#every single page in looking glasses is a work of art

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Happy 1st anniversary to Looking Glasses by @ferronickel :) (edit; whoops forgot to remove the space in the tag, sorry i know you've already seen it haha)

[dudethatsmyundeaduncle]

DP X DC AU Danny & The Little Dead Girl

(title pending lol, Danny and Curare adventures pt 2!) Pt 1 here My AU art

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Monday comes, as it is won't to do, and Danny has to go to school which means the baby halfa has to come to school too.

" ok, so, one rule for today, big rule, you gotta be quiet in class. Uh-"

Danny pulls his phone out of his pocket as their bus hits a pot hole. Sitting right at the front means they catch the momentum first and he has to hold Curaré against his side lest she go flying into the aisle.

A couple voices grumble behind them at the jostling as Danny gets his text to speech open.

" Necessitas ser quieto en clase. ¿Entiendes?" The Google robot lady voice translates for him.

Curaré blinks at him from behind her little paper face mask and looks from the phone to him curiously.

This is the game they've been playing since last night, Danny says something in English robo lady repeats it in Spanish.

Danny doesn't know if Curaré understands how the phone speaks or even that it does but she's giving him her favorite little blank expression so he assumes she gets it. At least, she hasn't really disagreed or disobeyed anything he's asked of her yet so...not gonna look that gift horse in the mouth Danny boy!

..

School goes well, mostly.

They get through the metal detectors and bag checks at the front entrance just fine. The security guards barely glance at Curaré once they confirm she isn't hiding a Glock or something under her shirt. Which it's kinda sad to know gun control is a cross-dimensional American problem but it's on brand if nothing else Danny thinks.

They get to first period without stopping at Danny's locker and settle down in two desks by the back door. This is Danny's usual spot, well usual as of a month ago, it's mostly empty back here now but Danny used to have a seat partner.

(A seat partner who had a kind of shady tweaker vibe that Danny would have been worried about but that kid went home early one day and never came back so....it's Curaré's seat now.)

The little dead girl looks even littler sat in the desk-chair combo, she can barely see over the top. Danny stacks three dictionaries under her for a boost then he gets her set up with some pencils and paper and the single highlighter he found on the floor his first day here.

Curaré seems vaguely interested in his offerings ,after Danny shows her how to use them to mark the page, and starts creating cautious marks of her own.

She keeps glancing back up at Danny as if to confirm that this is still fine? And he nods his head every time trying to be encouraging as it becomes obvious that nobody taught this kid to write inside Fosters Home for Real life Assassins. Which Danny thinks is poor planning on there part because really? If your Assassin can't write how the fuck were they supposed to leave ominous threatening warnings? Or fake suicide notes? Or any number of written props to flesh out a cover story.

Whatever, obviously the assassins raising Curaré sucked ass all around so he can't say he's surprised but he is majorly disappointed.

As the bell rings for first period a whole slew of teens rush in ahead of the teacher Mr. Berk. Simple guy, grey beard, coke bottle glasses, smells like Vics vapor rub, the works.

He's like the most chilled out version of Mr. Lancer ever so he's alright in Danny's books. Plus he only has one "rule", as long as your butt is in your seat by the time he calls your name for attendance he won't mark you late. In Gotham, where everyone and their brother has enough late marks from shitty public transportion to get detention, it's a pretty sweet rule.

So Mr. Berk takes attendance like usual and only pauses on Danny and Curaré in the back for a brief moment.

Curaré stops drawing and stares down Mr. Berk like he's the T rex from Jurassic park. Frozen in place and without breaking eye contact. He stares back at her completely unphased.

" A small visitor then?" He says.

Danny nods. " My sister"

" Mhm" Mr. Berk says already moving on to the next student on his roster.

Danny breathes out huge sigh of relief, that was so much easier then he expected.

They more or less repeat this exchange the whole day. Mondays suck ass because it's one of the only days Danny actually has all 6 periods, but they make it through 1st, 2nd, and nutrition unscathed.

By lunch time Danny thinks they might actually be home free, if no one is gonna bring up the whole freaking child tagging along with him then he can probably just bring her with him everyday.

Maybe he can find her some work books and she can learn the alphabet? And addition? That's like on track for 4 year olds right? Danny can't remember being 4 but that feels right to him. He will educate the child in his care like the responsible almost adult he is. She will go to college!

At lunch Danny sits them at the back of the school right next to the teachers lounge because it's mostly deserted.

In Danny's exprience the best place to hide is in plain sight. He's been sitting here everyday since he enrolled himself and the teachers have never noticed him. Their way too busy trying to get any kind of break from teaching high schoolers to be concerned.Which Danny is greatful for because he has broken the rule about using his cell phone at lunch 50 times at this point.

Listen he has to do universe research when he has access to wifi! Which he only does at school. The administration should be glad he's using his lunch period to educate himself really.

So they eat by the lounge. Danny has Curaré face away from the door so she can take off her face mask and eat unencumbered.The cut on her face is still gnarly, it looks an almost enflamed purple as it tries it's best to heal.

Danny had given Curaré a little immuno-boost with his own ecto the night before to try to speed up her healing factor. But like any Halfa, basically just Danny's personal experience, you have to nourish the ghost half and the human half in equal parts to heal all the way.

It's not until home room, period 6/7, that the metaphorical straw breaks the metaphorical camels back. or the real straw to the metaphorical camel? Did camels even carry straw? where would it go? Between there humps? Not important Fenton!

Home room was a grade A disaster.

Mr. Perez, Danny's kind of ancient home room teacher, who was for almost all intents and purposes blind, had a freaking nose for trouble. It's like he could sniff out vapes and cell phones as soon as they hit the stale class air. Danny thought this would be the easiest class by far, Mr. Perez wouldn't even see Curaré let alone smell her.

And at first it seems like he doesnt, Mr. Perez takes attendance and skips right over Danny and Curaré with no fanfare.

Danny thinks that's the end of it and starts to breathe easy until 15 minutes before the final bell when Mr. Perez' TA asks him to step into the hallway with her for a second.

Danny generally liked Mr. Perez's TA, her name was Sabrina Kahn and she was the kind of girl Jazz would have hung out with.Straight laced, wore argyle cardigans, read books, the smart sort. She looked Jazz's age too, maybe 21ish and she always rolled her eyes when people gave dumb answers in class.

She looks a little embarrassed to be speaking to Danny which immediately sets him on edge.

" It's okay that you brought your little sister today but, I'm sorry, you won't be able to do that again. A bunch of your teachers made complaints with the front office and Mr. Perez got a call about it ..."

Sabrina had always been nice to him and now she was about to ruin his whole week.

" But Ms. Kahn-" Danny started.

She gave him a sympathetic look " Lemme guess, your parents can't take her to work so this was the next best option?"

Danny closed his mouth and nodded, that was actually a much better lie then he was gonna tell, thank you Ms. Kahn. ( But also Boooooo curse you Ms. Kahn!)

" Here, I know it can be hard to find childcare for metas, especially ones as ah-vibrant as your sister. My brother had the same trouble with my nephew."

