a knife sliding into butter. You can’t believe your body would betray you, to allow this man access to all that he wants. 

Stop, stop. You need it to stop. His hands roam your body, fondling your waist, groping your breasts. It feels like his fingers are leaving dirt and grime in their wake. You fear you will never be able to feel clean again. Tears prick at your eyes. 

"Stop. Please." You mumble against his mouth, barely coherent.

He didn’t care enough to make sense of your murmurs. No, even in your delirious state, you were able to figure out that this man was scum. You were able to realise that you were trapped within every woman’s worst nightmare. You had become another statistic, another victim, with no means to fight back against whatever he wished to do to you. 

A tight string of despair wrapped around your heart at the thought of what else he might be planning to do with you. 

~~~

Tangerine stamped out the embers of his cigarette butt.

A rancid wall of heat smacked him in the face once he reentered the club and he cringed. Wiping some sweat from his forehead, he scanned the club. The crowd was starting to die out. Not many people were left on the outskirts, and only the very front of the dance floor was still crowded. On a quick glance, he couldn’t seem to see you. Or your friends. Panic started to settle in his chest. 

He shoved through the remaining sweaty bodies. The panic wound tighter when you weren’t at the same spot he’d left you. You weren’t at the front of the dance floor. Some guy was knocked off balance and fell to the floor as Tangerine bulldozed his way back out of the crowd. 

“What the hell, dickhead?” The guy exclaimed.

His words disappeared into the music as Tangerine found you in the middle of an intense makeout session. Great, he’d gotten worked up over nothing. He collapsed back down on a nearby sofa, somehow even more agitated than before.

His eyes roamed the crowd and he was still unable to find your friends. Did they really leave you on your own? He shook his head. You needed better friends. 

His eyes kept snagging on you and that random dude but he tore them away, not wanting to invade your privacy. A peculiar feeling of jealousy and disgust washed over him. Someone as grubby as that shouldn't be kissing you. You were much too good for him. He couldn’t stop watching. He wasn’t sure why. At first he thought it was some masochistic desire to hurt himself after a very long day. But it wasn’t masochism that buzzed at the back of his mind. It was a hunter’s instinct. His eyes narrowed. 

You tried to turn your head away from the man but his hand brought you back to him. 

A coil snapped inside of Tangerine. His vision darkened at the edges. Everything faded away until there was nothing but him and that vile piece of shit. 

~~~ 

[A/N: I recommend listening to Holding Out for a Hero here. Original version; Bullet Train version]

In one moment, your world was a whirl of panic and disgust. In the next, a cool breeze rushed over you as the stranger was ripped away from you. 

You blinked away your confusion to see Tangerine. How had you forgotten about Tangerine? 

You sagged against the wall, relief flooding your body as you braced your palms against the cold surface. 

"You disgusting fucking cunt." Tangerine spat.

His hands were clenched in the front of the man's shirt, keeping him in place as he reeled his other fist back and cracked it against his nose. 

Your world fell into a sharp focus. You could actually see the guy's nose dislodge from where it was supposed to be, and could hear the sickening snap reverberate in your ears. 

Tangerine immediately followed through with another punch. A powerful bundle of muscles tensed beneath Tangerine's shirt as he threw the full force of his weight into the next punch. It hit the nose square on again, breaking it in a second direction. It would take a very expensive and very painful surgery to get that nose looking anything like it used to. 

"Shit man I wasn't going to do anything." He defended, putting his hands up to protect his face. 

"Bloody bollocks, mate."

Tangerine sent a powerful knee into the man's stomach. Doubling over, the man let out a pained wheeze. 

Tangerine allowed him no respite. He sent an uppercut to the man's jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. The man threw a wild punch to protect himself but Tangerine dodged it with ease. 

Tangerine's hand curled in the man's hair and kept him still to deliver punch after punch. He showed no sign of letting up, not as the man’s face transformed into a bruised pulp, not as blood streamed from his nose and mouth, coating Tangerine’s knuckles vermillion. No, he was frenzied. His pupils shook within their glacial irises. His slicked back hair had become an unruly mess of curls. Raw power rippled off his every muscle, it emanated from his very being. 

His fist froze mid-air, breaking from his murderous trance, as he remembered that you were watching. He whipped his head to look at you, breath catching in his throat at the thought that he would find fear in your wide eyes. Fear of him. 

You swallowed hard under his scrutinising gaze. You were discovering so many new things about yourself today when you found yourself completely enamoured with the way Tangerine’s face looked with blood splattered across it. His visage unsteadied you, causing you to sway against the wall ever so slightly. 

Tangerine's fingers released from the man’s hair. He thudded to the floor as Tangerine rushed over to you, placing a hand on either shoulder to steady you. 

"Are you okay?" His eyes darted across your face.

You weren’t sure how to answer that question but found your head slowly shaking from side to side. 

There was something so comforting about the way Tangerine looked at you. It felt like you were being held. Tears welled in your eyes. 

Another wave of rage overcame him at the sight of your tears. 

"You despicable bastard." He exclaimed, unable to stop himself from turning to deliver a barrage of kicks to the man’s stomach. 

His foot disappeared again and again into him. The man was too focused on trying to breathe through the pool of blood surrounding the lower half of his face to fight back. 

In-between spluttered breaths, he cried out. “Stop! I’m sorry! Please stop.”

You could hear his trembling lips in the way he spoke. The pure terror in his voice made you feel a little sympathetic. But not enough to ask Tangerine to stop. 

His pathetic grovelling inspired another surge of rage through him. With a quick swipe of his foot, he twisted the man face down onto the floor. Not missing a beat, his foot cracked down onto the square of his back. You heard crunch after crunch of Tangerine’s foot coming down hard. You wondered if he’d ever be able to walk again. 

Once he was sure he’d covered the entirety of the guy’s spine, Tangerine pulled away. Releasing a shaky breath, he wiped his bloody hands on his shirt and then tried to set his hair back to some semblance of collectedness. 

When he was done, he held his hand out to you. Butterflies burst in your abdomen to be offered the hand of someone capable of such precise yet barbarous acts of violence. You took his hand gladly, fingers curling around his warm, calloused skin. 

He pulled you away from the wall and you threw yourself at his chest. As you breathed in his scent, there was no stopping the tears from streaming down your cheeks, dampening his shirt. 

Ignoring the traumatised stares of the patrons around him, he wrapped his arms around you and held you tight. He wondered how on earth anyone would want to hurt someone as small and as fragile as you. 

With a gentle hand, he stroked your hair and spoke, "Let's get you home." 

~~~

Objects faded in and out of your world, all of them jarring, and none of them providing you with enough to hold onto before you were slipping away again. The glare of a streetlight rushed over you, and then another. You were lying down in the back of a car. Roger’s car. Your mind went suddenly blank and your heavy eyelids started to shutter. The sound of the rumbling engine curled around you like a blanket. The roar of a motorbike cut through you and you twitched hard, startling yourself awake. 

“Shhh, you’re alright.” Tangerine stroked your hair and you realised you were lying down in his lap. 

It was so hard to process anything. Your body felt weird like you weren’t really there. At the same time, everything was still spinning, twisting and turning around you, making you feel like you were going to fall away from the carseat and disappear into nothingness. You wrapped your arms around Tangerine’s waist and pressed your face tight against the warmth of his body. 

You focused on the rhythm of his fingers carding through his hair. It gave you something to focus on. Your fear of falling into the void slipped away. There was nothing but Tangerine’s expert fingers soothing you. 

~~~

You must have fallen asleep because the next time you opened your eyes, you found that you were tucked into bed. You still felt like shit. Your limbs felt floppy, your head pounded, and it was still an effort to form a coherent thought. 

In the muted amber light of your bedside lamp, you spotted Tangerine slumped in a chair he’d pulled closer to your bed. You smiled when you noticed that he was a quarter of the way through one of your favourite books. He must have stolen it from your shelf. 

Your smile widened when you realised Tangerine must have carried you here from the car. You wished you’d been conscious during that experience, to feel fully supported by those strong arms. 

“You’re awake.” He noticed. 

His anxious eyes combed over to see if you were okay and one of his brows quirked upwards upon noticing your smile.

“Did you have a good dream?” He asked.

Averting your gaze, you replied, “I guess you could say that.”

“How are you feeling apart from that? Can I get you anything?”

Propping some pillows behind your back, you sat up in bed. You immediately regretted it when your head started to pound. 

“Maybe some water.” You replied.

“I got you a glass already.” He pointed towards the bedside table 

“Oh, thank you.” You said, reaching over to take a sip. 

You tried not to gush over how sweet it was he’d already thought to get you water. Instead, you concentrated on trying to come up with an answer to his question about how you were feeling. Memories of what happened came rushing back and the smile died on your face.  

“I’m- erm- I’m not feeling great.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

You didn’t think you could handle processing what happened right now. 

You replied, “maybe later.” 

He nodded. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two of you, both unsure of what to say in this situation. You drank some more water.

“I’m so sorry.” He said. “I can’t believe I fucking left you.”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he spoke. His gaze was fixed on a spot of carpet in the distance. Memories of what happened replayed in his head. He had been trusted to be your bodyguard and on his very first day, he’d let something horrific happen to you. 

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, despising himself. 

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” You wished he was closer so you could offer some physical comfort, touch his shoulder or something, anything. 

“Nah, you’re too nice, love. I fucked up.”

The amber lamplight cast a soft shadow across one half of his face. In the gentle light, he seemed like an entirely different person. He seemed softer. 

He continued, “I promise it won’t happen again.” 

His eyes finally met your own. Sincerity turned his eyes a pale, watery blue. You wanted to swim in them.

“Oh and one more thing.” He interjected, his eyes darting away from you again. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out at the club. I know I went a little overboard with the-”

“No.” You interrupted. “No, not at all. Honestly I think he deserved worse than that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean that? Because I can have that arranged.”

People had joked about hurting people for you before, like when your friends offered to kill your shitty ex boyfriend. It was jarring to realise that Tangerine wasn’t joking. Picturing Tangerine hurt that man in such slow and sadistic ways stirred something within you. 

“Honestly… Yes.”

“Consider it done.” A frown dawned upon him. “I never pegged you as the murderous type.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. A lot of people in this house see me as nothing more than a spoiled mafia brat.”

Tangerine looked down at his hands. He may or may not have assumed that of you. 

You continued, “and I’m willing to bet you’re more than just a mafia thug.”

All people ever saw in him was a killer. Letting people believe that kept people at a distance from him. Distance was safe. 

Distance was lonely.

He met your eyes, truly met your eyes. While you were beginning to see this other side to him, he too was truly seeing you for the first time. You felt so thoroughly seen by him too. 

An agonising throb of pain spread throughout your skull. With a small groan of pain, you reached up to soothe your headache. 

“Y/N.” He exclaimed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”

“Oh, erm, yeah. I should leave and let you rest.”

He lifted from the chair and panic stung your nerves. 

“Actually” you stammered, “can you stay?”

“Of course.”

He settled back in his chair as you got comfy in bed. Now that you were left in silence, your feelings started to seep into you. It was an indescribable feeling, some Frankenstein’s monster made of the body parts from dread, loathing and grief. Your heart somehow physically hurt. 

“Tan…” You found yourself mumbling before you’d even thought about it.

“Hmmm?”

“Can you… come here.”

He crouched at the side of your bed. “What do you need?”

“I erm… I know it's a lot to ask. But could you lie in bed with me? Sorry, I just, erm…” 

You didn’t know how to explain your sadness and how you didn’t think you could face it alone. 

“I understand.” He gave a small smile of reassurance. “Of course I can lie next to you.”

You released the breath you realised you’d been holding. “Thank you.”

You shuffled over and he climbed awkwardly into bed next to you. The last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable so he lay down as close to the edge as possible. 

You craved his warmth and silently begged that he was closer. But you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. So you turned your back to him, in the hopes that he would feel more at ease without your face turned his way with the potential to watch him, to see him. 

A slight warmth tickled your back. At least you could still feel that he was there, that you had someone watching over you. It was enough to quiet the pain. It was enough to sleep. 

“Goodnight.” You spoke.