Sabrina hands Danny a flyer, it's still warm from the printer, it looks like it's just a screenshot of an email.

"Thanks?"

The TA rolls her eyes, wow a lot like Jazz then.

" It's the address to that daycare and a referral. They only take kids by word of mouth, they're kind of... off the books. But their good people! I hope they can help you Danny."

The paper is on off yellow, as Ms.Kahn heads back into homeroom Danny feels all his hope go with her. Shit, what was he gonna do now? He looks through the little glass window in the door to the back where Curaré sits, she's already watching him. He tries to smile at her, be reassuring, he's not sure it works.

......

When the bell finally rings Danny picks Curaré up and puts her on his hip to avoid her being crushed by the rush of high schoolers who stampede out the door in front of them.

The flyer from Ms. Kahn feels like it's burning a hole through his pocket as they ride the bus towards the Narrows.

Danny cased the house from the flyer with maps street view as well as he could. It showed a skinny sublet house across from a small strip mall and laundrymat.

Inconspicuous sure, maybe even innocent looking but well...you could never tell in Gotham, all the buildings looked sort of evil by default. It was probably because of the gargoyles and the general low level stink fog that seemed to always be out.

The big city™ really made Danny miss the suburbs of Amity Park more then just the regular gut wrenching home sickness. Oh what'd he'd give to take a deep breath of air and not inhale the smell of piss when he walked down the street.

They get off the bus at the corner a block from the daycare.

Danny holds Curaré's hand which makes for slow going but seems like the right thing to do. She's never wandered off but Danny didn't want to give her the opportunity to either.

As he helped her climb the three short stairs up to the house Danny was suddenly hit with a wave of panic.

What the fuck am I doing? Am I really gonna take care of this freaking Halfa ghost baby for the next 18 years? Im not even an adult! I work weekends at BatBurger for minimum wage WTF?

Danny's hands began to sweat and his stomach cramped. Oh fuck, here was the existential crisis he'd been waiting for since he first decided to take Curaré from the leagues super secret baby basement.

Oh shit he couldn't breathe, what was he gonna do! OH fuck think!

What would jazz do? Call child services and offer psychological support. Not Uber helpful in this case Danny didn't know the first thing about psychology and Gotham CPS was actual prison.

What would Sam do? Assassin babies are hella counter culture but maybe find a cool rich eccentric family to adopt them? Nope, not gonna work Danny only knew one eccentric rich girl and she was a whole dimension away. FUCK THINK FENTON!

What would Tucker do? In this situation ask Google, homeschooling is big these days so maybe if you leave her in the apartment while your gone with an iPad-

" Hey you alright there dude, can I help you?"

Danny choked on the end of his anxiety panic badbadbad spiral and looked up.

The front door to the house was open and just inside the threshold stood a younger teen, maybe 16? With the kind of fade haircut Tucker always whined he couldn't pull off and a bright yellow hoodie.

Danny held his breathe for a moment making sure he felt it burn up his lungs and throat before letting out a big sigh.

" Yeah, yeah sorry kinda zoned out there I'm just uh kinda nervous I was told to come here for Daycare help for my little sister?"

Curaré looked at the stranger in the doorway with the same wide eyed blankness she stared at everything with. Funnily enough she was still holding Danny's hand, had held on through Danny's entire mental meltdown too despite the ecto sweat. Danny felt oddly touched by the gesture, even if it was more likely that the little girl wasn't bothered by his crisis then her being sympathetic.

The teen in the Yellow Hoodie raised an eyebrow at Danny as he fumbled the paper from Ms. Kahn out of his pocket to hand over.

Yellow Hoodie took it and looked between it, him, and Curaré.

" You're not a cop right? You have to tell us if you're a cop"

Danny made a face, " no, I'm not a cop! I would never be a cop, cops suck."

" Right." Yellow Hoodie said still suspicious " So you wouldn't mind if I called your referral up?"

" Be my guest dude."

The teen pulled out his phone and made sure to keep steady eye contact with Danny. Who could do nothing except not look away during this, the world's most impromptu staring contest, until Yellow Hoodie put his phone away.

" Just wanted to see if you were bluffing. Sabrina called earlier said she'd sent someone our way but you can never be too careful. Come on in. "

Danny felt the wind go out of his sails for the second time that day, what was with people and making him anticipate the worst.

.....

The inside of the house was old, homey, but old. It had very obviously been well lived in by a few generations of children, easy to see from the scuffed floors, chipped crown molding, and the sheer number of framed photos that hung on the walls.

There were signs of new life about too, some toys scattered on the floor, walls that were covered in butcher paper and crayon as high as little hands could reach, and oddly enough some scorch marks. Although, Danny's supposed that an unlicensed daycare for meta kids worth it's salt ought to have a least a few burn marks. For posterity if nothing else.

" I'm Duke, I volunteer here when I can but the place is run by the Mariscos, Mrs. Marisco specifically. She's been in the game for a long time" Duke nee yellow hoodie said as he stopped them in front of a closed door.

The hand made sign on the door said Office in nice scribbly lettering and it was hung on with a peg and twine. Real kitschy.

Danny could just make out the sounds of kids playing in another part of the house and was a little impressed that Duke had managed to keep Danny from seeing even one tiny tot during the impromptu house tour.

" I gotta go help Izzy with the kids, this is Mrs.Mariscos' office just knock before you go in, she might be on the phone."

Duke nodded to Danny, smiled down at Curaré and disappeared down the hallway.

Leaving Danny and Curaré alone in front of a closed door once again.

Danny looked down at Curaré and she looked up at him, she was characteristically silent.

" This feels like a job interview, did you bring your resume? "

Curaré blinked.

" Yeah, me neither. But I think if we both give her puppy eyes maybe our combined under aged-ness will activate her maternal instincts and she'll be forced to accept us?"

The nerves were back, they had never really left but now they had settled like a rock at the pit of Danny's stomach.

He couldn't bring himself to knock on that office door just yet so he fussed over Curaré instead. Kneeling down he straightened the collar of Curaré's hooded jacket and moveed her little backpack strap back up her shoulder where it had slipped.

" We got this. It's you and me now remember, even if this blows and you have to come to school with me for the rest of year it's you and me." Danny rested his hands on little shoulders and hung his head. " Jeez, I sound like my mom"

"No need to be so nervous Mijo! My Chiqis never met a kid she could turn away."

Danny's neck had never snapped up so fast in his life.

Curaré hadn't been looking up at him at all. No, Curaré was staring up towards the elderly woman floating near the ceiling.

Which was not great, because Danny for all the time had spent in Gotham had never seen another ghost. Not a single one.

Which was unsettling on its own but not bad per se, he'd thought maybe this dimension was just different, not enough spectral energy to manifest a ghostly body.

But no, again nope, this was so much worse.

No ghosts was easy enough to reationalize but one ghost? One ghost meant there was enough spectral energy, one ghost meant something was really really wrong with Gotham.

Because if there was only one ghost in a crime ridden pissed off city like this where the shit were all the others?