“Goodnight.” He replied, straining to turn out the light.

~~~

You found yourself waking up again a few hours later. Only this time your head was on Tangerine’s chest and his arm was wrapped around you. You lifted your head and found him sound asleep, mouth slightly ajar, releasing breaths that ruffled the ends of his moustache hair. A smile warmed your lips at the sight of him. 

You knew you would have to process what happened at the club soon. That a seemingly unbearable amount of pain lay in wait for you. But for now, you chose to close your eyes and listen to Tangerine’s steady heartbeat. And finally, you fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Those who may be interested: @tangerinesgf @poetic-fiasco @earth-elemental18 @addie0ffset @peachyspaceslvt @amyg1509 @whiskykisses

[muninnhuginn]

okay okay so thoughts on unwanted guest. this is mix of my thoughts when reading and my thoughts thinking back on the overall thing afterwards. My later thoughts will just be distinguished by 'future notes/FN' and everything else is my initial read through.

See below:

Reading the first section and I'm having to tell myself that not everything is an Utena reference. Probably.

Gaudy masks aside from Palamedes whose mask is taped together? Well, that's sure not a metaphor wdym. Guy's been all pieces since GtN.

Ooh the layout is literal script/theatre production? Nice nice. (FN: No wonder it went meta with audience interaction)

Palamedes soliloquy on social etiquette my beloved...

Ianthe playing multiple roles? This is theatre fr

"Almond room"? So... old-style butler, almond, is this a murder mystery ft. cyanide this time?

Coffins 1 through 7... there are nine houses so I'm blanking a bit on the meaning of this. Seven can be considered 'lucky' but somehow I doubt that's it

"A pair of leather trousers" we're losing historical accuracy for the sake of the Draco in Leather Pants reference. Fair enough. (FN: I googled how long leather pants have been around. It's been centuries. Oops.)

"Inspector"? Murder mystery vibes are growing

"You said that three visits ago". This is the second reference to Palamedes having done this before. I wonder how many attempts we've missed. Still, that provides context for his clothes earlier despite he himself being "uninjured"?

I would love to annoy Ianthe via an incredibly long-winded Pokemon battle

Well-timed middle finger from Ianthe

He asks if she's going to play fair and she's already there using genie wish rules 😔

"I'm kind of into the trousers though" Voice confirmed for either Palamedes himself or Muir self-insert (FN: lol)

"The soul is the only thing capable of supplying power without being consumed in the process" interesting. that goes against pretty much everything I know about science but Palamedes is still there trying to science it and that's why the conclusions he draws are so different from Ianthe's? Not to underestimate Ianthe. She was able to backwards engineer lyctorhood. Just, Pal is a STEM guy and it shows

Talking about decay makes me think souls as a radiation metaphor? I mean. To be fair. Nuclear war on Earth would definitely have upped the background radiation there for… quite some time. So it's literal in some ways too. (FN: in retrospect not quite sure I agree with myself about radiation metaphor given how souls having half lives would imply the initial rate of decay is pretty fast and then it slows down. which, yes sure, it could be? But the way it's worded seems to be more of a gradual siphoning so that the reduction in energy won't be noticed for millennia rather than a huge drop and then the rate of energy dropping decreases. That said, I guess if a soul contains so much power that even a tiny tiny bit has a lot of energy then it could still be possible. But eh, I digress.)

The voice???? Hey come back what does that mean (FN: this is at the "I believe in you." "You didn't always. I had to fight for that". Because it maps with what we know about Dulcinea and Palamedes' relationship but it makes their approach to trust more explicit? Palamedes spent a lot of time trying to earn his way into Dulcinea's mind/heart and Dulcinea had a lot of reasons to rebuff him (she literally spells out later that age was a factor but also the fact she wasn't particularly well and the idea of changing that.... well, hope is dangerous))

(FN: Also, knowing the voice is Dulcinea makes me think a lot about "my topic of expertise is putting on a show". Like, huh, she and Cytherea were more alike than I realised. I wonder how much of that is the shared chronic illness and how that impacted their approach to life?)

Courtroom battle time!

Not just courtroom but ace attorney specifically? She is avoiding the question!

"She and I both understand that the goal is always worth the cost". Oh wow, I think Ianthe misreads Harrow so badly here. I'm lowkey amazed at how they lived together for months and yet Ianthe has this perception of her

"I didn't know you smoked" the genre is catchy, can't be helped (FN: rip I missed this clue entirely as being a clue because I was too busy with the meta genre fun)

"she wandered around like she was the protagonist" because she was

These mini duels remind me of the student council segments in Utena. The knife throw one especially

Dulcinea voice? (FN: this was at "oh, you used to say this a lot" because, well, it narrowed things down a lot)

"Harry" pshh, going even more explicit with the drarry roots

Also wow did not call Pal being jealous of Gideon. Genuinely kinda puzzled as to why he was (probably missing something obvious here). Both Palamedes and Ianthe's views on Gideon are kinda eye-opening. I knew Ianthe looked down on Gideon but at the point at which this is set I thought perhaps her opinion would have shifted? Unsure if this is because she sees Kiriona as different or if she's just genuinely doubled down. They're both using past tense during this entire bit though

"I gambled on the truth" this is about the stoma theories? She says she died but that doesn't necessarily mean she was wrong. I am so curious about this. "Awful in the old sense of the word." Full of awe.

I'm just struck as always by the campaldulcie of it all. "I loved real, unfinished things. Gracelessly uncompleted things". Side-eyeing Paul so much rn

"I'm not in the River and I won't ever be again". Just adding this to my long list of questions. Speaking of, how is she even here?

"Was I cute?" "you're perfect" this feels so familiar to me but I can't place it and the closest I'm getting is the ice cream scene in Asteroid City (which timing-wise came out too recently to be it)

Palamedes' final question is such a banger.

(FN: I was trying to do this post blind but I did see a post about my dash about souls as grief and it is so on point. Ianthe's plan for the future has always had Corona in it as another individual by her side and she refuses to contemplate otherwise. Apple experiments for immortality etc etc. Of course, this is the one cost she refuses to pay.)

Ahhhh the genre. Babs is in him?

Babs is in both of them?

Oh icky he's everywhere

Murder mystery deduction time ft. Palamedes as the Inspector

The implications of the souls rubbing off in each other... messy is about right. This kind of thing applies to interactions with people in general to an extent, but the memories and not knowing what is yours and what is someone else's? Shifting preferences? I know this story technically is a side story, but it fits right in with NtN's whole deal about identity and loss of it

Also adds more context to Pal's decision behind Paul if he believed they would always end up like this and he just fast tracked it to ensure they'd live. (You can get this in Nona itself tbf but it's much more implied rather than spelled out?)

"She reaches out and places one hand against its closed lid as the curtain falls". Ianthe refuses to confirm and we as the audience do not get to see. We can take what Pal has told us, what Ianthe doesn't want to think about, but we are denied that complete confirmation.

[ozrockbitway]

If Vale had groovy cards, what do you think they would look like/be the story behind them? 👀

Vale groovy cards...I eventually plan on drawing their Groovy art at some point. Im just drawing blanks on how to do it + I'd wana do a BG and make it SICK like an actual card. So...one day...eventually :')) I am drawing more recently so!! its a possibility!!

I'll focus on the 2 SRs I have for them I guess?? Considering the bday one is technically an interview so...not much story there?? Although for that one I'd like Grim to be the one interviewing them & have him in the groovy art too uwu/

Suitor Suit Vale!

It starts off with them fretting over their looks. Like a bit after they've all changed into the suits to go save Idia. Vale is just nervous cuz they don't usually dress up, but they also like it?? No time to appreciate it all though when the homie is in danger!

There's also talk on how to woo the ghost bride. I'm thinking that Vale ends up suggesting really good lines?! They just say it's cliched stuff from novels about princesses and whatnot but hey, those kinda things might actually work. I think Ace would try to prod them a little like, what would you say to get someone's hand in marriage, without 'cheating' aka using your novel knowledge. Do something from the heart.

To be continued in pt 2 lol

Commentary from Vale about how this tragic tale of the ghost bride finding her one true love would make for a good novel. Insert comments about oh please dont do it. They laugh...maybe they won't but no promises hehehe.

Ima dab me in some Corpse Bride reference here. sorta. Basically it's Vale on their way back to Ramshackle at night with the looming thought of how they never got to give their hand at wooing the princess. They take Ace's words to heart and try to think of something to say. Also a comment from either Rook or Epel, probably Rook about thinking about someone who inspires such thoughts (coughs Idia coughs)

They give a soliloquy, their own heartfelt confession and lines for a wedding. They get a bit embarrassed afterwards and glad that no one is around. But they're totally using that in the future.

haha funny bonus is if the Shroud bros hear it or something and Ortho just eye emojis at his bro like HMMMMMMMM lil bro knows what's up

I'd like their groovy to be like gets down on one knee and extends hand out to the player or something?? w/ the ramshackle background?? to be more shippy its them doing it to Idia B))

Starsending Robes Vale!

steals my own fic idea lol. sort of. but it starts off with Ortho asking about what Vale's wish would be despite giving/sharing it with Grim. They're honestly not so sure about it like?? The thought of having magic does come to mind and they say it but they know that isn't possible. So maybe something else? Ortho says to think on it and he'll grant it!

Vale ends up hunting for wishes with Ortho & Idia the most out of the selected trio. I know the Shroud bros get the wishes from the Leech bros, so Vale ends up hanging around them for a bit. The eels are so kind and willing to lend an ear to Vale's woes...at least they seem to be interested.

Vale admits that they don't know what to wish for. Floyd points out it doesn't matter since they don't get a wish anyway while Jade is softens the blow saying its all for fun and its not so serious. Conversation ensues and it boils down to Floyd's side saying be selfish or following after Jade's with his selfless wish. Ugh decisions!

to be continued...

The night of the starsending...

They're still conflicted on what to choose. Selfish and selfless. They're rarely the former, but the latter is so much easier. They consider the bros (Jade & Ortho) and their wishes. As they think on it they end up seeing the "shooting stars". And then it hits them.

The whole thing is done and Idia is probably trying to peace out but Vale spots them and is just like!! I know my wish!! Idia is like?? wishing is over but go off I guess??

My wish...is to spend as much time with my friends here.

They probably explain that they were tempted to wish for everyone's wish to come true, but they can be a little selfish and wish for that instead, right? It's silly, but that means they also get to spend more time with him and Ortho too!

tbh the image I have in mind would be similar to the header on my sideblog or just focusing on Vale making the wish with Idia in it uwaaa

[insertsomthinawesome]

25, 26, 29, 30

25. Something your art has been compared to that you were NOT inspired by

I actually don't think that's ever happened to me! I had somebody on deviant art once say my artstyle was like theirs. i think that's about it tho? There was somebody here on Tumblr who said my first WOlfwood drawing was like a combo of 98 and Stamp and I was like???? I did not do that on purpose. xD (am honored tho. 98 Wolfwood is a good lad from what I know.) 26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended OOH. THis is another one I feel like I should know but am drawing a blank.

OH I KNOW I KNOW I REMEMBER: THIS PIECE ON DEVIANT ART People kept thinking me giving Reigen black wings meant I thought he was evil when more I was trying to say he was tainted by his own questionable deeds! I totally get why people were thinking that tho xD A very understandable reaction and the title of the piece also used to be "Not What he Seems" So it came off WAAAAY more antagonistic towards Reigen. 29. Media you love, but doesn't inspire you artistically Somebody beat you to 29 so I'll copy that answer here: "OOOH. OOH I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD KNOW THIS BUT MY BRAIN IS DRAWING A BLANK. oooh I feel like, I'd have to say Probably Jak & Daxter and Monster Hunter. I LOVE both. But like hmm. I've had very brief periods of times of trying to draw for them or thinking about doing so. But I've never really done so. And with J&D it was SO LONG AGO. They're both very beautiful and inspiring in their own ways. But I don't think either has really ever made me sit down and be inspired artistically??? I think it could totally happen tho." 30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated

OOF oh no xD

THIS piece of Albedo From genshin Impact. I was always pretty proud of this!! And I thought it'd do WAY better. SOmtimes it just be like that tho! :D The other one would be THIS This was my first post to tumblr tho, so Honestly I understand why nobody saw it xD Also its in this middling phase I had with art where I was still kinda figuring out a LOT of techniques and stuff (and I've learned a thing or two about fashion design i hope 8/) But honestly I'm still really proud of it? It took a lot of effort and it was a very self indulgent piece that connected with who i was then (loving Undertale) And who I'd been in the past (Loving Blinx, Sonic, and Ratchet and Clank) So there's a lot of like, nostalgic and warm emotions attached to it that make me wish it'd done better. (also cause I HATED doing backgrounds and I put a lot of effort into that one) BUT at least its still special to me!! :D And again these things just happen sometimes. I prefer they be obscure than I force people to like them. And who knows? Maybe somebody will dig them up someday and love them :)

[kaushalcharacterillustration]

Reflection And Final Thoughts

This course has been tough but useful. I got a lot more practice at drawing characters and using certain techniques that I don't often use. In regards to the final project, I'm relatively happy with it but I think the background was not executed well. It looks flat and some parts have high contrast which doesn't mesh with the main subject of the poster well.

What I Learned

The process of colouring, shadows, and highlights in Photoshop was new to me, especially using screen mode on a layer to add proper highlights.

I learned more about the importance of values and silhouette.

Photoshop actions were quite useful to learn, although I didn't use them much.

Gesture drawings were something I was aware of my never tried before and really helped with posing and positioning characters.

What Was Challenging

Working in teams to deliver a client's brief was a new experience for me with its own challenges such as creating something that fit the brief but also had blanks cohesively interpreted by me.

The biggest challenge was the poster itself. Having to not only create a character but to pose them and place them in a composition with a narrative was a lot of moving parts to think about and it got more complicated when I didn't follow the order of operations exactly.

My Approach To The Final Project

Going into the poster project, I knew my character and a lot about her personality, backstory, and appearance because I wrote a story starring Claudia back in 2023 for a creative writing project. Knowing this, it was a lot easier and quicker to develop the appearance and look of the character when we started. The main challenge early on was figuring out the style since I didn't have a specific style that I thought fit the character and story. I took inspiration from artists I follow such as Graveweaver whom I wrote about earlier in the course, as well as anime and other animation styles. When I was coming up with the composition, I had a few good ones that different people liked for different reasons so I tried combining the best parts of all of them but that meant a lot of changes late into the process which the final product suffered for. If I did it again I would try to nail the composition earlier and even make several versions after the critiques, perhaps ask my team for feedback.

Goals And What Got Achieved

Going into this course, I wanted to really improve my character design skills for other projects I'm working on, and have a greater understanding of what makes a good character design. Overall I think I achieved this, but I wish I did more. Just doing what I was asked for in the course wasn't the best way to go. I should have done extra drawing exercises and practised drawing things such as gesture figures, creating characters from silhouettes, etc. because it would have helped a lot more. Otherwise, learning and relearning what I did was incredibly useful and I plan to use it in the future.

[de-righty]

Hi! Your character designs are fascinating, do you mind talking a bit about how you approach them?

I wish I could answer this question properly, but the thing is- I know little to nothing about character design! I just tend to fool around and have fun until i come up with something I like!

But! Out of curiosity I decided to "document" how I approach creating characters, maybe it'll help!

(!just remember you are listening to the random person on the internet who is by no means an expert!)

1. Nothing more to add! I start with creating a "doll" of sorts. However, it does help a lot if you decide on a general theme and character traits before doing even that.

I went into this creation kind of blind, so I had to redo a lot. BUT it's cool too!!!! Some of my best characters got half of their personality DURING the design creation, so it's totally fine if this process overlaps.

2. That's the trick i tend to use a lot to keep a character from looking nothing-ish, or with too much going on.

The "focus" throughout the design stays as my compass, whatever else I do shouldn't clash with the main detail and shouldn't drain too much attention from it.

Again, character creation is fun and experimental, so, sometimes your focus detail can change! Or disappear! It's just a good starting point to overcome the blank canvas

3. I decided it will be a DnD warlock with some aristocratic background. The pose has changed, the proportions shuffled back and forth to create some warlock uncanniness. It's basically going back to step one but with some new context!

4. So next step- outfit. I would really like to learn how to design with clothes in mind immediately, to sort of bounce off of different forms. But as of rn for more serious designs I prefer to dress my base like a doll. It helps with anatomy consistency, but it definitely can feel less expressive.

The one advice I have (besides references, use those, please!!!) is to try and do clothes "sloppy" first. Sometimes the longer you spend with lines and details the less you are aware of the overall shape. This fit in particular I only got right after I roughly painted the silhouette of the dress

5. Panic! Chaos! Lots and lots of it. I'm keeping myself handcuffed from making everyone green, or Yellow+ some variation of black. BUT since it's a "documentary" I get to do it one more time. As a treat.

Colour theory is, well, hard! So while working with a new palette I often find myself googling the complementary colours. It's alright too!! Looking for colour inspiration is important, you never know what you can find out of your comfort zone (do as I preach not as I do)

Also don't forget to check your tone with black and white filter, it makes wonders.

And with that we're done! But not really :D

Characters tend to change and evolve the more you draw them. Shapes get adjusted, facial structure becomes more refined.

Take a look at my babyboy Ludwig.

He may not be the best example, cause, well, he's a dnd character, lots of changes were due to the plot shenanigans, But still!!

A good way to test if you like the design or not- is to draw it a bunch of times. Some details may be added, some may be toned down

@septemberlikestea is the mastermind who taught me that, so you sir are getting some credit.

Aaaand I guess we're done!

[turtlebros4u]

❤️🐢💙🐢💜🐢🧡🐢

A collection of my most recent full drawings of the boys. These have their own accompanying fics here:

Raphael

Michaelangelo

Leonardo

Donatello

Art rant below.

Alright so art rant here. I've been pretty out of practice of digital art for a while and this whole fandom has deeply inspired me. I'm really appreciative.

Raph: This was my first one and I was not used to the brushes and some of the layer capabilities of my program but overall I like it. The pose is nice and I originally had a sketch of a blank OC template in his lap to customize if ever I wanted. The background ain't halfbad but I think Donnie's is my fav.

Mikey: Probably my favorite for color balance and lighting. The angle was very fun also. Also those ripped jeans were fun. Very little to complain about except that I wish I found the speckle brush for this one. Overall my favorite of the four.

Leo: Super lazy on the background, but the angle was fun to try and emphasize his muscles and waist. Absolutely vivid I love the colors. I'm awful at finishing flat colors before shading and keep mxing up the layers for them but you can't tell from the pic. Need to learn how to color reflective material better, the sword is very mediocre I know I can do better if I learn.

Donnie: Absolutely my favorite background even though it's simple. I may have set the foreground a bit too dark to see his features clearly but it's fine for now. I cannot refrain myself from drawing suspicious bulges in Donnie's pants even in otherwise SFW stuff.

All of them: I need to remember to color their nails properly lol otherwise extremely happy about these. Great warm up drawings to put oil in my gears. I have better understanding of colors and brushes.

Having them all done now has unblocked my mental obsession and now I can start drawing unrestrained smut more art for these wonderful men 😈

❤️🐢💙🐢💜🐢🧡🐢

Happy New Year to all!

[bonnabiee]

THINGS I AM YELLING ABOUT RE: CALEB ORIGINS COMIC

1. FRUMPKIN CHASING AFTER THE CART ; ;

2. THE WAY THE FIRST THING THAT BREN NOTICES ARE THE BARS ON THE STUDENT WINDOWS. WHY IS EVERYTHING BARRED. DUDE ISN’T THIS A FUCKING SCHOOL.

3. BREN’S NAME BEING OLD TONGUE FORE FIRE ; ; HIS PARENTS CALLING HIM THEIR LITTLE SPARK ; ;

4. EVERYONE’S HAIR IS JUST SO PRETTY BEFORE THEY CUT IT. FUCK.

5. I’M SAD ABOUT THE CUT HAIR BUT ALSO THAT FRAME WHERE WULF CUTS BREN’S HAIR IS TEN OUTTA TEN

6. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS TEN OUTTA TEN THE WAY ASTRID LOOKS AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR AFTER HER HAIR IS CUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN. GIRL WHAT’S GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND!!!!!!!

7. I’M GLAD THAT THEY GOT TO HAVE EACH OTHER THROUGH THE TOUGH TIMES, EVEN IF WE KNOW IT ALLLLLL GOES TO SHIT ;0; BUT I’M GLAD THEY HAD THE GOOD MOMENTS

8. I love that they all have their own colours!!!! I’M SAD THAT BREN/CALEB’S IS THE SAME EVEN THEN, TO WHEN WE SEE HIM IN CAMPAIGN 2 ; ; 

9. I actually love how colourful all the background characters are, hell yeah!

10. I am real curious about Eadwulf’s green glowy magic, and Astrid’s purple magic. Like do they signify elements or anything?? Why is wulf’s green when his colour is blue, when bren/astrid’s magic colour seems to match their character colour??

11. THE BLOOD ON THEIR FACES POST THAT INTERROGATION. THE BLOOD ON THEIR FACES WHEN THEY FUCKIN KISS.

12. “Neither am I” Oh no bren, oh no no no

13. THE HARD THING/REWARD/HARD THING/REWARD CYCLE IS, AGH, SO SLEAZY. TRENT WE ALREADY KNEW YOU WERE A GROSS MOTHERFUCKER WE DIDN’T NEED MORE PROOF!!!!! FUCK OFF!!!!!!!!!!

14. The shots of each one of them hopping out of the cart is very cute and bren beng last in the cart is very pretty

15. MOMMA ERMENDRUD WANTING TO FEED HER BOY IS SO SWEET ; ; ALSO, SURELY HIS WRAPPED FOREARMS WOULD NOT HAVE ESCAPED HIS PARENTS’ NOTICE. I WONDER HOW MUCH THEY WORRIED AND FRETTED EVEN AS THEY WERE ELATED TO SEE HIM AGAIN. GYAGH.

16. ; ; “Come on. It’s warmer up here.” Maybe Bren has gotten unused to sleeping alone, and being in his own bed by himself feels lonely.

17. Trent is a motherfucker.

18. ok so like just pausing the feelings one moment to commend how nice that firebolt being slung out of bren’s hand is. Like just from a, drawing perspective. I really love the movement in that frame, and also it makes me think of liam playing caleb and playing out his casting in game as well.

19. ok back to feelings, OH NO HIS LOVE OF DANCING, FROM HIS FAMILY. THEY WERE DANCING AND THEN HE BURNED THEM. NOT EVEN FRUMPKIN GOT OUT I’M MCFUCKING YELLING

20. YO I’M FUCKED UP ABOUT IT BEING THAT MOMENT THAT BREN BURNED ASTRID. FUCK. TALK ABOUT NEVER BEING ABLE TO FORGET THAT MOMENT, TALK ABOUT HAVING THAT MOMENT BURNED INTO NOT ONLY YOUR BRAIN BUT ALSO YOUR SKIN. ONE OF THOSE COULDN’T FORGET HIM EVEN IF THEY’D TRIED SCENARIOS

21. I didn’t realise they left bren behind so early and so soon after the breaking. FUCK. THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN SUCH A FUCKING NIGHT FOR THEM. THE TRAUMA DEALT IN THAT ONE NIGHT ALONE. UNPARALLELED.

22. Trent’s a motherfucker

23. I ALSO, DIDN’T REALISE HOW SOON BREN BLANKED OUT FOR. I STILL REEL AT THE 11 YEARS HE LOST IN VERGESSON. I’M HURTING A LOT. THIS POOR BOY. HE WAS ONLY A BOY.

24. ok i do love caleb going murder town on the guard though. There’s some satisfaction in knowing that these are skills that ikithon pushed onto him, that he is now turning around and using against ikithon. It’s also kind of fucking chilling to this that for how bloody this scene is, it probably isn’t the worst that he (and his friends) have done.

25. HIS COAT HE GOT HIS COAT IS IT THE FIRST PURCHSE HE MAKES SINCE HE WAKES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

26. FRUMPKIN #2, I’M SO SAD HE MUST’VE BEEN SO LONELY AND SAD AND HOMESICK AND GUILTY AND KDJDNKDJNAKJANKANKAJNKJANKAJNWEOIAJEJAWKDJKNKJNKJNFKJDNKJNDF WISHING FOR FRUMPKIN SO BADLY AND, FINALLY LEARNING HOW TO SUMMON HIM, AND KNOWING IT ISN’T FURMPKIN FRUMPKIN BUT HE JUST NEEDS THIS LITTLE LIE TO GET HIM THROUGH IT. HE WOULD HAVE GONE FROM BEING SO SURE AND IN LOVE AND BEING LOVED BY TWO PEOPLE THAT HE THOUGHT HE COULD TAKE ON THE WORLD FOR TO NOTHING IN WHAT MIGHT’VE SEEMED LIKE A SINGLE NIGHT FOR HIM. I’M THINKING ABOUT A CALEB THAT WAS LONELY JUST SLEEPING BY HIMSELF AND NOW HE’S SLEEPING BY HIMSELF IN A DITCH, IN A HOLE, IN WHATEVER SHELTER HE CAN SCAVENGE. FUCKCKCKCUFKUCFKFUKCJCN

27. Also okay okay okay okay I love the montage of all the fake names that he gives. 

28. ALSO, DID HE BUY THAT LITTLE GREEN BOOK THEN GIFT IT TO THE LITTER GIRL?????? IN PURPLE????? WITH BLONDE HAIR????????? WAS HE THINKING ABOUT ASTRID I’M SOGOGIGNFKGNG TO FUCKINGKJDNFKJNFDKJLKMLWKMELKMLUGGGJYG

29.

30. I LOVE that we get to see Nott!!!!! I didn’t expect to see Nott!!!! I love her!!!!!

In conclusion

FUCK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS!!!!!!!!! THIS COMIC IS SO GOOD!!!!!!!!! THANK U FOR ALL THE TASTY MORSELS OF EXTRA CHARACTER THINGS TO PLAY WITH!!!!!!!!!!! 

[marshmallow-phd]

Gravity

Genre: Angst, Unrequited Love

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

A/N: This was basically just a therapy write. 

**

What is worth? It is neither tangible nor seeable. It doesn’t have a body or a shell. Yet, the endless chase to catch it, to hold it captive, is a never ending disease that eats away at the brain and tears apart the heart. It’s only descriptor is feeling. A judgement. Something either is or isn’t. When it's an object in question, the call for worth is passive, innocent. It’s wanted or it's not. The deterioration comes into play when the worth is applied to a person. 

Kim Junmyeon was worth the world. 

With a smile that could chase away a storm and a heart too good and pure for the human populace, he was truly worth more than the world. He was worth more than you deserved. 

Not only was his face kind, but it was handsome. Beautiful, even. Candid photos were museum worthy masterpieces. There was a gentleness, a softness to his eyes and cheeks that contradicted the sharpness of his jaw and the strength of his body. His laugh was infectious and his mind as vast and deep as the ocean. The sum of his whole was worth so much. 

But you were not worthy of such a person. You weren’t as stunning as a sunset over the mountains or as extraordinary as a new discovery. You were simply… you. Staring from afar, admiring but never touching. 

You wished you could be worthy. You wished you could be special enough - good enough to be with him. Pretty enough would be something decent to settle for. But you were invisible. A person on the sidelines. Out of the spotlight. You were an admirer - not one to be admired. 

“You’re doing it again.”

You blinked, your attention torn away from the spot where Junmyeon was standing, laughing and chatting with a few of his seniors. Kyungsoo, who sat to your left at the small table in the entertainment building’s cafe, didn’t even look up from the script he was currently reviewing. He’d only been given it the day before and was still considering if he wanted the part that was being offered to him. 

Your gaze dropped to the opened yet untouched notebook lying in front of you on the somewhat sticky surface. Someone must have spilled their syprup-y coffee and didn’t do the best job at cleaning it up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without moving his head, Kyungsoo looked at you over the rim of his glasses. Even though you were sure you were nothing more than a blur to his eyes at the moment, he could always see right through you. “If you keep staring at him like that, you’re going to give yourself away.”

The ultimate nightmare. The humiliation of being found out. The sweet but awkward rejection that you knew would follow. With his laugh still ringing in your ears, you forced yourself to tune Junmyeon out. 

Pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, Kyungsoo straightened and closed the script. “We can go somewhere else, if that would help.”

You wanted to argue no. That you weren’t a coward. That you weren’t going to run and hide simply because you looked at him like he was the night sky while you were stuck on the ground. You used to have better control of yourself. You used to be able to hide it better. But lately, it had only gotten worse. 

And you were a coward. 

“Yeah. Maybe one of the practice rooms is empty.”

“There’s usually one.”

After gathering up your things, you followed Kyungsoo out of the cafe, stealing a final glance. Junmyeon didn’t so much as twitch in your direction. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he hadn’t even realized that you were there in the cafe for the past half hour. 

Kyungsoo settled into one corner of the worn navy blue couch while you squeezed into the other. Not speaking a word, he went back to reading the script. That was a nicety of your friendship. Comfortable silence was more than readily available when needed. He didn’t push or give unasked for advice. He was an ear to listen and a presence to take in when you didn’t want to be alone. 

You stared down at the notebook in your lap where your next story ideas were supposed to be filling the pages. But nothing was coming out. Not even the vague pictures you’d had earlier this morning. The only things being called to the paper were the sentences held in the invisible tears you refused to shed. Words of wishes and frustrations swirled around inside the tiny droplets, every letter as heavy as lead. Your cruel mind kept echoing at you the conversation that had constricted the air in your lungs. 

Two days ago, you’d accidentally overheard a drama staff worker jokingly say that Junmyeon and his current co-star seemed awfully close, more than merely friends. Stomach lurching, you ran to the nearest bathroom. Nothing came out but almost fifteen minutes of deliberate breathing had gone by before you emerged again. Kyungsoo was quick to dismiss the comment after barely three words from you. The effect, however, still lingered. 

Despite the history of your intrusive thoughts, you wanted to believe that you could be good enough. That you were worthy of being beside someone like Junmyeon. His co-costar was stunning, even in real life. Someone who didn’t need photoshop to draw out gasps of awe and astonishment. Someone you most certainly couldn’t compete with in any race. 

You weren’t asking for much. Just to be able to hold his hand, your fingers interlaced between his own. The fantasy you allowed yourself to indulge in at times wasn’t a grand gesture or a modern fairytale. You wanted simplicity. The smaller moments that could mean so much. Mundane, to some eyes. 

Warm sun rays leaked through the closed blinds over the living room windows. A clock on the wall ticked away the meaningless minutes. Sometimes soft music hummed in the background, sometimes there was nothing but silence. Junmyeon would lay across the length of the couch with you wrapped around his side. His fingers would absentmindedly caress your shoulder or arm. In his other hand was a book, held open by his thumb and pinky. Your own hand drifted through his hair while he read aloud. 

The two of you had dozens of endless conversations about books. About the ones you loved and the ones you hated. About deeper meanings and the reflections of life. His love of literature - from the celebrated classics to the obscure unknown - had been what initially drew you in. Everything else was what made you stay.

A muscle in your hand cramped. The peaceful scene faded from your eyes. The page was now filled with barely legible, ink-smeared words. You’d written the entire scenario out, along with your heart, without even realizing it. 

In a panic, you ripped the paper from its spiral hold, crumpled it up, and tossed it to the trash can across the room. It missed. 

“I doubt whatever you wrote was that bad,” Kyungsoo murmured. He read the final few lines of the script and closed it. 

“It wasn’t,” you admitted bitterly. “But I shouldn’t have written it.” You described the scene to him while your eyes stayed trained on the loose thread twirling between your fingers. 

He sighed. “You’re never going to tell him, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You’re just stopping yourself.”

You scoffed. “Why would I deliberately set myself up like that? Break me the rest of the way?”

Kyungsoo stared at you, long and hard, his expression blank to those who couldn’t read the tell-tale signs that his thoughts were in overdrive. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

You sniffed, though no tears were yet forcing their way to the surface. “Most days.”

“Then walk away.”

“I can’t.” Your voice broke - just like your heart. The world blurred when you shook your head. “I can’t… simplify it. But-- It’s like I was this stupid lump of rock drifting aimlessly through space, content with my life. Then suddenly, I came across this brilliant star that shined so brightly and… we collided. And now I’m stuck in his orbit. But he just keeps on spinning while my whole world had changed completely. He’s… my gravity. I don’t know anything else anymore.”

“Maybe it’s time to find your own orbit.”

Afraid it might crack again, your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

The door creaked open and your heart leapt. Junmyeon stuck his head inside. Had he overheard everything?

“There you are! I turned away for a second and suddenly you two weren’t in the cafe anymore.”

He’d… He’d seen you? In the cafe?

“It was too loud,” Kyungsoo lied, covering up for you like he always did. 

“It’s always too loud for you,” Junmyeon teased. Then his face morphed into that leader-esque expression. “We need to head to rehearsal. You’re welcome to join us,” he nodded to you.

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly in response. “I have a writer’s meeting.” No, you didn’t, but space felt like the right choice at the moment. You tried not to focus on the lack of disappointment coming from the direction of the door. 

“Maybe next time.” Junmyeon slapped the side of the door. “Let’s go, Soo.”

You were actually the first one on your feet, muttering goodbyes to both of them and then walking down the hall perhaps a little too fast. 

You didn’t allow your mind to think the whole way home. Every action was done in automatic mode. Only the minimal amount of awareness was used. But when the apartment door clicked behind you, when the near darkness wrapped you up, when the silence crept in and the empty couch mocked you… you broke. 

Knees buckling from under you, the cold hard floor came closer and you didn’t leave that spot just inside the room as the tears and sobs crashed out in waves. 

This was what you hated the most. The breakdowns that came with no excuse. They were built up by your own mind, by your intrusive thoughts. You tortured yourself with what you could never have. The attacks were random and it was only recently that you had learned to hold them in long enough until you were safe within your own walls. One time, you hadn’t made it. Kyungsoo had been there to pat your shoulder. 

Kyungsoo. He was right. 

That clarity was coming through as the tears dried and your breathing evened out again. You needed space. You needed to separate yourself from what wasn’t good for you and not see him. Not even have the temptation to. 

This was going to hurt like hell. 