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

Yo! Just wanted to say thank u for all the support on part 1, did not expect people to like or care about it lol. Anyway back on bullshit, I've had this written for a while but didn't have the insp to post it until now.

Might write more, might not, you get one bat cameo for reading this time ur welcome.

Forgot to add this to the first post, it's in the reblogs, but TLDR Curaré is an assassin from batman beyond.

Note: if you wanna see cool art for this AU check the Danny and the little dead girl tag on my blog!

[campgender]

from In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado (2019)

In Dorothy Allison’s short story “Violence Against Women Begins at Home,” a group of lesbian friends gathers for a drink and they discuss a bit of community gossip: a pair of women recently broke into another woman’s house and trashed it, smashing glass and dishes and destroying her art, which they deemed pornographic. They spray-painted the story’s eponymous phrase on her wall. The friends debate police involvement and intragroup conflict mediation; but toward the end of the story, as they are parting ways, the problem crystallizes into a single, telling exchange:

“Look, do you think maybe we could hold a rent party for Jackie, get her some money to fix her place back up?”

Paula looks impatient and starts gathering up her stuff. “Oh, I don’t think we should do that. Not while they’re still in arbitration. And anyway, we have so many important things we have to raise money for this spring—community things.”

“Jackie’s a part of the community,” I hear myself say.

“Well, of course.” Paula stands up. “We all are.” The look she gives me makes me wonder if she really believes that, but she’s gone before I can say anything else.

Queer folks fail each other too. This seems like an obvious thing to say; it is not, for example, a surprise to nonwhite queers or trans queers that intracommunity loyalty goes only so far, especially when it must confront the hegemony of the state. But even within ostensibly parallel power dynamics, the desire to save face, to present a narrative of uniform morality, can defeat every other interest.

The queer community has long used the rhetoric of gender roles as a way of absolving queer women from responsibility for domestic abuse. Which is not to say that activists and academics didn’t try. When the conversation about queer domestic abuse took hold in the early 1980s, activists gave out fact sheets at conferences and festivals to dispel myths about queer abuse. [see footnote 45] Scholars distributed questionnaires to get a sense of the scope of the problem. [see footnote 46] Fierce debates were waged in the pages of queer periodicals.

But some lesbians tried to restrict the definition of abuse to men’s actions. Butches might abuse their femmes, but only because of their adopted masculinity. Abusers were using “male privilege.” (To borrow lesbian critic Andrea Long Chu’s phrase, they were guilty of “[smuggling patriarchy] into lesbian utopia.”) Some argued that consensual S&M was part of the problem. Women who were women did not abuse their girlfriends; proper lesbians would never do such a thing. [see footnote 47] There was also the narrative that it was, simply, complicated. The burden of the pressure of straight society! Lesbians abuse each other!

Many people argued that the issue needed to be handled within their own communities. Ink was spilled in the service of decentering victims, and abusers often operated with impunity. In an early lesbian domestic abuse trial, a lawyer noted the odd and unsettling detail that most of the time the jury spent behind closed doors was—contrary to what she’d been worried about—the straight jurors attempting to convince the jury’s sole lesbian member of the defendant’s guilt. When she was later questioned, the lesbian juror told the lawyer that she hadn’t “wanted to convict a [queer] sister,” as though the abused girlfriend was not herself a fellow queer woman.

Around and around they went, circling essential truths that no one wanted to look at directly, as if they were the sun: Women could abuse other women. Women have abused other women. And queers needed to take this issue seriously, because no one else would.

footnote 45: Among the myths tackled by the Santa Cruz Women’s Self Defense Teaching Cooperative: “Myth: It’s only emotional/psychological, so that doesn’t count.” “Myth: I can handle it—unlike her last three lovers.” “Myth: Staying together and working it out is most important.” “Myth: We’re in therapy, so it’ll get fixed now.”

footnote 46: Actual questionnaire language by researcher Alice J. McKinzie: “Is your abuser present at this festival? If your abuser is at this festival, is she present while you are filling this out? If your abuser is not present while you are filling this out, is she aware that you are filling out this questionnaire? If you answered NO to the question above … do you plan to tell her later?”

footnote 47: This No True Scotsman fallacy could bend these narratives in every direction conceivable; create a kind of moving goalpost that permitted an endless warping of accountability. In a firsthand account of her abuse in Gay Community News in 1988, a survivor wrote: “I had been around lesbians since I was a teenager, and although some of them had troubled relationships, I was unaware of any battering. I attached myself to the comforting myth that lesbians don’t batter. Much later, when I was ‘out’ enough to go to gay bars in a town that was liberal enough to tolerate them, I saw that some lesbians did indeed batter. However, I thought they were all of a type—drunks, sexist butches or apolitical lesbians—so I decided that feminist lesbians don’t batter.” Activist Ann Russo put it more succinctly in her book Taking Back Our Lives: “I had found it hard to name abuse in lesbian relationships as a political issue with structural roots.”

[martyfive]

i lay in bed sick for two weeks straight. first there’s body temperature i never knew was possible for a human to have, then there are coughs that feel like they may be the last ones i could ever have in my life, then there’s weakness, then my five year old phone falls down from the bed ending up completely broken, then the bed sheets become something i couldn’t bear to see anymore. then i get up, go outside and unexpectedly find myself at the offer of a somewhat steady part job at this small italian restaurant we’ve been visiting every sunday sharp for the last year and a half except for these two weeks i spent lying sick in bed. we are leaving the bar for the night when R. asks me if i’d like to help her at the bar a couple hours a week.

“i have no experience or anything,” i say, feeling extremely daft. “i’m not even sure i can talk to people properly. i never really could.”

“it’s okay,” she says. “you’ll be polishing the glasses. it’s not hard. i’ll teach you everything.”

on our way home A. says, “it could be good for you, you know. being among people and trying something new,” and i feel like he’s right.

at this point this small restaurant already feels like another home i want to belong to. going there every sunday for so long totally helped with that. they have one of my works i gave them as a present for christmas on the wall. it hangs up above the table me and A. occupied the first time we ever came to eat there. the frame contains pages from a sketchbook i used to draw in while visiting italy five years ago. it feels too personal, but also somehow on it’s place. i hate to hoard the stuff i create. i want to be bolder.

regretting my life choices, i spend all what’s left from my last year’s salary on a new phone. it’s a first phone i bought without anyone’s help. it costs more than i deserve.

i can’t find any will to start drawing again after being sick for two weeks.

a couple days later i go to the restaurant to ask R. about the time i can get to work. she says, “this thursday, 6:30 pm,” and then adds, tugging on my star wars hoodie, “and put on a black shirt, if you have one”.

so i find one that looks like A. has been wearing it during his teenage years when he looked more like a stick than a human and i go for the job that for the first time in my life has nothing to do with any kind of art except the art of making cocktails i still keep messing up. a couple hours a week somehow soon turns into ten as normally as “polishing glasses” turns into “doing everything there is possible to do as quickly as possible”.

“would you like to do thirty hours a week?” R. asks one day looking hopeful as if i hadn’t broken ten of their glasses in the first five days of work.