**

The office somehow looked smaller with the bare walls. Since the day you moved in, you tried to liven it up, give it character, make it reflect the interests you loved. How were you supposed to write if this place felt like a stifling corporate desert, dry of any creativity?

Not that you ever actually wrote in this twelve by eight space. This place had been reserved for meetings and other usually boring necessities. You didn’t know the next time a budget meeting or an email check would be conducted here. You could be back in a few months and move back in as if you never left. Or someone else could take over. Only time would tell. 

The box that currently had your attention was nearly full. You’d have to come back for the rest. There wasn’t much left, anyway. You took another look around to see if there was anything else you could do at the moment. The monitors were black, the tower underneath - so much smaller than the one you’d had as a kid - was powered off, and the chair that was aligned just so to your favored adjustments was pushed into the gray desk. Saying goodbye to this place really did hurt. 

But you needed to do this. 

And yet, you felt like you were drowning, being dragged deeper into the black water. Your lungs were screaming for relief. 

“You’re really leaving?”

Your shoulders stiffened. At first, you didn’t look up at him. You weren’t sure what to say to him. Being here… it was the last place you expected him to be today. Kyungsoo would have told him, but you wouldn’t have waited around for him to appear. 

“Hi, Junmyeon.” You folded up the top of the box, overlapping the pieces so it would stay shut in transport. 

“I thought you liked it here?”

“I love it,” you confessed. “But I- I need to go home for a little while.”

“Are you homesick?”

“Something like that.” Definitely some version of sick. 

He nodded. “Will you be gone long?” His eyes drifted over the holes in the walls leftover from the frames that used to hang in front of them. 

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. This was…. You should go. Pushing your fingers under the box, you started to lift it to take it home. 

“Do you have to go?”

The question stalled you. Confused, the box went back down on the desk. “Why are you here, Junmyeon?”

He shrugged, though it didn’t shake off the stiffness in his shoulders. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his arms all the way to his wrists covered up by the sleeves of his shirt. Lately he had been rolling them up. You wondered what had changed today. “You’re our friend.”

Friend. 

Friend. Friend. Friend. 

The word rang over and over like a declaration of war. Our friend. 

The smart thing to do would have been to nod, say goodbye, and leave. But - instead - you opened your mouth. 

“I will always be your friend.”

That didn't make him smile like you would have thought. “So, then why do you have to leave?”

You rubbed your eyebrow, fighting within yourself. You lost. 

“Have you ever had a friend so head over heels for someone that won’t even look at them twice? But they don’t care? Because as long as the person they’re looking at is happy, then they’re happy. Even if your friend is completely miserable in the process. Because they no longer care about their own self. They just keep looking at the other person, doing anything that entails that they’re still happy.” You swallowed thickly to try and keep your voice steady. By your sides, your hands were trembling at this roundabout confession. “And you want to shake them. You want to tell them to get out. Because as long as they stick around, they won’t look at one else. No one else exists. Well, this is me. Getting out.”

The frown on Junmyeon’s face deepened as he let your words sink in. “Who is it? Will you tell me?”

No. Because this was enough of an admittance. Because it was time to find your own sense of gravity. 

So, without a word, you picked up the box and left the office. 

Waiting for you when you came back was the scene you had written in the practice room that day, flattened out but still wrinkled as it laid on the desk. 

[hangovercurse]

Blind Date (continued)

You invite Colson in after your blind date

Request: “I loved this so much! If you get the chance and are up to it, I’d love a second part!” ”I would like to read a second part of it”

Colson X Reader

Warnings: cursing

A/N: Have I edited this? No. Did I even look back over this after I wrote it? Also no

Word Count: 1974

Your hand touched the handle before you turned around, finding Colson in the same situation at his car door, still looking at you. “Do you maybe wanna… come in?” You asked, biting your lip. His face lit up, a smirk highlighting his features.

“I would love that.”

The man’s lanky figure strutted over to your front door as you opened it, pausing as he entered to take in the smell of your house that screamed you. He let his eyes wander around the place as he stepped further in, taking off his coat and shoes at the front entryway.

You moved into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of red wine while he made his way into the space. You found a note on the counter from your best friend and roommate.

Staying at Eric’s tonight in case you and your date need the place to yourself <3

You rolled your eyes at the note, chuckling as you tossed it in the trash. You rustled through your drawers to grab a corkscrew, fiddling with the bottle as Colson shuffled into the room, standing behind you to encase you in his arms.

He took the corkscrew from your hands and opened the bottle with ease. “I was getting there,” you whined jokingly.

He chuckled, “I could see that.” You turned around and allowed your lower back to rest against the counter, squeezed between the surface and Colson. His arms rested on the countertop on either side of you, his figure leaning to be level with you.

You couldn’t help but admire his features, his bright blue eyes and the stubble on his jaw sparking your artistic mind. “I wish I could sketch you right now,” you murmured your thoughts aloud.

He smirked, leaning closer into you, your lips almost meeting, “why don’t you?”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before softly speaking, “you would get bored being my model.”

He pulled away from you, fingers running across your waist until they found your hands, intertwining your fingers. “I would be honored to be your model.”

You perked an eyebrow, “seriously?”

He shrugged, “I’ve done it before for cameras, and you are much more interesting than photographers.” He pulled you away from the counter, “go get your stuff and I’ll pour wine.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked towards your art room, which was really just your bedroom, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When you returned, he was wandering your small living area, a glass of wine in his hands and one on the small coffee table. His eyes danced along the picture frames you and your roommate had placed around the house when you first moved in, which you honestly hadn’t looked at since.

You stepped into the room with your sketchbook and pencils, making your presence known. His gaze drifted to you with a smile, watching you settle onto the couch, “so, is this your roommate?” He motioned towards one of the pictures.

You glanced up, smiling at the goofy picture you two had taken at graduation, “yep, that’s us.” You turned your head back to your book, flipping to the next blank page as he continued asking about your pictures.

“Who’s in this one?” He asked, pointing to a photo of your roommate and her boyfriend, Eric.

You chuckled at the image of them pulling funny faces in the front seat of a car while you sat in the background looking bored, “that’s Eric, her boyfriend. We went on this huge road trip and they swore I wouldn’t have to third wheel, but I obviously did.”

Colson let out a small laugh, taking a sip of his wine, “and who is that?”

You had honestly forgotten about the picture he was pointing to, but seeing it made your stomach fill with unease. “Oh, I forgot that was still up,” you sighed at Colson’s curious expression, “that’s me and my ex, TJ. We broke up months ago, I thought I’d gotten everything of his out of here.”

Colson could see the discomfort in your expression, sitting down on the armchair next to your couch, throwing his legs over the side and posing dramatically. “Bad ex, huh?” You nodded, not wanting to make him uncomfortable with the conversation, though you wanted nothing more than to open up to him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You rolled your eyes, turning so you could face him, “of all the poses, that’s what you pick?”

He smiled innocently, “yep.” A chuckle fell from your lips as you looked down at your sketchbook, pressing your pencil to the paper. “Fine, I’ll go first,” he began, “can’t really get to know each other if we don’t get at least a little bit of trauma out of the way.”

You looked up at him and giggled, “you got me there.”

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine, “Baze told me not to talk about it, but the look on your face when I asked you about him tells me you might be able to relate.” You raised an eyebrow but kept drawing, giving him a silent signal to continue. “I was dating this girl for a while, you’ve probably heard of her, Megan Fox.”

Your eyes went wide at the name, looking up at him in shock, “yeah, because that’s not an intimidating act to follow at all!”

Colson waved you off, “you’re doing great so far, don’t even worry about it.” You gave him a stern look, but he only continued with his story, “anyways, we were together for a while and she told me all the time she thought we were soulmates, and I believed her, you know?” You bit your lip, starting to feel slightly intimidated as he spoke about the woman. “But then she cheated on me after, like, 9 months. And I realized after we broke up how wrong we were for each other and how much she manipulated me.”

You frowned as he spoke, his tone getting sadder with each word. “That’s so shitty. I don’t understand why people cheat in long term relationships, especially after you’ve given them so much hope and trust. Like someone convinces you that they love you and then they go around and pull that shit. It’s evil.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his face, “I’m over it now though, in case you were worried. Came to the realization about a month or two later that I was better without her.”

You held the pencil in your hands still, trying to find the words you needed to say. “I, uh, I was dating that guy, TJ. We had been friends for a while and he asked me out and I said yes. Everything was great, you know? And then like almost a year end he starts acting all weird and possessive. Like just because we had been together for so long means he doesn’t have to treat me like his girlfriend anymore. He would make me feel like shit in front of our friends and just all around was being a shitty boyfriend.” Colson stared at you intensely with a frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed.

“A guy should never do that shit to his girl. You don’t deserve that shit, no one does.”

You nodded sadly, “yeah, well, then I found out like 4 months into all of this that he had cheated on me and gotten the girl pregnant so… I ended things real quick.” You let out a sad huff, turning your attention back to the book and continuing your sketch of the beautiful man in front of you. “I was really upset at first but now I’m just kind of angry. Dude was a dick.”

Colson let out a dry laugh as you took a long sip of wine, “sounds like it. I’m sorry you went through that shit.”

You shrugged, smiling up at him, “if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

He chuckled, biting his lip, “guess something good came out of it.”

A blush spread across your cheeks, “oh yeah, the food was amazing.” Your words were full of sarcasm, yet the pout on his face still made you giggle, “I’m joking, loser.”

“You better be miss second-date.” You giggled but didn’t respond, turning back to draw him. It was quiet for a few moments, your pencil tracing along the paper.

He shifted, at which you glared up at him, “I told you you’d get bored.”

With a chuckle he said, “I’m not bored. I get to look at you while you draw, it’s far from boring.” You tried to look annoyed at him but failed miserably at his flattering words. “I was thinking though, since it’s my picture and all, I should get to make some executive decisions.”

You scoffed, “you chose your pose, what else would you like oh great model Colson?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, stretching his arm out to set his glass on the table. “Well, I mentioned that I have some tattoos,” he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, “you should draw them.”

Once his shirt was fully removed from his body, you couldn’t help but gawk just a little. His entire chest was covered in ink, designs beautifully engraved into his skin. “I was gonna make a joke about this only being our first date but holy shit, these are beautiful.”

He blushed, looking down shyly, ”I was honestly scared you weren’t gonna like them.”

You looked at him with wide eyes, “Seriously? This is so cool. I’m an artist, you really think I’m not gonna like tattoos? Its an art form in itself.”

Colson shrugged, moving back to his pose, expecting you to continue your drawing. Instead, your eyes wandered his torso, taking in every detail of the work. “If you’re lucky,” he commented slyly, “one day I might show you all of them.”

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, moving back into drawing position, “you think you’re so cool.”

A breathy laugh fell from his lips, “I do, actually.”

The two of you continued banter-laced conversation while you drew him, his likeness coming to life on your page. At some point it turned into 3 am, and you were struggling to keep your eyes opened, but you were finished.

“Here.” You turned the book to him, letting him take in your work. He didn’t speak for a few moments, causing worry to build in you. “I mean, it’s no Mona Lisa but-“

“That is fucking amazing.” He cut you off with a wide smile, “you make me look hot.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, “I’m not going to feed your ego by saying something super lame like “that’s just what you look like,” but I’m glad you like it.” He chuckled at your response, climbing off of the chair to stand in front of you.

“Damn, I was really hoping to get my ego fed tonight.” He grabbed the sketchbook from you and threw it onto the couch next to you before grabbing your hands and pulling you up to stand.

You smiled to yourself, chest shaking with silent laughter, “does the sketch not feed it enough?”

He shook his head, “I need the approval of a really pretty girl to satisfy its hunger.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned up into him, “you gotta work harder than that, Rockstar.” Your words came out breathy against his lips as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

His mouth connected to yours, the kiss deep and passionate. His soft lips meshed perfectly with yours, his hands pulling you up to stand on your tiptoes. Once you pulled away you stayed close to him, breathing in his intoxicating scent. He whispered, “I never thought a blind date could turn out so well.”

[ellisentry]

Characters: Tommy and Wilbur Time: 5 hours SPEEDPAINT!

This wasn’t intended as ship art but if that’s what you want to take it as, go for it.  If you just like the brotherly duo, that also is fine.  I just wanted to draw something cute.

I usually draw more serious things so dropping everything to have fun was nice. This was a one-day make (from drawing to editing the video) and I honestly, adore it. Maybe I’ll do this more often. It certainly was less stressful than everything else I do. However, I do have a bone to pick with some of it – as I always do with my art. It was supposed to look like Wilbur was pulling Tommy’s face closer but it didn’t translate very well so Tommy’s head is a little strange. And, I desperately wish I had done better on Wilbur’s hand. But, otherwise, I think it looks good. Much less issues than I usually see in my work. :) My Process (for anyone curious): 1. Construction – figuring out the poses and composition.  I usually don’t film this part and didn’t for this video.  It can… sometimes take a while.  This is the struggle step I don’t like showing because of how pathetically long it can take me to figure things out. 2. Sketch – Sometimes I can cut this into multiple steps depending on how much I need to do.  This was a simpler drawing so I only had the one you see when the video starts. 3. Color Theory – I’ll start by eye-dropping colors straight from the reference (their skins, in this case).  Then, I go through with overlays and filters to change the saturation and color skew so things harmonize better.  Minecraft skins tend to clash a lot when you’re trying to make colors work.  That’s why you’ll see the video go grayscale often.  Pictures look better if the values contrast each other.  So, I check them often.  Usually, I draft the shading here too. 4. Lineart – I tend to lean for thicker lines but recently was upset with the way my drawings were turning out so I tried to keep these ones more regular.  I think it worked.  I was very happy with the lines this time around. 5. Base Colors – Using the colors I figured out in the color theory step, I just transfer them over in a neater fashion. 6. Rendering – To make things less flat, I’ll go through with detail.  In this piece, I actually totally forgot this step at first, which is why I go straight into shadows and highlights for some reason.  I completely blanked.  I go back later and add it, though. 7. Shadows and Highlights – This step can either be really quick or really, really long.  I went for a simple cell-shading style for this art so it was fast.  Other times, the shading process can take hours alone. 8. Background – If I’m doing a background, it usually happens after I make the foreground.  It uses the same steps as listed previously. 9. Touch-Ups – This consists of my signature, outlines, coloring lineart, yadda-yadda. My Programs: Paint Tool SAI ver. 2

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Caged.

Word Count: 2.0k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Synopsis: Yaoyorozu’s always loved your wings. She takes care of them, grooms them, keeps snow-white feathers clean and undamaged and just perfect... You just wish she took care of the rest of you, too. 

TW: Graphic Violence, Broken Bones, Kidnapping, Captivity, Dehumanization, and Delusional Mindsets. 

She’d said it hadn’t been because of your wings.

That was all she said for the first few weeks of your captivity, really. Momo was many things, but she wasn’t subtle, nor did she make an effort to watch her tongue around the civilian chained down and (more often than not) unable to respond to her one-sided conversations. She said everything a kidnapper could have to say about their hostage. She claimed that she fell in love with your personality, that she’d spent months dutifully noting down your interests and your hobbies and every piece of information that could be gleaned from careful surveillance. She told you that your wings were just a bonus, that they didn’t really matter, but they just made her precious, darling songbird a little easier to find.