“my back is gonna die sooner than you expect it to if i agree to that,” i answer. and it really is the only reason i don’t say yes.

i soon notice there is no time to think of anything else except the work to be done while i am behind the bar once again forgetting the difference between prosecco and chardonnay or picking the ice from the ice machine or freezing in the giant fridge while looking for the specific crate of beer everyone in this town drinks more often than water. the countless amount of crates are brought from and to the back room. the ten glasses are crushed, four of them in my own hands just from squeezing too hard on them. i cringe about every single one of them before falling asleep after coming home around midnight with my aching back and more money than i ever earned drawing pictures. i think about that one time my friend told me that once you start working in catering, there’s no way back. i haven’t talked to her in a while and i can’t ask her if she still thinks it’s true.

i still can’t draw. i guess it will pass. i still cough although i’m trying not to be loud when i’m behind the bar.

“you smoke?” R. asks. “i do. i just don’t have time.”

“i’ve been smoking since i was sixteen. but not anymore really,” i say to that. “when my mother calls me, then i smoke. but that doesn’t happen very often.”

M. laughs at that as if he understands what i’m talking about and says, “with this job, i either smoke a cigarette or kill somebody,” and i laugh with him.

M. is the chef and the restaurant is named after him. he cooks so good there is surely nothing better i’ve ever eaten in my entire life. i hear all about it from guests while picking the dishes from the tables, smiling and pretending my hands are not shaking. he and R. speak to each other in loud italian and i like how they sound even if i only understand a couple words from their dialogues.

“what’s allora?” i ask one time.

R. looks at me like i’m the only one who ever asked her a silly question like that, “huh,” she says, “i don’t know. it’s like here we go or something like that,” and she smiles.

i like talking to her. for some reason i like asking her questions and seeing the surprise on her face. she’s five years older than me but i feel like a child around her. she also has her birthday in november.

“all my family are scorpions,” she says after revealing the fact that there’s ten days between our birthdays. she names at least ten of the members of her family and all their november birthday dates in a row.

i say, “the parties must be hilarious when you all gather together.”

more often i feel like she’s my serious boss i keep disappointing with my every move but at the end of the shifts she turns into what feels more like a friend. i secretly hope i can be her friend one day even though it seems like she knows the name of every human being in this town and even some other nearby towns and doesn’t really need any more friends than she already has. but after all, i’m a part of this town now, too.

“what is your favourite thing to do here here at the bar?” i ask the other day.

she looks puzzled for a second, “maybe serving fish,” she says and this time it’s my turn to feel surprised. i saw how it’s done, and i don’t really know what she means.

“i thought it’s talking to people or something,” i say.

“nah,” she waves her hand, “it’s just my job, you know.”

i regret entering this territory but i still ask, “would you better like to do something else? some other job?”

“nah,” she says again, smiling, “i like it.”

and i like it too. horrifyingly, i like it too much. thinking about sitting at home and drawing stuff like i used to do all my life feels like a torture. it surely is one when i pick up my tablet and pencil and stare at the white canvas not knowing who i am anymore. there is nothing in my head i want to say. there is nothing my hands can do. i have no idea why. i want to go back behind the bar and ask R. what her favourite colour is.

“i’m proud of you,” A. says one night while we’re going back home from the restaurant where he got his two beers and one glass of whiskey i poured for him myself. he spent two hours sitting at the bar not far from these three teenage boys who have been drinking an enormous amount of beer and playing cards and then trying to guess where i come from according to my accent. “i’m proud that you’re doing good and you found something that you like so much.”

i buy two black shirts and jeans. i take my old black coat out of the wardrobe. i walk for two minutes from home to the bar and back looking fancier than ever. i feel happier than ever. i don’t look at my social media. i feel like this rotten sadness and loneliness that occupied my head for so long has nothing to do with my life now. i wonder if it’s just a phase. i consider finding a new therapist just to ask them if it’s okay to feel this good or i should be medicated before it’s too late. i want to go to bed at proper hour, wake up earlier, spend the day feeling good and then go to the bar and ask R. stupid questions and be stressed about the things i can control. i look at my workplace at home, at the white canvas that reflects nothingness in my head, at everything i have ever known, and i don’t know what to do.

i go back to work.

“you like it here?” M. asks almost every time. “is everything okay?”

“everything’s okay,” i say, smiling. and i mean it.

someone’s ordering an espresso at 11 pm. R. says, “tell them the coffee machine is already off,” turning it off while saying it. i laugh. i feel happy. i go home knowing there’s gonna be more work to be done tomorrow. i miss drawing stuff. i have nothing to say. i fall asleep thinking of the ten glasses i broke. in the morning, i can’t draw. i used to draw most of my stuff at the evenings and during the nights. now they are full of beer glasses and beer crates and adhd people who want an espresso before bed.

i ask myself if that really is how growing up feels like. i ask myself what i am going to do if i will not be able to draw a single piece of art ever again. i read the email of the person who wants me to draw an artwork for them. i wonder if they should know i’m an imposter who can’t draw anymore. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i go to work.

there’s a wedding at the restaurant. i once again bring what feels like an endless amount of bottle crates from the back room to the bar. i smile. i talk to people. i wipe the tables. i polish the glasses. i pour beer into them.

“my back hurts,” R. says.

“willkommen to the club,” i tell her, although for some reason my back doesn’t really hurt.

someone orders a beer and then changes their mind after the bottle was already opened.

“it’s yours if you want it,” R. says. “your shift is over anyway.”

and i stay. i sit at the bar as if i don’t really work there. i drink my beer, i talk to R. while she puts the new napkins on tables, makes sure everyone from the wedding paid what they had to and lets me ask her my questions. i pay for another beer, taking money from my fresh salary. R. rolls her eyes at that but allows me to pay anyway. she’s not a boss anymore. just… a friend. i tell her i don’t wanna go home.

“i can see that,” she laughs. “do you have friends here in town?” she asks.

i look at the bottom of my glass.

“no,” i say. there’s a lady on our street i sometimes walk our dogs together with. she’s as old as my mother. i always forget the names of her three kids although they’re all around my age. i wonder if i should mention her. “i have friends in other places. you know. not here.”

“i can be your friend here,” she says, smiling.

i feel like it’s the happiest day of my life. i’m also a little drunk on schwarzbier. even if my back would hurt i wouldn’t have noticed.

“if you need someone as me as a friend,” i say, “then. yeah. sure. uh. why not.”

we talk some more. the beer tests my language skills. i tell her i want a new tattoo. she says she got the first one when she was sixteen and it was a horrible butterfly.

“what is your favourite colour?” i finally ask.

she looks really baffled at that, then pulls out her phone. “i guess it’s red,” she says, showing me some of photos from her instagram where she’s younger than me now and is dressed up in red. “see, it looks good on me,” and she’s right. “but white is also good. and pink. and maybe purple. not black though. with my black hair, it doesn’t look good at all.”

we’re both dressed in black for work.

i come to the conclusion that colours are the least important thing in the world to her. that’s okay. i think about all the years i spent trying to make colours work. i wanna say something, but end up saying nothing.

she turns the lights off and locks the restaurant up. we spend a couple minutes walking in the same direction to our houses. i tell her about the name my friends from other places are calling me. i don’t tell her why it’s different from the one she saw on my id card. i’m not that drunk. she says she’s gonna use it from now on. she kisses my cheek before we part. i was at school the last time someone did that.

i go home. i sit at my workplace. i answer to the email of the person that wants me to draw an artwork for them from a new phone i spent enormous amount of money on. for a second i wonder if i should still tell them i’m an imposter and my career will be over by the morning when i wake up sober.

i think about the ten glasses i broke, then let myself forget about them. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i draw.

29/02/2024

[justporo]

Bookcases

A comment and a comment reblog inspired a thought (thank you!) - @kruczecycki and @notabot2.

Let me try and paint a picture for you that I feel like might represent Astarion as well as his aesthetic:

Astarion always had had a thing for, well - things. But of course they weren't just things. They were works of art, they were memories, they were opportunities, they were collectibles.

And one of his favourite kinds of things had always been: books. So once he'd had the opportunity, he'd gotten bookcases - up to the ceiling, filling a whole wall. And maybe even a whole room sometime. Because they filled up so quickly.

It wasn't a single genre dominating but rather an eclectic collection of everything that peaked the vanpire's interest. Poetry, history, novels of all kinds (and of course every Drizzt book he could find), journals, collections of letters, even encyclopaedias.

To the untrained eye, it might have been nothing but chaos because it followed no definite order. But it wasn't a mess at all. Astarion always knew where everything was. For every book, he could tell you where and when he'd gotten it and give you at least an outline of what it was about.

Every single volume was always handled with care, no matter if it looked (and probably was) centuries old or was brand new. But still every book was meant to be taken out, to be read and experienced, not only to be looked at in its neat place high up on the shelf.

Between and in front of the books, where the space would allow, there were more things. Little things, pretty things. Things that were aesthetic to look at or things that reminded him of pleasant memories. A small bronze statue, a mechanical clock under a glass cover ticking away, a small portrait painting of no one really, a framed old map of Baldur’s Gate, pressed exotic flowers. In some places you had added little somethings for him as well: a plant maybe and a small painting you had gotten painted of the two of you, a neatly lettered version of his favourite poem in a frame.

Whenever you looked at Astarion's bookcases you were immediately ensnared, very much similar to how it felt with the man himself: you didn't even know where to look first. It felt like you could never posssibly take in all the beauty at once.

There was just so much interesting and beautiful stuff, so many intricate details, so many various titles. You could've easily gotten lost in every single one of them. And that was what added so much to the beauty: on the surface, it was incredible to look at, but it was so much more! There was also so much depth and such a caleidoscope of different aspects, each asking to be explored and admired. Every single one of them worthy of your undivided, loving attention.

You liked watching Astarion add more things to his bookcases, as much as to himself: new treasures, different pages, fresh ideas. And then you also loved to listen to him talk about his latest additions and why they were so interesting to him.

Another thing you enjoyed to do was to just look at the huge collection. Tilting your head to read all the titles and softly letting your fingertips wander over the spines: old and new, cracked and broken, smooth and flat. Then sometimes you would slide one of the huge tomes or several smaller books out of their designated places - you knew you were always welcome to go explore. You liked to snuggle up with them on a nearby seat, getting lost in them for a while with your legs swung over the side of the chair. Maybe find your way into a new world or looking at a new perspective of your own.

But it was even better when you did that together with Astarion. Let him suggest several different possible books to possibly pick. Watch his face light up when he started to talk about them.

And then snuggling up together on the couch, getting cosy and letting Astarion read something to you. Maybe learning something new, find about something you hadn't known before or just enjoying an absolutely made up story - and always learning about and starting to love a new aspect of your vampire.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 solavellan cohabitation enjoy 🌙

It is a long-known, well-tread path he takes. Rising from his slumber, making his own bath in the chamber (filling the tub with ice, melting it, then heating the water to just below evaporation because that takes less time and effort than getting servants do it for him), getting dressed, meditation and stretches, then walking down to the kitchens for a small breakfast to hurriedly eat in his rotunda before returning to his frescos.

It pains him that the stonemason doesn't know that once, ages before, his art covered every crevice in every wall in this place.

What's new on the path is that now, there is somebody else on this journey, changing it ever so slightly every time he wakes.

That now, the mattress is heavy with the imprint of another body; one who shares in his space willingly, enthusiastically. One that even if they sleep turned away from each other, will still hook a long-toed foot around his shin and pull him ever so slightly closer. One that makes sure the fire is bright and his feet warm before laying down next to him.

One that somehow, miraculously, does not invite Desire to his dreams, no matter what unseemly things he dreams of doing with it.

Lavellan sleeps less than he does; he often wakes to see her in her nightclothes, poking at the fire in the hearth before opening the balcony doors and fetching some water from her carafe to soak the soil of her plants. For someone who so easily complains of feeling cold, she has little problem going out in the winter, barefoot and sleeveless.

She has grown her own little forest in their chambers, since coming here; tangy herbs on the west balcony, bountiful hanging vines and tall ferns to keep away the eyes of the people below where they meditate and stretch away the nights aches (among.. more carnal activities, Solas admits).

The bigger of the two, the north balcony, where they sit to eat and read and talk, she decorated with plants from all over the continent and crystals alike. Sometimes he thinks his old magic is the only thing keeping the ground from failing underneath the weight of it all.

When they sit at their little table there, legs of castiron, top of stained glass, and she frowns at him over the pages in her hands, he's never felt more at home here.

A small, vile part inside of him despises her for it, that this enormous, loreful castle, his castle, needed a marred, unknowing woman for him to feel at home in it.

The bigger, gentler part inside of him, however, chants praises in a tongue long lost to time when she laughs at his comments to what she just read; never in mockery, always in soft, loving tones that end up agreeing with him.

She always apologizes for waking him, vowing to fix the creaking door hinges to their dressing room.

"Don't apologize. Being awake with you beats anything I could ever hope to find in the Fade." It makes her blush so deep it rivals the red of her nightgown, every single time.

Today, though, she has a reply for him, as well.

"Even when I'm so feverish you may as well sit in a pond?" It makes him laugh.

"The mattress was not that damp," he says, as he moves to sit on the edge of their bed and pulls her down into his lap. "But yes, even then."

Whatever her feeling the morning at her hip may have brought them, it is taken from them swiftly with a runner and a stack of parchment. Lavellan sighs and stands, though not before kissing his eartip.

The runner can barely look away from her chest, still in her nightgown.

-

They part sooner than he would like. They always do. They hide in the cellar library for their meal, sitting among veilfire candles and tomes older than even him. Sometimes she barely suppresses a giggle at the people going right past the door, looking for her. The Inquisitor's work is never done. It amuses him to no end that even though they do this every day, everyone else seems to forget that door exists.

They never look for him. An interesting turn of events, to be all but invisible inside of his own home.

He cherishes these little moments, when she pulls him close by his shoulders and kisses him over the tray of their breakfast before opening the door, walking upstairs and finding those who searched her in the cellars by her memory of their voices alone with impressive accuracy.