But, for every second she spent singing your praises, she spent two gritting her teeth or crossing her arms or making it clear that she’d love you more if you were obedient, if you were affectionate, if you were different. Your hobbies faded into the background, considering how few opportunities she gave you to indulge them, and unless she was bringing home a gift to make up for the night you’d spent trying to cry yourself to sleep, she didn’t seem to pay your interests any mind. But, she gave your wings the utmost attention, keeping your snowy-white feathers pristine and taking far too much time to prune and pluck anything she didn’t deem ‘befitting’ of you. She adored your wings, she loved your wings, and she never hesitated to tell you that.

As much as she claimed they weren’t her motivation, she cared for your wings. She couldn’t deny that. 

That was more than she could say for the rest of you.

You supposed it wasn’t so bad, having her focus on one part of you so heavily, she tended to overlook most of your minor shows of rebellion. You were allowed to drag your knees into your chest and cling to the idea of safety as she looked over your wings, the appendages outstretched to their full length as Momo hummed and pulled at anything loose, anything bent, anything that wasn’t perfect. While she was perched on the edge of her bed, you were left to settle on the cold, barren floor and fight the chill your thin clothes did little to keep out. The basement - your bedroom, as she called it - was sizable, but the space was lost on you, considering how Momo chose to use it. After your last escape attempt, she’d declared furniture a ‘distraction’, something that took your attention away from her. You had a cot, just enough blankets to sleep, and whatever Momo thought was necessary for your basic survival. She’d said that you’d be able to earn things back, but that’d been weeks ago, and she seemed to like the way you were forced to look forward to her daily visits. She liked knowing she was the only thing on your mind.  

She liked making sure her pet had nothing better to do than beg for her attention.

“What’d you get yourself into?” She asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. The question was more for her than for you, posed under her breath, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel like you had to answer when every other word was accompanied by another tug, another feather at her feet. “It’s worse than usual, today.”

A dozen excuses played on your tongue. Last month, you’d told her it was molting season, and you’d managed to quell her worries by saying that this kind of damage was normal for avians in new environments before that, a trick that worked for longer than either of you would like to admit. You doubted she’d forget so quickly, so you settled on something simple. “It’s just the stress,” You explained, the statement only half untrue. “It makes maintenance harder than it has to be, but it looks worse than it is.”

That earned a pause, a more careless jerk to one of your primary feathers. “You’re stressed?” Now, she was talking to you, expecting an answer. Paying attention to the way your hands twitched at your sides every time her fingertips brushed a tender spot of lean, thin muscle. A hint of something playful traced the edges of her tone as she continued, and you weren’t sure whether to relax or reinforce your barriers. “Don’t say it’s because of me, angel.”

A pet name. Pet names were good. Pet names meant she didn’t see you as human, right now, making you another one of her infallible, unblamable creatures. It didn’t mean you could be honest, but you wouldn’t have to lie, either, not really. Not as much as you’d have to, otherwise. “It just happens,” You admitted, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Animal-based quirks are complicated, like that. When I’m inside for too long, or… like, when the room I’m in is too small, my wings tend to notice before I can.” You allowed yourself a breathy laugh, loosening your hold on your legs. “When I moved into my first apartment, my roommate had to start complaining before I--”

“You think I’m not taking care of you.”

If her words hadn’t been enough to silence you, the feeling of her fist closing around a handful of something downy and sensitive did the trick. Reflexively, you went rigid, stretching your wings out to their full length and bowing your head, but Momo’s threats were never hollow. With one strong, steady pull, a patch of your left wing was on fire, bare and blazing and burning as you slapped your palm over your mouth and tried to stifle the shriek that threatened to escape. You kept it there, for a moment, attempting to suppress the tears building up in the corners of your eyes, but Momo took your silence as resistance, a low growl reverberating through her grit teeth as she took hold of the base of your wing, the length of exposed bone between skin and feather. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t shatter, but the idea of the pain was worse than the eventuality, forcing your breath to hitch in your throat, your whole body to go stiff. Forcing her to hold you tighter, her irritation more than apparent in the sternness of her grip alone.

"It’s such a shame,” She started, a patronizing lilt weighing down the simple sentiment. You couldn’t see her, not when you were abruptly incapable of even turning your head, but you didn’t have to. You could practically hear her shaking her head, her expression somewhere between a frown and a pout as she lamented over whatever mistake her poor, stubborn little captive made, this time. “I really do try to be patient with you. There’s such a nice nest waiting for you upstairs, but it feels like I can’t let you out of your cage without having to worry about my baby bird trying to fly away.” There was a click of her tongue, a tap of her manicured nails against your shoulder blade. You felt her eyes prying into your skin, flitting across all the places your wings rooted themselves in place, as if she’d be able to tear them out with her gaze alone. For a moment, you wondered if she could. “Maybe if you stopped trying to get yourself into so much trouble, you’d wouldn’t have to be locked up. You’d be able to accept all the wonderful things I have to give you, and I wouldn’t have to watch you throw your tantrums and pretend I wouldn’t do anything to make you happy.”

“That’s not what I meant,” You managed, curling your nails into your palm as you willed yourself not to raise your voice. Yelling at Momo was never a good idea, and playing dumb would only make her more determined to remind you of your offenses, even if you couldn’t name the incident she seemed so focused on, today. “Please, Yaoyorozu, please, I didn’t mean to--”

“This is why I have to be so strict with you,” She sighed, her free hand falling to the arch of your wing, spreading the appendage to its full span. No longer giving you the chance to refuse. “You’re so quick to lie, and so slow to regret it. You don’t even know what you did wrong.”

You flinched, your lips parting, but your mind going blank as soon as you processed the accusation. Your stupor couldn’t have lasted for more than a few seconds, but a few seconds were more than enough for Momo to come to a resolution.

It wasn’t that she was stronger than she looked. She was, technically, but it wasn’t just that, it couldn’t have been. She’d done her research, she’d prepared, she’d practice, and you could only be thankful her new skill had been refined, polished into an undeniable talent, albeit a grisly one. There was a minute of pressure - crushing, awful pressure - and a snap, and then the pain.

Always the pain.

It was a clean break, halfway between the base of your wind and the bend, shock provided little comfort, adrenaline flowing in-time with the throbbing, the tight ache now coursing through your left wing, joints loosening in their sockets and tendons contracting in an effort just to keep something so broken where it should be. Resistance wasn’t an option. It was an animalistic  instinct that had nothing to do with your avian features, you were struggling before you could think to hold yourself back, willing your injured wing to fold against your back as you flailed, kicked, clawed, doing everything you could do to get away from the predator that was so content to watch you writhe in agony. Fighting was pointless, though. Momo didn’t try to restrain you, didn’t try to hold you back. Why would she? All the doors were locked, the windows nonexistent, and it wasn’t like you could actually hurt her.

There was nowhere for you to run, nothing for you to do.

In the end, there was nowhere to go but up.

It was difficult to get off the ground at the best of times, but you were desperate. As soon as you were on your feet, you were in the air, struggling to gain elevation without momentum, without an upward draft, without a single factor in your favor. It was hard, but it wasn’t impossible, even if every muscle in your back strained at the effort, your lungs burning and your uninjured wing taking up a frenzied speed just to get you a handful of meters off the floor. It must’ve looked pathetic, one wing struggling to keep you aloft and another, crooked and weak, twitching in an attempt to keep up with the pace its twin set, and it hurt so, so much, but you didn’t care. For a few seconds, Momo couldn’t reach you. For a few seconds, she couldn’t touch you and pull at your feathers and hurt you and…

And then, you hit the ceiling, and went plummeting back to the cold, unforgiving floor, as if you’d never left it at all.

Your shoulder took the brunt of your fall. It wasn’t far, but something in your arm still cracked as you collided with the solid cement, pulling a ragged sob from your chest that came out as broken as it was pitiful. You weren’t sure when you’d started crying, but suddenly, it was all you could do to curl into the tightest, smallest ball possible and hide your face, if only because you doubted you’d have the strength to wipe away the tears now blurring your vision. Momo didn’t seem to mind, though. She hadn’t taken a step since you’d gotten away from her, but that only meant she was still calm and collected and so, so composed as she kneeled at your side, barely nothing to brush your hair away from your face before her hands trailed back to your wings, always so eager to make sure her favorite parts of you weren’t more damaged than they had to be.

To make sure her favorite toy wasn’t beyond repair, after she’s had her fun.

“I hope you got some of your energy out,” She said, her tone sweet, but her voice devoid of all warmth. You’d say devoid of all love, too, but you were beginning to think Momo never had any to lose, in the first place. Not when it came to you.

“It’s going to take me hours to take care of all this damage. The least you could do is sit still, especially when I take such good care of you.”

[datawyrms]

Changed Hunt

For Phic Phight 2021! (not completely finished but AAAAfinshnowwww) lowkey Dannymay Day 2 Portal, as well

"That portal is awesome!" Sam says. "Would be so cool if it worked."

Danny goes down into the lab that night to try a few things—it doesn't quite go as he planned.(aka a no one knows au) (Dey’s prompt!)

Danny really wished Sam and Tucker had stayed a bit longer that day. With them around, maybe he wouldn’t have wandered in that portal like an idiot. In his own defense, how could he have known that little panel in there had been an on switch? Who’d put that inside a reality tearing portal device? Jack and Maddie Fenton, apparently. He was just lucky the thing hadn’t killed him! Or at least, managed to overdo it to the point he...survived somehow? He hadn’t really decided what that portal had done exactly. Waking in a pained heap, bathed in a haunting green glow from the now active portal was confusing enough. Looking up and seeing a stranger in the reflective panel nearby just made it worse. Of course he didn’t take it well, or know what to think. If he’d become a ghost, his parents would freak. Fixing their portal by turning into some...evil human hating creature probably wasn't in the plan. At least his terror somehow managed to get him to become human again. Heartbeat and everything. He hoped it had just been a weird one off, or he’d imagined it from trauma. Until he started falling through things. He died so hard  that he got his life back? The portal only managed to kill half of him? He was dead but ‘imitating humans’ was his specialty? Some human that just got to use his ‘soul’ or whatever to be a ghost early? Sam and Tucker might have had guesses- but he knew one thing right away. Whatever happened, he wasn’t all human anymore. He couldn’t tell them. What if they decided that was just too weird? What if they blamed themselves for not being there- thought they’d killed him? It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, he couldn’t let Mom and Dad find out, so he’d be trying to hide any of the new weirdness anyway. Might as well just always do it. Maybe the weird new abilities would just go away. They hadn’t. They just forced him to think about it to keep both feet on the ground. He could deal.

Until other ghosts started showing up. Ghosts that actually knew how to be ghosts, terrifying powers and all. Ghosts that seemed to know what he was. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when a green woman in a hairnet tapped him on the shoulder and asked who ‘changed the menu’. There was a lot of screaming and running away at that, considering she was floating and well. Obviously some sort of dead person. Freaky Fenton attracts freaky ghosts. Of course. She didn’t buy his claim of not knowing why the menu wasn’t exactly the same as fifty years ago (why would he? That’s a lot of years!) and thought setting ovens on fire and throwing them at him was a fair answer! So apparently Mom and Dad were totally right about ghosts being completely terrifying monsters that he should run away from very quickly. Which he did. He only ran into two walls he meant to go through, even. Just more reasons to never, ever tell anyone he might be like that crazed ghost lady. Mom and Dad proving their inventions actually did work sometimes was just icing on the ‘i’m so screwed’ cake. Ghosts exist, they fought one, and the school got shuttered for a week from excessive damage via flying appliance. Fun.

It was dumb to pretend that was a one off thing. It was stupid to think he could keep hiding what happened that day. Even if it felt safer, even if he just wanted to keep denying the portal was open so she could keep pretending it hadn’t done anything to him. Maybe if someone knew, he wouldn’t be hopelessly trapped by a huge glowing robot. Running didn’t work on this one like it did the older ghost lady. He tried, he really did, but the self proclaimed hunter kept tracking him down. Even when he transformed into the strange ghost version of himself he failed to dissuade the robot. Punching metal still hurt as a ghost, and so did getting pelted with little missiles. So much for intangibility being an advantage.

“You’re lucky that you’re a rare creature, whelp. Otherwise I’d be disappointed by how little effort hunting you took.”

Great, flame head thought he was a disappointing freak. More pressing was the net the ghost had shot at him that he couldn’t struggle free of. Even drawing on his weird ghost side wouldn’t let him phase through it. “Pretty sure you can’t hunt endangered species!” He redoubled his effort as the ghost picked up the net, trying to trick himself that his swinging was making him feel ill, not the terror of being carried off by some monster that came through the portal just to hunt him down.

“Hah! If I didn’t take you ghost child, someone else would simply end you.” The blank green eyes stared into his own as the machine pulled him up higher. “You should be grateful to be part of my collection.”

Danny gulped, unsure if he should keep his attention on his captor or the fact they were getting closer to the swirling portal. “How about no thanks? Since you’re such a good samaritan and all. You can just let me go and forget all about uh...this.” Why couldn’t he just squeeze out of the net, or make the rest of him all weird like when his legs decided to vanish sometimes? Pulling with his gloved hands wasn’t working, and the glow just grew  brighter as the lump in his throat got thicker. “Please? You already said I was weak, if you let me go I’ll be stronger next time!” Okay, it was a stupid plea but he’d try anything right now to not get dragged to some ghost world.

“I’m not a catch and release sort of hunter.” The ghost chuckled as his prey shrank back with the denial.

“How can you be the ‘Greatest’ hunter if you just go after kids, huh?” Begging wasn’t working, so maybe getting him angry? He couldn’t go through there, what if being on the other side made him more like this thing, or the other weird green monsters? “More like lamest hunter.”

“Oh you’ll see the sort of creatures I normally hunt, ghost child. Once you join them.” Skulker shook the net hard, rattling what little bravado Danny had managed to gather up right back out of him.

So much for that hope. “This has got to be a mistake, just let me go!” The ghost didn’t answer him, and he couldn’t help closing his eyes when the mechanical monster fired up a jetpack and flew through that portal. It wasn’t as cold as he feared it would be, it wasn’t like the void of space. Just as green as the portal, still a swirling background to everything. He swore he saw faces and doors, but couldn’t keep looking for long. The combined movement of being dragged along with the spinning energy was stomach churning enough, and he had to deal with the fact he didn’t know anything about this place. Even if this ghost decided to let him go, where would he go? Was there even anything to navigate with? He certainly didn’t see anything useful like stars. Would all this green stuff just soak into him and make him not want to find home? Nothing here made sense! It was easier to curl up instead of struggling with the net to stretch out, and the stupid ghost couldn’t see how the tears welled in his eyes as he struggled not to cry.

He should have been braver, should have tried to watch more, but it’d been too much. The crunch of metal against stone jarred him out of his silent self berating, just to be even more confused. He was on an island? That just floated, because islands did that here. Islands that had forests on them, that grew out of what looked like rock. Sure, okay. At least it was a bit of a distraction from the fact he was trapped by some evil robot in a completely different reality! Well. It had been. Seeing the fact the ghost lived in some weird stone skull jutting out of a mountain made him snort despite himself.

“You said my puns were bad, and you live in that thing?” He was pretty sure the green mohawk monster was Skull-something anyway. Mostly tuned it out after he kept repeating the ‘greatest hunter’ bit. “Ghost Zone’s Greatest Halloween Decoration’s a more fitting title.”

“For a terrified whelp, you are very chatty.”

“I think I looped around from terrified when I saw how doomed I am.” He was just joking. Totally. He wasn’t goofing around to try and fend off the engulfing panic of never getting home, nope. Absolutely not. He tried to pay attention to the strange ‘skull mountain house thing’, but the fact it reminded him more like a zoo inside wasn’t helping. Massive, monstrous glowing ghosts leering out and snapping as they passed, smaller sorts that didn’t even look up and several empty cages stained green was not calming his nerves. He couldn’t even describe some ghosts, being such a confusing jumble of parts that didn’t remind him of anything. All he could tell was robo-hunter probably didn’t have any willing guests. Unwilling guests that looked far, far more powerful than anything he could dream of trying. He was so, so doomed. To the point that being tossed roughly in a similar cage was almost a relief so he wasn’t right beside the ghost anymore.

First task was struggling free of the no longer glowing net (deactivated somehow? weird.) which wasn’t too hard, but just left him in his freaky ghost form, in a cage, in the middle of who knew where. The Ghost Zone, that’s what they kept calling it. Not Earth. Fantastic! That’s enough to get a C-, but not enough to get him out of this cage. Reaching through the bars was out, the unexpected shock had him rubbing his hand and grumbling to how having some invisible field between the bars was just unfair. At least let him see it before hurting him more. Now what? Grasping that feeling that let him walk through walls wasn’t letting him through the cage floor, just like how the net wouldn’t let him out.  Floating just reminded him of getting dragged here. So that was it. Why did he have to get stupid dying powers? They didn’t even do anything useful!

Stressing out and not finding a way out was an exhausting way to spend a few hours. He kept thinking of new problems, like he didn’t have enough already. When the robot wandered past, he almost grabbed the bars to get closer. “Hey! Screw head!”

The ghost actually looked at him, the stern face looking more confused than anything.

“Yeah you! You know I’m gonna like, starve to death in here, right?” Danny had no idea how he was managing to say something he was very terrified of coming true like it was a joke. “Kind of a waste, don’t ya think?”

“You will be fine, ghost child. Your pleas for freedom won’t fool me.”

“Wanna bet? Maybe we’re so rare because we all starve to death in this dumb ghost world or whatever.” That and there probably weren’t too many people dumb enough to get shocked to...sort of death. “That and like, you’re some freaky machine man, you probably don’t know anything about eating to start with.”

Skulker kept staring at him, as if doing that would suddenly reveal all his secrets. “Well I prefer live specimens, but I suppose I could always do with another rug.”

Oh gross! “Seriously? Do I look like rug material to you?”

“Wall art?”

Yup, he was gagging now. The very idea a ghost would want to do that just made his spine want to shake right out of him with disgust. “I’d be way out of place, all of the other ghosts here look like animals! You’ll just gross all your hunter buddies out.” Maybe if he pretended to be some know it all like Jazz the ghost would...reconsider making him into wall art? Uurk. What was his life that he even needed to think that?

At least that got the metal monster pondering, massive hand scratching at his chin. “I do wonder if your pelt would only show half of your nature.”

“How about we don’t test that and say we did.” He’d seen some of the knives on the way in and did not want any of them near him thank you very much. Not that he had much of a choice- oh man he really, really did not want to learn why Sam hated the fur industry this way. “Pretty sure I’d just die. More. Or something.”

“Oh, but you’ve seen the other pelts on the way in. They’ve still got enough of a spark to not melt to nothing ghost child. I’m not that sloppy.”

Oh so he could be barely aware wall art. Even better!  What would he do, skin him alive or just crush him? Both? “Humans don’t melt.” It was all he could think of blathering out. Don’t think about what the terrifying ghost guy can do Fenton, just don’t.

“True...unfortunately I don’t have another subject to test on.”

Score one for being a unique sort of freaky ghost kid. Maybe. “Soooo how about you just bring me back and rethink the whole uh. Hunting me thing.”

That just got Skulker laughing. “Not a chance whelp.”

“I’m not a whelp! I don’t even fit in with all your monster-things!” It had annoyed him, really. The other ghosts didn’t really...talk? “I’m not some animal!” 

More chuckling, as if amused by a puppy chasing its tail. “Of course you are, with that stench of the human world on you.”

“You think I smell. With what nose, metalhead?”

“None of your business. Not to fear, any ghost here can tell you’re a hybrid. That human body you insist on wearing can be felt even when you’re in a superior form.”

Oh, was this a ghosts thinking humans were animals thing? Or was this a ghosts are kinda racist to different ghosts thing. Was there a difference? He probably should have paid more attention in civics. “Yeah well that ‘human body’ needs food.” He wasn’t even going to touch the idea that he was ‘wearing’ his own body, eeeeugh.

“I’ll figure out a solution to your hybrid failings, child. I won’t let a prize go that easily.”

Greeeeeeat.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

the point in just drowning another day

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Janus murmurs, voice entirely too knowing, entirely too understanding, and Patton doesn't know that he can handle the depth of this empathy. “You deserve to have the support that you’ve been trying so hard to provide.”

Patton is struggling far more than he wants to admit, both with his loneliness and the crushing weight of the mistakes he's made, and it's sending him spiraling. It doesn't help that apparently, his amphibian traits are here to stay.

Content Warnings: depression, mild body horror

Word Count: 6,900

Pairing: Moceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

It is a grey day today.

He hasn’t had one in a while, but he’s sensed it approaching for the past few days, so he supposes it’s his own fault that it hits this bad; he willfully ignored all the warning signs, pushed aside his fatigue and his slowly souring mood, telling himself that he was alright, that he was being silly, that the feelings would pass. And now, the world is grey, the colors leeched from it like a black-and-white film, and a weight sits heavily on his chest, making every breath a struggle.

He needs to get up. He knows this. Knows he should have been up hours ago, that he should be making breakfast, eggs and sausage and pancakes, should be smiling and happy and ready to greet the world. The others are probably waiting for him, wondering where he is, why he’s not there.

Only, they’re not. And he knows that too. For the past month, family breakfasts have dwindled to a rarity; Roman spends all his time in the Imagination, Virgil almost never leaves his room for anything, and whenever Logan makes an appearance, it’s only to grab food and leave, heading back to his work and his planning with barely a backwards glance. Too often, he prepares meals alone and eats them alone, at an empty dining table, the room silent except for the fridge humming in the background. The house is empty and still, and he sits alone with his thoughts and the knowledge that he has failed all of them. That he has no one to blame for this but himself.

If he had been less strict, could this have been avoided? If he had been more open to others’ opinions, open to change? If he had been better at understanding Virgil, less eager to shut out Logan, more perceptive of the issues that Roman tried so hard to hide?

He’s losing his family, has already lost them, inch by creeping inch. And it’s all his fault, and the morning dawns grey and cold, and no matter what he tells himself, he cannot persuade his body to leave his bed.

It’s not that he’s comfortable. He’s not. His mattress feels too lumpy, his blankets too hot, too stifling, and his pillow too soft and yielding. His skin itches, too, itches like it is trying to crawl off his bones, but he can barely make himself move at all, cannot stir from his curled up position. One hand lays near his head, in his line of sight, and one by one, he twitches his fingers, raising them off the mattress before letting them drop again. He tracks the motion, almost fascinated by the way his muscles shift, as much as he is capable of being fascinated by anything right now.

Something about the hand looks odd. It feels odd, too, large and clumsy, almost disconnected from the rest of him. He thinks he should probably be alarmed by this, but he can’t work up the energy.

He needs to get up. He knows this. The hours are slipping away. Soon, it will be too late for breakfast at all.

He lies there and thinks instead. Thinks of all the harm he’s done lately, to Thomas and to the rest of them. Thinks about how Virgil has pulled away from him, how he skipped over Logan’s contributions, somehow convincing him that he doesn’t care about him. How he’s been fighting so hard against the idea that Deceit and Remus could help Thomas at all, how he labelled them as the things that make Thomas bad, only to find out that Janus, at least, has been advocating for Thomas the whole time, and if that is the case, perhaps Remus, too, is not nearly as terrible as he’s always believed.

He thinks about the bitterness on Roman’s face as he sunk out. The disbelief in his voice, the betrayal, the pain. He thinks about the fact that he hasn’t seen Roman since, that Roman has locked the door and refuses to answer, no matter how much he pleads and apologizes.

He lies there, carried by the grey day haze, and thinks that apologies don’t really amount to much, in the end, because apologies don’t fix anything. They don’t reverse time, don’t repair shattered trust or heal deep wounds. At best, they are a bandage, helpful when the injury is small but utterly ineffective otherwise, and these wounds are like vast chasms rending them all apart.

Patton thinks that he might be the bad one. Bad for Thomas. Bad for his family.

So maybe, he should just stay here. Should stay in bed, away from everyone, at least until he figures out what to do, how not to hurt them anymore, but really, wouldn’t they be better off without him as a whole? Without him there to impose his rules, his black-and-white mentality that has done so much damage? He has tried so hard, these past few weeks, to adjust his worldview, to make room for change, but how much does it really matter when he has already broken so much?

Not that he has much of a choice right now. He can’t get up.

So he lies there. Minutes blend into hours blend into seconds, and he has no idea how much time passes. Surely it is afternoon by now. He hopes everyone found something to eat.

His skin itches.

He’ll be fine, eventually. He is well aware of this, well aware that grey days pass, like melting snow revealing blooming spring flowers. Except, not like that, not exactly, because these days, the melting snow seems to reveal nothing but cold, hard ground, frozen through. But it is easier to walk on ground than through snow, easier to smile and laugh and pretend that everything is alright, to tell yourself that everything is alright, when you don’t have to fight just to walk, to keep your balance.

It’s repression. He is well aware of that, well aware of the consequences, of the toll this takes on him. He does listen when he is told about these things, even if it might take longer for the message to sink in, for the rest of him to catch up to what his brain already knows. But he can’t deal with his own problems right now, not until everyone else is alright again, and really, most of the time he thinks he’s got a lot of nerve to have problems at all. He’s the one who hurt them, so what right does he have to be acting this way, like he’s the one with a broken heart?

The grey thickens. Tears blur his vision. He feels like he’s inhaling thick fog, like every breath comes in hard and labored.

He could stop breathing, if he wanted. He’s not human. He doesn’t need to breathe to exist.

It’s tempting. Tempting to just… stop. To discorporate his human form, to spend a few days as an automatic function, to spend a few days without remembering, without worrying, without the guilt that is a constant weight on his shoulders. But it would be a reprieve he’s done nothing to deserve.

His skin itches.

He doesn’t expect the knock at the door. Under any other circumstance, he might jerk in surprise, but his body is held fast as if by molasses. So he lies there, looking at the door through half-lidded eyes, and wonders if he’s supposed to answer. He doesn’t think he can, doesn’t think his mouth will cooperate long enough to form words, and his tongue lies thick and unwieldy behind his teeth. If he doesn’t say anything, will they leave? Assume he’s sleeping, perhaps? Or will they come in and see him like this, miserable and drowning and unable to do something so simple as sit up in bed?

He doesn’t know which option he likes less.

It doesn’t matter, though, because the door cracks open, bright light spilling in from the hallway, and he has to squint at the figure silhouetted there.

“Patton?” someone asks. Janus’ voice.

He doesn’t reply. Can’t. Maybe if he says nothing, he’ll leave it be. He’s not up for a debate, or for wading his way through another moral quandary. Janus seems to like both of those things, and lately, Patton has been more than happy to engage with him, to draw out sharp words and sharper smiles and occasionally, genuine laughs that do something to his stomach. Janus has been the only one willing to spend any time with him at all, these days, and he cherishes those moments, gathering them up like fallen leaves and clutching them to his chest as a reminder that he still has a purpose, that he can still make this right.

But not today. He can’t do this today.

Janus steps into the room, closing the door behind him, and the vague hope he’d mustered deflates, like a sad, punctured balloon. That’s what he feels like right now. A sad, punctured balloon. A sad, itchy, punctured balloon. And Janus is going to see that he feels like a sad, itchy, punctured balloon, and he doesn’t know why, but the idea sends an ache radiating through his chest.

“I could sense you lying to yourself,” Janus says, but his voice is far softer than his words would imply. “Are you alright?”

He blinks, slowly. He supposes that it’s fairly obvious how he feels, fairly obvious that he’s not alright. And even if it weren’t, Janus sniffs out lies like a bloodhound on a trail.

“Feel not great,” he manages. It takes a monumental effort to force the words through his lips, and they hang heavily in the air, thick and distorted. “Sorry.”

Janus crosses the room and kneels on the floor next to the bed, holding steady eye contact. His eyes are mesmerizing, one brown and one gold, both staring with an intensity that Patton wishes he could find it in himself to return. His expression is cool and blank, but a small divot presses between his eyebrows, and if Patton had the willpower, he might try to smooth it away.

He doesn’t, though, so it’s a moot point.

“You don’t need to apologize for the way you feel,” Janus says. “It’s alright to be sad.”

He understands that. He does. They did a whole video about it, once, back when things were so much simpler, the stakes so much lower. Back when he still felt secure in his ability to guide Thomas well, to help him be the good person that he knows he is.

But how can he explain that he doesn’t feel sad? That he feels nothing but grey and empty, disconnected from himself and his body and his emotions, left with nothing but constant ruminations on the past and all the ways he’s messed up. Even his guilt feels distant, like it’s surrounding him but unable to touch, kept at bay by the grey cloud swarming his thoughts and dulling his vision. He wishes he felt sad, wishes he felt guilt, that steady companion, wishes he could feel anything at all. But he is an empty container, filled by nothing but swirling grey smoke, no substance there at all.

And he can’t get up.

Janus lets out a slow breath, brow furrowing even further when he doesn’t respond. He reaches forward and takes his hand where it is lying on the mattress, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles in a soothing, repetitive pattern. It would feel nicer if he took off his gloves, if he allowed skin to skin contact, but Patton won’t push for that, wouldn’t even if he had the strength to make the words leave his mouth.

He’s not sure what he did to deserve any comfort at all. Especially not from Janus, who perhaps has the most right out of anybody to hate him, after all the years he spent pushing him to the side and calling him evil, who he still hasn’t properly apologized to, not really.

Perhaps he’s here to see if he can get him out of bed. Breakfast has long since passed, but perhaps there’s still time for a late lunch, if he could muster up the motivation to prepare it. And Janus does represent Thomas’ self-preservation, so it would make sense for him to want to make sure that all of the sides are doing their jobs.

But for a long time, Janus says nothing at all. Just holds his hand, lightly traces patterns into his skin.

“Is there anything that I could do to help?” he asks eventually, voice low and earnest. It is almost enough to banish the grey, if only for a moment, because it has been so long since any of the others trusted him enough for this question, trusted him enough to help him or to ask him for help, and he wants to say yes, wants to ask him to spend time with him, to watch a movie, maybe, or cat videos on the internet, because nobody’s done that with him in weeks, and he’s so, so lonely.

But then he remembers why he’s lonely, why they’re avoiding him, and the grey filters back in. Because it’s his fault, and if he cannot face the consequences of his actions, then what good is he as Morality?

So he makes a noise, one that comes out halfway between a grunt and a whine, and hopes that’s good enough to appease Janus’ question, to make him feel that he’s done his duty.

Janus frowns at him, and his hand stills. Patton expects him to pull away, but instead, his grip tightens slightly, and he tugs Patton’s hand toward him, inspecting it. Patton watches, vaguely confused, as his frown deepens, and he pushes back the sleeve of his pajama shirt to look at his forearm.

“Patton,” he starts slowly, “are you aware of…” He trails off, gesturing, and Patton stares at him, trying to read his meaning in the lines of his face. It’s something he’s concerned about, clearly, which makes Patton think he should be concerned too; maybe even alarmed, seeing as the point of contention seems to have something to do with his arm. He can’t work up anything more than a mild curiosity, but that is enough to get him to angle his head to look at what Janus is referring to.

At first, he doesn’t notice anything wrong. He feels an odd dissociation from the entire limb, as if what he’s seeing isn’t attached to his body, much less something that should concern him. And the more he stares, the more unreal it appears. But eventually, his gaze drifts to what Janus likely believes to be the issue: his skin is covered in mottled patches of green, each blemish appearing stretched and dry and flaky. They itch, too, itch just like his entire body has been itching, and if these blotches are the cause, his entire body must be covered in them. As if in response to his consideration, the itching, scratching sensation increases, almost enough to motivate him into movement.

His body is so heavy, though, and his mind so sluggish. This seems like something he should care about, something that should scare him, and the fear is there, he thinks. But it’s lurking beyond the grey fog, and it can’t touch him.