If he asks her at night what all those people needed of her, she will remember little more than their names and how they made her feel. How some of them thought nothing of tugging her along by her arm, looking at her ears and forgetting who she is. They look at me and see a knife-ear to see their will done. They forget I could open up a rift under their feet and disappear them in the Beyond.

She doesn't reply when he notes they might bank on her being too kind to harm then.

-

When she finds him at late at night, well through his fourth candle, still pondering his sketches and frescos in his rotunda, there's a promise of intimacy in her words, even though she carries the exhaustion under her eyes, in the stray hairs from her braids and the crisp smell of winter on her clothes.

"Night has long come, Solas. You've made enough art to last a lifetime, I think." A tug at his clothes, urging him to put down charcoal and parchment. "Wash off the paint, and I'll rub the tension from your shoulders. I brought some sweets up to our room."

He never realizes what sweets she speaks of until she mounts him under her lifted nightgown and presses his face to her breasts, bare from sliding the straps off her shoulders.

When he wakes the next morning, he decides, he will lure her back into the sheets after she opened the doors.

🌙

you can't tell me these two wouldn't smash all day every day if they could.

the fever saga continues ✨️

[sev-arts]

What the webcomic is and why YOU should be reading...

(i.e. a promotional post by the Author @sev-wildfang/@sev-arts herself)

The story of how vampires used Christianity ahem, The Church to enslave humans and steal their Souls, and one sexy Devil's quest to reclaim them... repossess them in a way... if only there was a catchy two-word phrase for that

Starring two trans women who put on the horns and skin of Demons to fight the power - homophobes get pummeled, transphobes get zapped, fascists are blown to smithereens, and at least one alpha male grifter gets his mojo permanently turned off.

Your new blorbos: Reah, orphanage escapee and former nun on a quest for revenge, and Tabitha, ex-cop drag queen on the path of atonement

Will they? Won't they? Can they settle their differences and work as a team? Will the past they thought they had left behind come back to haunt them?

Tasteful amounts of graphic nudity and bloody violence, language that does not sugarcoat social stigmas around gender diversity, and frequent use of hateful language by characters who would say those kinds of things IRL too - this is a comic for readers 18+ ONLY *

Rendered in gorgeous black and white ink and select splashes of color, entirely hand-lettered, with labyrinthine detailing that make every single page worth dwelling on, with hidden extras to find - the Devil's in the Details!

Alluring nonstandard panel layouts inspired by stained glass windows, photo collages, fever dreams, art nouveau advertisements, underground comix, etc.

An astonishing archive of over 770 pages as of now (OCT 2024)

Seriously, look at them:

Where can YOU read this comic right now?

On its ComicFury site

On its tumblr mirror @souls-foreclosed

On its own website

Technically you could buy the physical books off of me, but you wouldn't be reading a web-comic then

Paging @readwebcomicsgdi for some extra eyes on this!

* You'd be surprised how difficult this comic is to host online with any sort of reach these days. Tapas (mobile app) and WebToon don't want it. And that's not even getting into the fact a lot of platforms treat ANY kind of trans content as sexual and unwanted in the first place.

[ferronickel]

Hail, flatter! This one, who is a layperson of the arts and comixcraft, has a query for you:

So like, what is flatting?

I've seen your flats in Wifwulf, and I've read about the flats in Looking Glasses, and generally get that it results in an image with similarly coloured areas sharing the same false-colour.

But like, how is it then used? The final images seem to contain more colours and shading, so why not just go straight to this? Why do false colours get used instead of the real ones? How do you pick the colours and how many get used?

How come this is a thing that a whole other person can do separately? I guess that's because it's time consuming - so it saves time somehow?

Thank you! I come in the spirit of humility wishing to relieve my ignorance of your noble craft!

OHOHOHO!!! You've activated my trap card and now I get to ramble about comics craft! And in my area of professional expertise, too! Be prepared for a long post

I'm going to start with the last part of your question:

How come this is a thing that a whole other person can do separately? I guess that's because it's time consuming - so it saves time somehow?

So the thing about comics is that it is one of the most intensely time consuming mediums to create. One person can make comics on their own fairly easily, but it takes forever to produce. Consider that I've been working on Looking Glasses for 18-19 months and have drawn about 87 pages. Now, the western comics industry expects issues to be produced monthly, generally 24 pages in length. It's very difficult for a single person to work at this rate, so the labor of producing comics has been divided. Generally these jobs become:

Writer (writes the script)

Editor (edits the script)

Artist (draws the lineart)

Colorist (colors and renders the art)

Letterer (adds balloons, dialog, and sfx)

Flatter (sometimes 'color assistant' they take the art and prepare it for coloring)

This isn't comprehensive though, there are a bunch of other jobs, like designers and layout artists. Occasionally the artist job gets broken into Pencilers (who sketch the art) and Inkers (who ink the sketch). Basically, by splitting the work amongst a number of people you can produce comics much faster. Not all of these jobs are required, and creator-owed books might have artists do their own coloring and lettering, while big work-for-hire books might have twice as many people working so they can pump out a spider-man book every other week.

Okay, so why Flatters?

Flatting at it's most basic level is just coloring inside the lines. You take a black and white page of art, and you have to fill in every part of the page that will eventually be colored. It's a pretty time consuming task depending on how involved your lineart is.

Flatting a page of Looking Glasses doesn't take me all that long, usually less than a half hour, which is pretty quick. Looking Glasses pages tend to be... optimized for flatting though. There are only ever a few characters and there aren't a ton of background details.

You mentioned Wifwulf (created by my longtime friend and collaborator Dailen Ogden), here's one of it's pages:

Basically everything that's a different base color, (every tree, plant, bit of moss, character, etc.) needed to be picked out separately. Each page of Wifwulf took me a few hours to flat. If Dailen had been doing that themself, those hours would have really added up, but instead they could spend that time drawing and coloring. Now, that said, these pages have a lot of texture, so it's hard to see exactly what I did.

Here's an example from a comic I worked on early in my career. (Lineart by Patrick Custodio)

The writer for this comic loved to put in these incredibly complex crowd scenes, which is something the artist excelled at drawing. I was coloring and flatting at this point on the book, and before I could even start coloring properly, I would need to flat for like eight hours. (I have a much more efficient method these days) It was frustrating because I just wanted to work on the actually creative part, but the majority of my time was spent on something monotonous. As soon as I got the writer to hire a flatter for me, coloring a page would take me only one or two hours, not nine or ten.

So that's why flatters exist, mainly to ease the workload on colorists.

But like, how is it then used? The final images seem to contain more colours and shading, so why not just go straight to this?

Flatting serves a couple of purposes. It's main function, like I said above, is just coloring in the lines. After finishing your lineart it has to get colored in, so in a layer below the lines, you add colors.

The secondary function is preservation. I like to work in a way that is non-destructive, basically, at any point in the process I can restore an earlier version of the drawing if I make a mistake or don't like something. Flats are integral to this.