“What is it?” he murmurs, or at least tries. It comes out sounding more like, “Whazzit?” but it’s intelligible, at least.

Janus runs a finger down his arm, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down his spine.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks.

Patton stares. What is he supposed to say to that? He doesn’t much care to know about anything right now; all he wants in this moment is to bury himself in the covers until this horrible emptiness goes away.

Maybe it will be gone by dinner. Maybe he could make dinner. Make dinner for people who aren’t going to eat it. Stick it in tupperware in the fridge and let it go bad because nobody but him is eating it.

“Itches,” he says, his eyes slipping closed. “Don’t feel good.”

As he says it, the grey slides away a bit, as if it were waiting for such an admission, and the overwhelming influx of sensation catches him off guard. It’s more than just an itchiness; it’s a tightness, too, like his skin is a bit too small for him, and he is struck by a need to squirm and scratch. Something is wrong, he realizes, and the fear that is creeping into the corners of his mind is worse than the grey emptiness, because even though his brain has begun to process the world again, his limbs still feel too heavy to move, his chest too constricted to bring in enough air.

He whimpers. Janus sucks in a breath, and he opens his eyes again to see that he’s changed position, has shifted to sitting on the edge of the bed rather than kneeling on the floor, and is leaning over him, arms hovering above his body but not touching.

“I’m going to help you sit up,” Janus says, “unless you have any objections.”

Patton does not, in fact, have any objections. The grey is receding far faster than it came on, leaving him at the mercy of all the fear and sadness and guilt that he’s been contemplating, and with each passing second, his panic grows, because his body is not cooperating with him in the slightest and something is wrong.

Janus gently pulls him upright, and he slumps forward, all of his weight crashing onto Janus’ chest. Janus appears to take this in stride, wrapping his arms around him in a hug that Patton would very much enjoy if he could return it, but his arms refuse to listen to him, hanging by his sides like limp, bloated noodles.

“You don’t currently feel like you have an outlet for your emotional distress,” Janus says starkly, bluntly. “You’ve been repressing it in an effort to focus on fixing your relationships with the others, but the fact that that is going nowhere only worsens your state of mind.” He pauses. “The last time you experienced an instance of  severe emotional distress, you turned into a giant frog. It is… possible that after that display, Thomas now associates you with… amphibian-like traits, shall we say, to a degree, just as he associates me with snakes.”

His breath catches, and the memory comes flooding back in full force. The terror, the awful sensation as his body transformed, as his mind worked at a fever-pitch, desperate and confused until he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, until he resorted to such terrible tactics to try to work everything out, until he lashed out in anger and pain and hurt Thomas--

He can’t hurt Thomas. He can’t. He can’t do this again. He won’t let himself do this again.

The itching increases, like millions of tiny needles being jammed into his skin over and over again. He needs to calm down, he knows, because if he’s going to stop this he has to be calm, but the grey has abandoned him to his emotional turmoil, and he tries desperately to press it all down, because he knows that repression is bad but it has to be better than this, better than turning into a monster again--

“I think some healthy, open-ended discussion would do you some good,” Janus continues. “So, not that I care at all, but if you wanted, we could-- Patton? Patton, you need to calm down.”

He’s trying. He’s trying, but he can’t, and it’s too late, because he can already feel it happening, can feel his body begin to twist and warp and change no matter how hard he tries to stop it, no matter how hard he tries to ground himself, to keep himself human. And Janus is saying something, something loud and urgent, but his voice rings and echoes and Patton can’t understand a word of it.

So he closes his eyes and stops fighting it. There is a single, gut-wrenching lurch, and his hands hit the bedspread as he fumbles for balance, and then everything is silent. He should open his eyes, should face the music, but he doesn’t want to see Janus’ expression, whether it be anger or fear or disgust or scorn. And he doesn’t want to see the mess he’s surely made of his room, the destruction, like last time, doesn’t want to open his eyes and find that he’s looming over everything else, that he’s cracked his ceiling and crushed his bed.

“Oh,” Janus says. His voice is still oddly echoey, and Patton can’t interpret his tone at all. “Oh. Well. Ah, I totally expected this. Definitely. Um. Oh, gosh.”

Is he flustered? Surely, that can’t be right. He’s pretty sure that Janus doesn’t do flustered. But he has to know, now, has to look, so he opens his eyes.

He expects to be looking down. Instead, he finds himself looking up. It is Janus that towers over him, rather than the other way around, Janus that towers over him with unmitigated shock written on his face. Patton blinks, just to be sure that he isn’t seeing things, and as he does, his brain helpfully provides him with a million other things that are wrong with this picture; the ceiling, for instance, is miles above him, and his bed is as vast as an ocean.

He tries to speak, tries to ask what’s going on, but all that emerges from his mouth is a shrill squeak. He attempts to stand, then, or at least sit up, but every effort sends him sprawling on all fours, his limbs clunky and uncoordinated and unfamiliar. His panic mounts as he finds himself unable to do much of anything at all, and he flails, trying to attain some amount of control.

“Oh gosh, okay,” Janus says, and leans down. “I know this is scary, but you’re fine, I swear. Actually, honestly swear. You’re going to be absolutely fine.”

Everything clicks then, and Patton goes still, staring at his own limb stretched out in front of him, long and thin and green and four-toed. He’s a frog, he realizes. A tiny frog. His whole body feels so odd, so different, out of place and completely foreign, and it’s because he’s a frog. Not a weird, giant, humanoid frog monster, but an actual frog.

He focuses back on Janus and squeaks again. For some reason, Janus’ right cheek reddens.

“Fuck,” he mutters, glancing away, and Patton would chide his use of language, but he’s pretty sure by now that he can’t talk. “Okay, um, you’re not cute at all, so don’t even ask. But this is definitely not normal, and it will definitely last for a very long time. Accidental transformations always do.” He frowns, tilting his head slightly before shaking it. “You know what I mean. Which is to say that I myself am occasionally a snake, so I know what I’m talking about.”

He blinks. He didn’t know that Janus could actually transform into a snake, though now that he reflects on it, he supposes that there’s no reason why not. It makes him wonder just how much more he doesn’t know about him. How much he never bothered to learn.

Okay, so. He’s a frog now. A small, squeaky frog. So, this is a lot better than he thought it would be. And Janus is implying that this will wear off eventually, so he can just… stay here, right? Stay in bed, not bother anybody else with this? Wait until he changes back? Bit by bit, the fear drains out of him, leaving him exhausted. And with the fear gone, the adrenaline dissipating, the grey creeps back in. Not as bad as it was before. But enough so that remaining in bed for at least the next few hours sounds very, very appealing.

He looks up at Janus, his eyelids drooping, and tries to convey that he can leave now, that he’ll be fine with just… sitting here for a bit, on his covers, until everything goes back to normal. However long that takes. However that’s supposed to happen. He should probably be more worried about how to reverse this, but now that the terror of the moment is over, he finds himself willing enough to allow things to happen as they happen. He’s not sure he could marshal the energy to force himself to change back even if he knew exactly how.

“Wait here a moment,” Janus says suddenly. “I’ll be right back.” He stands and sinks out directly, and Patton watches him go, vague disappointment filtering though his mind. Sure, he didn’t want Janus to think that he is obligated to stay with him, to deal with the mess that he is, but some part of him had hoped that he would stick around anyway. The grey seems to lift, a little bit, with someone else by his side, seems to shy away from the warm presence of another person’s voice.

Minutes pass. Or perhaps it’s hours. He has long since given up keeping track of time, and in the middle of a bed that is far, far too large, in a body that is entirely familiar to him, Patton feels himself begin to drift.

But then, Janus comes back, rising up in the middle of his room, a laptop tucked under his arm, several blankets thrown over it. Patton rouses himself with some effort, staring as Janus approaches, gently placing the laptop and blankets on the bed.

“I thought we could watch a movie, if that’s alright,” Janus says, and pulls a DVD case apparently out of nowhere, holding it up for inspection. It’s The Aristocats, the title written in swirling golden letters, and Patton can’t help but let out a croak in surprise. Janus shrugs, glancing away.

“I figured you would like this one,” he says. “I mean. Disney and cats. So.”

The right side of his face once again flushes a bright, cherry red, and even like this, even in this fugue-like state, Patton is absolutely touched. Not only that Janus cares enough to remember what he likes, but also that he wants to spend time with him? That he would drop any other plan he might have had to watch a movie with him, presumably to help him feel better?

He didn’t know that frogs could cry. But tears well up in his eyes, and he blinks them away.

“Just an idea,” Janus says, his eyes going wide. “We don’t have to. We could pick another movie! It would be such a problem to pick something else!”

No!

Patton wants to scream, wants to shout, because he’s misinterpreting his tears, because in this moment, Patton barely has the strength to want anything at all, and yet there is nothing more that he wants than to watch this movie with Janus. But he can’t speak, can’t make his vocal cords produce anything more than squeaks and croaks, so he pushes past the grey to do the only thing he can think might work.

These limbs are unfamiliar to him. But he knows a few things about frogs, knows how far they can jump. So jump he does, surprising himself with the power in his own back legs, and launches himself at Janus, who flinches, stumbling back, but too late to prevent Patton from sticking his landing, right on his cheek.

“Oh,” he says, stammering. Patton is certain that he has heard Janus stutter more today than in all the years he’s known him. “Um. What?”

Patton takes a moment to breathe, and to comprehend the fact that his feet are literally sticking to Janus’ skin. He adjusts himself, settles in more firmly, and then lets out a loud, intentional croak.

It’s all he can do. He just has to hope that Janus understands, understands that he doesn’t want him to leave, that he doesn’t want him to change a single thing.

“Oh,” Janus says again. He takes great care not to move his mouth much, takes great care not to dislodge Patton, and it would be enough to coax a smile out of him, if frogs could smile. “Are you… is this alright, then?”

He croaks again, and the muscles in Janus’ cheek twitch as he resists a smile.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get it set up, then, shall I?”

And he does, popping the movie into the laptop’s disc tray and wrapping himself in soft blankets as he settles against the headboard. He arranges the blanket in an odd way, creating a series of folds on his shoulder, and it is not until he gestures at it that Patton realizes that it is meant for him, that Janus purposefully made a place for him to sit. He jumps down, almost falling before he steadies himself, barely preventing his limbs from tangling with each other, and snuggles into the soft fabric, reveling in the way it brushes against his skin.

The grey is still present, still pervasive, filling him with an emptiness, with a void. But the void itself has filled a bit, filled with warmth, with the knowledge that Janus is doing this for him, even if he doesn’t quite understand why.

The movie begins to play. He turns his attention to the screen, and even though his mind wanders, slips away at some points, he does feel a little bit better, a little more present, a little less like he wants to stagnate in his room forever.

Janus is quiet throughout the first stretch of the movie, though Patton can sense him shooting him glances every now and again. But as Duchess meets O’Malley for the first time, he speaks up, face forward, eyes fixed on the screen.

“The first time I transformed was confusing,” he murmurs, as if to himself, though surely, he hasn’t forgotten that Patton is there, that Patton can hear him. “Thomas was so young, and I didn’t know what was happening. The scales had been appearing for a while, but I never thought that I could change so completely. It was a moment of emotion, frustration at not being heard, when Thomas got in trouble that a white lie easily could have prevented. One minute I was having a meltdown in my room, and the next I was a snake.” He chuckles a bit, as though the memory is fond, though it doesn’t sound that way.

How much distress was he in, Patton wonders? How confused was he, how scared, his body warping and changing and no one at all there to help him?

“This is all to say that I’ve since learned to control it. I’d demonstrate, but I hardly think that turning into a snake while you are a very small frog would put your mind at ease.” Janus sighs, fiddling with the bottom of his capelet. “But you can learn to control it, too, provided that these traits stick.”

Patton wishes he could say something, anything at all. But his voice is gone, twisted so that small sounds are the only thing he can produce, so he stays quiet, listening to Janus talk. In a way, it’s a blessing, the inability to respond. None of the impetus of the conversation is put on him, so he feels no pressure to muster up replies that would surely be lackluster, given his emotional state, or lack thereof.

“But that’s not really the point right now, is it?” Janus says softly. “The more pressing concern is why you transformed this time. You must have been on the verge of it for hours, subconsciously holding yourself back from it.”

He shifts. He’d woken up itchy and uncomfortable, his mind buried in the grey and unable to do anything about it, unable to move at all, much less rouse himself into action. He hopes that this won’t happen every time he has a grey day. He can’t afford to lose time like this. There’s too much to do, and though grey days are bad enough on their own, he can force himself to work through them, sometimes, when the haze isn’t too strong. He can’t do that if he’s always turning into a frog when he gets overwhelmed.

“I do hope you know that your feelings are just as valid as anyone else’s,” Janus says, and Patton stiffens. “To be sure, you messed up, and the others have every right to be upset, but I challenge you to find any one of us that hasn’t accidentally screwed everyone else over at some point.” He pauses. “Or even on purpose. Which you are assuredly not guilty of.”

The words buzz in his head, vibrating in the fog, and Patton’s not entirely sure that he understands what Janus is saying, not entirely sure that he has the energy to try. What do intentions matter? Messing up is messing up, and even if he didn’t mean to, he’s hurt everyone in the mindscape. If it wasn’t anything to be upset about, he wouldn’t be upset, would he?

“And of course, it’s not like they’re to blame for this at all,” Janus continues. “It’s not like they’re being immature, hiding away in their rooms and refusing to confront their problems.” He shakes his head. “Patton, you have to understand that it is not your job to ensure their emotional competence. All you can do is try your best, and if they refuse to meet you halfway, that’s on them, not you. You shouldn’t blame yourself when you’re obviously doing everything you can to own up to and fix your mistakes.”

Patton croaks, the denial ripped from his throat. He’s never seen it that way, didn’t think that he could see it that way, but Janus’ voice is streaking the grey through with yellow and gold, forcing him to confront the root of the problem in a way that he never has before.

“There is no such thing as a perfect person,” Janus says. “You’ve learned that by now, learned that Thomas himself is nowhere near flawless. But that applies to you as well. You’re allowed to make mistakes, to learn and grow from them. No one should expect you to be right one hundred percent of the time, and that includes both yourself and them.”

Once again, his eyes well up with tears, and this time, they drip down, splattering onto the blankets.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Janus murmurs, voice entirely too knowing, entirely too understanding, and Patton doesn't know that he can handle the depth of this empathy. “You deserve to have the support that you’ve been trying so hard to provide.”

He falls silent, then, the movie still playing but long since forgotten, and Patton has to take a moment to absorb what has just been said.

He’s not too hard on himself. He can’t be. Everything he’s said and thought these past few weeks has been true, completely and utterly; it was his mistakes that drove the others away from him, and it is his responsibility to correct those mistakes. And if the others don’t want to see him, don’t want to talk to him, then that’s fine. It’s their right, and he doesn’t blame them at all, can’t possibly blame them when most of him believes that they’re right to do so, right to avoid him, because after everything, he can’t possibly deserve--

Oh.

But Janus says he does deserve it. That he deserves help, that he deserves support. Who, then, is right?

“Think about it this way,” Janus says, as if sensing his struggle. “If your positions were reversed, if, say, Virgil had messed up and everyone was avoiding him, would you think that’s what he deserved?”

Well, of course not. Everyone deserves love and support, even when they make mistakes, because--

Oh.

The realization comes crashing down with the force of the loudest thunderclap, and something deep within him twists, wrenches at his heart and at his stomach, and all the breath is knocked out of him as he suddenly finds himself falling forward, landing hard on Janus’ lap, arms and legs achy and all too human. Janus yanks his arms out from under the blankets to catch him, his lips parted in surprise.

“But I hurt them,” Patton says, the words ripped from him as if by force, desperate, like the world might just crumble into pieces if he doesn’t get an answer. “I hurt all of them, so much.”

“And their hurt is valid,” Janus says. “Each one of them is entitled to their anger and their pain. But Patton, so are you.”