In digital art, there's this thing called anti-aliasing, where the edges of a line or shape have a drop off of pixel color or opacity. It makes the edges look smoother or blurrier. The three dots on the left are Anti-Aliased, while the one on the right is Aliased, there's no drop off, just hard pixels.

Anti-aliasing is fine until you need to change the color using the paint bucket, or select using the magic wand...

See how the anti-aliased art doesn't play well with these tools, but the aliased art does? So with something like Wifwulf, the final art is going to be full of texture that makes it impossible to select anything again once it's painted. By having a dedicated aliased flats layer under the rest of the artwork, you can always re-select any part of the image you want.

I always leave my flats layer alone, and do any detail work in layers above. For example when I was painting this, it really helped to be able to select just the titan so I could work on those paints without worrying about brushstrokes overlapping the rest of the characters.

One of the other things you can do with flats is quickly selecting certain elements. On most pages, I flat my panels, figures, and background elements separately. Later, with a single button press, I can select just the characters in the scene, or entire panels at a time, which makes things like shading a whole lot easier.

Why do false colours get used instead of the real ones?

If you're flatting for other people you often don't know what the final colors are going to be, so you just pick random ones. Garish colors can be helpful because it makes it obvious that they're not the final colors. Why don't I use the correct colors on my own pages when I'm flatting? Habit, mostly. It's also faster to grab random colors than to track down the correct ones. Sometimes two different things will have the same final color but I like to flat them with different colors so I can select them individually if I need to.

You can see the process a bit here. In my flats, Lancer's spade (eye? eyes? thing) is a different color from his tongue, even if they end up being the same white in the final image. This would help if I ever needed to select just his eyes for some reason. You can also see how I select his body fur color and then add details on top, like his colored fingers and the grey on his arm. Those elements have blurry anti-aliased edges, and it would be impossible to re-select them without flats.

How do you pick the colours and how many get used?

I use the default "additional color set" palette in clip studio and just work my way through it. I pick row and work my way down (for a change of pace I vary which row I start with). How many is mostly dependent on the artwork. You just keep going until you run out of individual objects to color. I have worked on pages where I've run out of colors on this palette and had to start making up more. Typically a page of Looking Glasses only needs around 20-30, though.

So! That's flatting! It's a little known job, and it's how I got started with my comics career, so I have a lot of thoughts on it. I was trying to be concise (lol), so I hope this all makes sense, but I'd be happy to clarify or answer any other questions about this process. I know I didn't really go into how I flat my work, so I can make that post if anyone is interested.

[everlasting-rainfall]

Hi I read your ocs and I find them interesting , if you have pictures of them I would love to see them , also idk if you call this a request but in the pages keep turning so how would Yandere Koby work ? I’m curious :)

Hey, I’m so very glad that you find them interesting! I’ve been making quite a few more since that post like I’m unsure of how many there are now in all honesty…

I am actually working on some aesthetic boards for them however which will feature their appearances, I only have four done at the time of writing this…

But I’ll probably post them once o have a good few more done! Don’t quote me on that though…

Anyways before I start rambling! Let’s get into your request, darling!

Also in advance, this probably isn’t my best work so please be prepared

!-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT AT ALL-!

!-POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS-!

Delusions, Overly Obsessed Fans, Death of a Fictional Character from a Book, Stalking, Implied Murder (?), More than Likely Out of Characterness

!-POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS-!

!-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT AT ALL-!

So honestly I can personally imagine that how Koby would have gotten into your book series is that Helmeppo got him into the series as romance novels seem right up his alley so it was like they had absolutely nothing to do one day and Koby was bored

In comes Helmeppo having bought the newest book in the series to read, Koby took an interest because it’s something else to do other than sit around and wait for something to happen

Proceed to Helmeppo info dumping about the entire series when Koby asks only for him to stop the blond and request to borrow the books so he could read them

Helmeppo handed them over almost immediately as he was excited to get someone else into this series with him and Koby started his journey through the books

In all honesty, he was a little off put by the fact that one of the main love interests starts off the book series by aiding another pirate crew in burning down the MC’s hometown but he keeps reading until the Marine love interest is introduced

And almost immediately his interest is peaked as the chemistry that these two have together is so captivating to the point where he’s rooting for the two of them to get together

Like he imagines every little moment so vividly in his head like did the Marine catch the MC as she was about to fall only for them to end up in a somewhat romantic looking position? Koby imagines every little single detail about the scene even down to exactly how the sun is shining

Honestly as well, I wouldn’t be too surprised if he started talking about it in depth with Helmeppo for as long as they could when there’s nothing to be done like the two of them are obsessed with this series

Helmeppo more in a “God, I love this series” sort of sense and although Koby is starting off the same way, that will change very soon…

As when Koby is rereading one of the books to pass the time one day, he finds himself imagining something… He starts to imagine himself as the Marine Love Interest

He imagines himself getting in the face of the Pirate Love Interest and telling him off for his mistreatment of the MC, he imagines himself swooping in and protecting the MC from danger in any way that he has to, he even imagines himself in the romantic scenes

Honestly Koby tries to ignore these thoughts at first and just read as clearly the Marine Love Interest isn’t him until Helmeppo tells him something that makes his heart skip a beat

“Hey, Koby! The author had some art done for the books and check it out! Captain Starfish reminds me so much of you!”

So Koby looks and you would think that he just saw himself on the cover of the book as the Marine Love Interest is a somewhat skinny man with pink hair and glasses

It’s after this that he convinces himself that it must be completely fine for him to imagine himself in the role of the Marine Love Interest considering that he looks just like him in his own personal opinion

And as he reads the books as they come out, Koby finds himself falling in love with the MC… They’re so sweet and caring, that scene where they patched up the Marine after he protected them as well was wonderful

Koby has even had a few dreams where he would meet the MC in real life and the two of them would be able to be together and be happy as he would protect them from anything that dared to try and hurt them alongside treat them exactly how they deserved to be treated

In the end though, the MC isn’t real so he just has to keep those fantasies to himself…

But as he reads through the last book in the series, he finds that the Marine has to leave resulting in the MC being in the care of the Pirate Love Interest as it’s a dangerous time right now with a lot of dangerous pirates running about

He’s disappointed by this but it’s fine, he’s sure that the Marine Love Interest will come back soon but nope… He keeps reading and the main focus of this book appears to be the Pirate Love Interest…

No matter though, it’s the last book of the series and he’s absolutely sure that the Marine Love Interest will return and the MC and him will wind up together in a loving relationship. He’s absolutely sure of it especially with the moments where the MC waits impatiently for any contact from the Marine

Until… Something happens that makes his heart sink down to the pits of his stomach during the big fight scene on the high seas where the Pirate and Marine join forces with their respective groups to finally bring down the villain…

Koby finds this all so weird at first as there’s so much of the book left, surely the rest couldn’t just be an epilogue… But you would think that this man just saw someone kill his dog when he reads…

All of sudden, a scream rang out in the air followed by booms so loud they could take your hearing away… Cannonballs zipped through the air and crashed directly into Captain Starfish’s Boat…

The resulting explosions lit up the night and the boat quickly caught fire… It was something straight out of a nightmare as the once proud Captain alongside his group sunk into the dark stormy depths on the once great ship known as the Reef Rider

Koby almost in a panic reread that part and over again until he had to just put the book down for a minute to process what had just happened

The Marine Love Interest just died… That couldn’t have just happened, could it? But when he read it again, he found himself sucking air in through his teeth like he had just been cut

The character that he had come to envision as himself had just died during the final battle with the enemy… After that, Koby had to put the book down for a few days and continue it later as he tried to distract himself and focus on his work as a Marine but the visuals wouldn’t leave his head

Eventually when Helmeppo finished reading the story, he reluctantly asked what happened only to be told that the MC got with the Pirate Love Interest after he helped her grieve

This was such bullshit! And Helmeppo agreed! Why would they wind up together when the Pirate Love Interest was first introduced having aided in burning the MC’s hometown to the ground? That was awful!