He bursts into tears at that, the dam breaking at last, and he lurches forward, flinging his arms around Janus’ neck and burying his face into his shoulder where the blankets have slipped away. Janus makes a startled noise, and then brings his arms up to embrace him, holding him tight and close as he runs the gamut of all the emotions he has been pushing back.

“You’re loved,” Janus says. “They all love you, even though it may seem otherwise right now. They love you, and they’ll be ready to show it again, in time.” He pauses, and his next sentence carries a strange weight, a slightly different tone, a reticence and a rushed eagerness all at once. “And I love you, Patton. Please don’t forget that.”

He sniffles. “Even though I’m getting snot all over you?” he asks into his shirt, and Janus laughs, startled.

“Even so,” he answers. “It’s snot an issue.”

Patton gasps, thrilled despite himself. He still can’t bring himself to display the reaction he would normally have, but he manages a weak smile. “Pun,” he says, voice still muffled by fabric.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Janus says. “I would never in my life crack a pun. Lies and slander.”

Patton pulls back a bit, enough to see his face, and is shocked to find that he is crying too, though he looks much more dignified than Patton is certain he does. For a moment, his heart fills with an overflowing, overpowering love, and before he can think better of it, he leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. Janus’ breath hitches, but Patton doesn’t back down, staring him straight in the eyes.

“I love you too,” he says, and in the moment, doesn’t know exactly how he means it. Just that it’s true, and right now, that is enough. “Thank you.”

He pours all of the sincerity, all of the emotion that he is capable of right now into the words. He needs Janus to understand how much it means that he is here, with him, willing to help him and to hold him.

Janus stares at him with something like affection and something like awe.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says. “Not for this. Never for this.”

And Patton sighs, shifting position until he is leaning against Janus’ chest, tucking his head under his chin and turning his head so that he can see the movie. It’s almost over by now, Edgar receiving his just desserts.

“I still don’t feel great,” he murmurs, because he doesn’t. Better, now that he’s let his emotions out, now that he is human, now that he has someone with him, holding him, caring about him, loving him, but the grey still hovers around him, still lands heavily on his chest and in his head. If human contact were enough to solve it all completely, that would be a wonderful thing, but the greyness isn’t so simple, isn’t so easily banished. He doubts he’ll be able to gather the energy to make dinner tonight. He may not even feel better by tomorrow morning.

But Janus is with him, supporting without judgement, and that makes all the difference.

“That’s alright,” Janus says, kissing the top of his head. “You don’t need to be. Would you like to watch another movie? And by that I mean actually watch, not leave it on in the background as we discuss deep, abiding emotional issues.”

He manages a shaky laugh at that. “I’d like that,” he whispers. His voice emerges hoarse and thick, and it takes too much effort to get the words out. “Could we do Tangled?”

“A terrible choice,” Janus says, and summons the DVD with a wave of his hand, reaching around Patton to place the disc in the laptop. The title screen begins to play, and he adjusts the blankets so that they are both fully covered, and Patton curls into his side as the narration starts.

He still feels bad, and he knows he has so much more to work through. But the deep, aching loneliness has abated somewhat, and he knows that the greyness will fade away too, eventually. Until then, he has Janus here, with him, wrapped up in soft blankets, a comfort movie playing for both of them, and confessions dancing in the air between them, spoken but not quite elaborated on, not yet. And that’s alright, because there’s time, because the sun always shines brightest after the rain has passed.

He sighs, snuggles in closer, and allows himself to simply be.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer

[into-the-afterlife]

Why I Ship Johnny/Female V Part 3: V, and You, and Me

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

I’ve spent a lot of time in this essay series so far focusing on one half of the pairing. Johnny is fascinating, but he’s only one half of the dynamic. So what about V is interesting? Why does she stand out as a character, in the context of this pairing?

Across different ships, I’ve noticed a consistent pattern. There tends to be one character that the fandom focuses in on to thirst over and one that the fandom imagines themselves being. In this ship, the thirst-character tends to be Johnny, while the self-insert character tends to be V. And that’s not surprising, considering that V is essentially our self-insert into the world of Cyberpunk 2077. It’s also worth noting that people who engage in shipping and transformative fandom tend to be predominantly AFAB, myself included, and it makes sense that when writing sexual stories we’d want a self-insert who has our anatomy.

But fans being AFAB doesn’t usually impact what ships are popular. Shipping is infamously dominated by M/M couples who are, ninety percent of the time, cis. Usually, that impulse to self-insert results in an exaggeration of top-bottom dynamics rather than genderswaps or increased focus on M/F couples.

And the thing about V is, she isn’t just a self-insert. In fandoms focused on open-world RPGs, there tends to be some focus on the player character. However, that focus tends to be limited to the Tumblr-ish, transformative end of fandom. One of my other favourite video game fandoms is The Elder Scrolls. There, people avidly draw and discuss their versions of the protagonists on Tumblr and AO3. But on Reddit and Facebook meme pages, the focus is much more on the other characters, the lore, the worldbuilding.

In this fandom, though? I’ve seen more Vs on Reddit than I have on Tumblr. On Reddit, you’re bombarded with beautiful screenshots of V after V. On Tumblr, there’s tons of new names for V, lovingly thought out backstories and more. And when I see V being shipped with Johnny, V is almost always depicted as female, despite there being an option for a male V and despite the norms of shipping favouring a male V.

So it’s clear that female V inspires more affection than most RPG protagonists. Part of that is to do with Cherami Leigh’s voice acting that I covered in Part 1. But I also think there’s a lot in V’s writing that influences things this way.

CD Projekt Red’s writers are known for focusing on character and plot over worldbuilding in their writing. There’s no, ‘I used to be an adventurer like you...’ in their games, no blank-slate hero or awkward, generic background dialogue. Instead, their other protagonist, Geralt, reacts to chasing after goats and weird children and ancient beings as his own person. The world he inhabits is similarly richly drawn, with even the most bland of background guards discussing gimps and birthdays.

There’s also no black-and-white morality. Even in The Witcher games, their fantasy series, the morality leans much closer to Game of Thrones than The Lord of the Rings. This means that their characters are always three-dimensional. Their first true RPG is actually Cyberpunk 2077. Oh, sure, they’ve done games with rich worlds and lots of sidequests, with skill-trees and moral options, but they’ve always had an authored character, with his own slants and biases. Even when Geralt picks the moral option, he’s likely to be cynical about it, and he always leans towards being a grizzled libertarian who’s Done With This Shit at heart.

Despite their provision of a relatively blank-slate character in this game, this influence lingers on in Cyberpunk 2077. One of the big critiques of the game at launch was that the much-hyped lifepath system felt clunky and didn’t have much of an influence on later gameplay. It’s true that the backstory sacrifices some smoothness of plot and introduction to the world.

But what it gets rid of in those aspects, it makes up for in characterisation. No matter what path you choose, V is never an anonymous prisoner, a mysterious courier or a long-forgotten colonist. She has a clearly defined context, and real roots in the world around her. Even after you move past the prologue, V has the network of people around her you’d expect for someone already embedded in the world. After you’re shot, you don’t just go to some random ripperdoc; you go to Vik, her regular ripperdoc and friend. You don’t get the tarot sidequest from reading an anonymous shard; you get it from Misty. Jackie dating Misty suggests that he introduced V to Misty and Vik. V getting to know them through Jackie feels natural, and just like the kinds of close communal networks that spring up in large cities. Meanwhile, the unique dialogue options for each lifepath keep reminding you that V had a life before you met her.

And that’s true even for the other dialogue options. Here’s a minor, early-game set of dialogue choices from Cyberpunk 2077:

And here’s a similarly minor, early-game set of dialogue choices from a recent RPG that shares a lot of tonal and thematic similarities with Cyberpunk – The Outer Worlds:

Notice the difference in attitudes allowed by each set of dialogue options. The player character of The Outer Worlds has the opportunity to respond compassionately, snarkily or lie for their own advantage. Deception is specifically highlighted and controlled by a skill tree, and each dialogue choice has its own tone and flavour. Meanwhile, all of V’s dialogue choices can be interpreted as some kind of attempt at deception. They’re also all written in the same voice. While The Outer Worlds offers matter-of-fact kindness, brevity and colourful imagery, V’s dialogue choices all share sentence fragments, spunkiness, bluntness and emotional volatility. No matter what choices you make, V’s attitude and voice always stays the same.

The way dialogue choices are controlled is also worth examining. There seem to be more choices on the surface in Cyberpunk, but a full half of them are controlled by skill trees. Level V up differently to this YouTuber, and they may not even be available. The skills themselves also betray a lack of choice here. While speech is split into five different skills in The Outer Worlds, and the skill used here is directly named ‘Lie’, in Cyberpunk 2077 the skills are simply named ‘Reflexes’ and ‘Cool’. That’s partially due to differences in RPG mechanics, which is beyond the scope of this essay. But look at the names themselves. While The Outer Worlds singles out deception, and bluntly names it for what it is, Cyberpunk 2077 frames quick thinking and bluffing as simply part of the reactions and social attitudes required to survive in Night City. Even the very names of the game mechanics are coloured by V’s attitudes.

While V’s status as an independent character is coloured by CD Projekt Red’s previous experience, it’s definitely not an accident. They had an entire trailer dedicated to answering the question of who V is. For the question of whether V keeps her own personality to be compelling, V has to have a personality in the first place. And in the Temperance ending, the emotional impact of seeing V as an NPC in cyberspace, as well as the final, long shot of V’s face on the bus, depends on you having built up a relationship with her as a separate character. She’s a fascinating mix of self-insert and defined character, and purely from a writing perspective, breaks a lot of new ground for RPG protagonists.

But back to the subject at hand: shipping. She’s just self-insert enough for you to imagine yourself as part of a heightened reality, as someone blisteringly witty, quick-thinking and intelligent. And feeling competent and confident, whether in the real world or in-game, brings you back into your body and makes you feel confident enough to pursue what brings you pleasure. But V’s also just enough of her own person that you can care for her and want her to be happy. That combination of affection and wish fulfilment is what the best ships are made of.

Another huge part of V’s popularity in the Cyberpunk fandom comes from the way gender, or the lack of it, interacts with her characterisation. Of course, you can make her look and dress however you want; that’s one of the beautiful things about RPG protagonists. But her lines and interactions with other characters, thanks to them having to be voiced by male V as well, are refreshingly gender-neutral. To understand this further, let’s take a look at some concrete examples.

Cyberpunk 2077, particularly during the prologue and Act 1, takes a lot of inspiration from Grand Theft Auto. Fast cars, exciting crimes, the obligatory strippers and prostitutes; they’re all there.

These kinds of gritty, sexualised game worlds have attracted criticism from feminist media analysts for normalising violence against women and normalising extreme violence as the default and desirable way of responding to the world. What I think about these takes would take its own essay to get into. But the part of these critiques I do agree with is this. By having protagonists in these worlds always be hypermasculine cis male protagonists, and by having victims of crimes and sexualised characters always be cis women, these worlds repeatedly and unnecessarily sideline anyone who’s not a cis man from imagining themselves having power and agency.

However, where Cyberpunk 2077 differentiates itself from other examples of these game worlds is its lack of gendered differentiation for its protagonist. Ninety-nine percent of the time throughout the game, male and female V voice exactly the same lines. This means that if you choose to play as female V, female V is characterised exactly the same way as male V.

Let’s take a look at some concrete examples of this. The biggest is V’s relationship with Jackie. It’s rarely that you see a male-female friendship that stays as platonic as this one does in media, and I welcome it. The quest called ‘The Ripperdoc’ demonstrates this, in the conversation when Jackie and V drive to see Vik:

Jackie [with relish]: ...I got a date - me and Misty.

V: You don’t say...

Jackie [confidentially]: She’s soooo sweet. Really gets me, y’know?

Jackie describes his relationship with Misty in respectful terms, and isn’t afraid to detail the emotional aspects of his and Misty’s connection. But he doesn’t hold back on the macho bragging either. In these lines, and especially in the pleased, suggestive tone of the first line, it’s clear he’s proud to be the kind of guy who could date someone like Misty. The presence of both of these attitudes together shows that Jackie both trusts V and considers V a part of his traditional-masculinity-valuing world. It’s less ‘not like other girls’ and more ‘not like other mercs’.

Similarly, while V’s first interactions with Johnny do draw from highly gendered relationship dynamics, the actual content of V’s responses undercut any feminising this would give her. Here’s one exchange from ‘Playing For Time’:

Johnny: The fuck kinda joytoy are you supposed to be?

V: Fuckin’ ghost off!

Johnny calls V a whore. Before and after, he physically hurts her in ways that, in my opinion, have a highly sexual undertone. But the crucial bit is how V responds here. She neither responds in a helpless, damsel-in-distress sort of way, nor in a defiant, sassy heroine way, where she might take the gendered insults and own them or prove them wrong via physical prowess. In fact, she doesn’t react to the gendered aspect of Johnny’s comment at all. Where a game with a Strong Female Character (TM) would use gendered jabs to refocus attention on said character, Cyberpunk blows them off to focus on the reality of this particular character’s situation.

Outside of V’s closest relationships, this gender neutrality can also be seen in the wider world of Night City. Dexter DeShawn is one of the most tropey, Grand Theft Auto-esque characters you meet in the game. As such, he’s one of the best barometers for how gender interacts with the ‘usual’ state of the world. And how does he react to a female V?

The answer is, not at all. He addresses her as ‘Ms V’, but that comes across as less about her and more about him being high up enough in the world that he can afford affectations. Her gender simply isn’t relevant. While this is increasingly common in pop culture, it’s still rare in worldbuilding like this, where gender is all too frequently used as a lens through which to explore violent, chaotic worlds. In a type of world and tone where gender roles are traditionally emphasised , V slips past those roles and is allowed to exist beyond them.

But why does gender neutrality make V more appealing to ship? To answer that fully, it needs to be combined with my next point.

V is also compelling to ship because her characterisation gives a safe platform from which to imagine her being vulnerable. What I mean by that is this. The main aspect of V’s characterisation in canon is her status as a merc. How you experience her life, through gameplay and through the situations she gets into, is through her skills at hacking, sneaking and killing. You don’t just witness her competence, daring and toughness; you share in it.

When writing fiction that focuses on romantic relationships, one of the toughest balances to get right is that of competency and vulnerability. Any good romantic arc involves watching a character’s barriers come down, seeing how they react to the other person when they lay aside their protective pretences. But this can’t happen too soon, or too much, for either the protagonist or the love interest. Competency and assuredness are huge parts of what makes someone attractive, and they’re also huge parts of feeling like you can come out and play, sexually speaking. Even for the biggest submissive on the planet, the submission has to be a deliberate choice to be hot.

Taken together, V’s canonical characterisation and the possibilities and conventions of fandom provide the perfect balance of those two qualities. Canon makes it clear that V is capable and strong. When you or I imagine our Vs with Johnny, that buildup of ‘competence capital’ makes it feel safe enough to imagine V vulnerable.

And that safety is vital when shipping any character with a character like Johnny. This is where the gender neutrality I talked about earlier comes into play. Imagining V vulnerable feels safe. So does imagining V in a dynamic with a guy who’s a tropey bad boy. Because V is written in such a gender-neutral way, it lets the player enjoy all the deliciously dangerous aspects of her relationship with Johnny without the distractions that may come from feeling disempowered. It also refreshes all the clichés of Dangerous Guys, making their impact feel fresh and new again. Her ability to walk the line between wish fulfilment and independent characterisation inspires simultaneous identification with her, affection for her and boosts in confidence for the player.

This is why she’s compelling to ship. Johnny brings in the familiar emotional arcs of classic tropes, while V makes them new. So what happens when you put these two characters together? Just what about the way they bounce off each other has inspired the majority of fic and art in this fandom?

That’s what I’ll talk about next time.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]