After that, Helmeppo moved onto a different romance novel series but Koby stayed fixated on this ending… That had to be one of the worst things that he has ever heard in his entire life… How could the author have possibly written something like that?

Clearly the Marine and the MC were made for each other! They had perfect chemistry and he could envision the two of them staying together for the rest of their lives!

Koby tried to move on from the series just like Helmeppo had done but no matter what he did, no other book really grabbed him like the one that you had written

So Koby wound up dropping romance novels much to Helmeppo’s disappointment, the pink haired marine would occasionally go back to the other books in the series and reread all of his favorite scenes

It was so hard to believe that all of these pretty much meant nothing now that the MC had wound up with the Pirate and the Marine was at the bottom of the ocean… Literally…

Why would you do this? How could you do this? He just didn’t understand…

Until he finally went back and reread the dreaded scene… He read it with a frown on his face and dread in his heart up until the scene where the Reef Rider finally goes down which is when he thinks of something…

He goes and reads every single little detail… All of the enemies boats weren’t close enough for an attack like that… They had a higher chance of all of their shots missing and landing in the water than all of them hitting and the Main Villain’s crew weren’t exactly known for their accuracy…

So who could it have been? Well… The only one who was close enough to have all of their shots hit like that was the Pirate Love Interests boat…

And now that he reads more… Isn’t it just so very convenient that almost all of the Marine Love Interests group went down in that fight while the Pirate’s group did have quite a few ships go down but not nearly as many as the Marines?

Very suspicious if you ask him… And he’s starting to see the whole picture…

The Pirate Love Interest couldn’t stand that the Marine was going to have the MC in the end and he did this to ensure that he couldn’t have them! It all made so much sense to Koby!

That Pirate was evil and the ending where the two of them stood together with him holding the MC? That was no happy ending… That was the bad end where the Pirate’s Jealousy for the Marine had won keeping the best pairing apart forever!

It all made sense to him and when he told Helmeppo all about it, you could practically see the gears turning in the blonds head as he listened to every single word that came out of his friends mouth until even he was convinced that was probably what happened

Koby had it all figured out so he decided to write his very own ending to the story, one where the Marine had survived the battle and revealed to everyone the disturbing deeds of the pirate causing one last fight between the two of them where the Marine would come out on top

Both he and Helmeppo absolutely loved it, they both decided right then and there that was it the canon ending to the story and reading what he had wrote

It felt so right… Something about it just felt so correct like he had lived this moment himself… Having defeated the Pirate Love Interest a long time ago and wound up with you

He honestly wished that he could show it to the actual author at some point as he was sure that the author would like it just as much as he did, it seemed like he would get that wish too as when he was on a small island for some Marine business

He found out that there was apparently a book signing event being hosted by the author, he desperately wanted to go so he could show you what he had written but of course he had Marine things to take care of so he finished them up as soon as he possibly could

He genuinely looked like he was speedrunning as he went about what he was doing but the second that he was done and had free time, he ran as fast as he possibly could to the book signing only to find that it was already over and closing up for the day

His heart sank and he was about to leave only to hear a voice…

“Oh sorry… You got here a little late, huh?”

He turned towards the source of the voice and almost gasped when he laid eyes upon you because not only was the author of the book standing directly behind him but you looked exactly like how he had envisioned the MC to look down to the smallest detail

It’s quite literally like you stepped out of the book just to be here with him and he found himself in a stunned silence as he stared at you causing you to give him an awkward smile and offer to sign his book for him

When he continued to not say anything, you waved your hand in front of his face and tried to get his attention only for him to finally snap out of his stunned silence and say that he didn’t bring his copy but he does have something for you to read

You took it and you looked it over, he wasn’t sure if you liked it or not but he was absolutely sure that you would! Clearly you were in love with him as he was starting to actually believe that he was the Marine Love Interest despite the fact that he has never been an Admiral

Once you were finished, you told him that it was a really nice alternate ending but that the Pirate wasn’t the one responsible for the destruction of the Reef Rider or the death of Captain Starfish as that was all the Main Villain’s fault that Captain Starfish had died

Koby couldn’t believe what he was hearing and when he tried to explain everything saying that it had to of been the Pirate, you claimed that it was just a mistake on your part as a writer that the Main Villain couldn’t have been able to make the shot

You wound up giving his alternate ending right back to him and telling him that it was well written but the Pirate wouldn’t shoot down Captain Starfish like that as the two had become friends before that point in the story

Koby was left standing there after that just watching you leave the building that had hosted your book signing, he couldn’t believe that you couldn’t see it like he could!

You were the MC after all as there was absolutely not a single doubt in his mind about that and you just chalked up what had happened to a mistake in your writing? No way, that couldn’t be the case!

Koby refused to accept this in all honesty so despite his better judgement, he started to follow you around as you went and saw you do so many things that honestly just made him more convinced you were the MC and made him fall in love with you more…

Like did you stop and help that lost child who got separated from their parents? That’s so caring of you, he’s sure that you’ll make a great parent to any kids that you have in the future! Plus it’s just like what you did for the kid in the book!

Did you buy those vegetables on your way home to prepare for dinner? You’re a good cook too which is great as he’s sure that you can make some beautiful things together! Plus it’s just like how you made that vegetable soup for him when he was injured!

You were perfect and watching you go about your day absolutely proved it for him… You were lovely… Why couldn’t you see what he saw?

And he believed that he soon found his answer as he saw you meet up with someone, a man who looked just a bit too much like the Pirate in Koby’s eyes

Ah… So that was the reason…

The Pirate was here and when he saw the two of you getting just a bit too friendly for his liking (probably not even romantic), Koby felt his blood boil a bit as he did know that not all pirates are evil but this one was surely one of the worst of the bunch

Koby understood now… The reason that you couldn’t see what he saw is because of the Pirate… Koby was sure that he was likely forcing you to write the story and that he was actually horrible to you behind the scenes

Don’t worry though… Koby is going to make everything all better as he’s already making plans to save you from that evil pirate…

He’ll take you far away from the Pirate and the two of you can be together just like you were always meant to be! It’ll be great!

And if the Pirate Love Interest tries to prevent it? Well if push comes to shove then Koby isn’t above getting some revenge for sending the Reef Rider to the bottom of the ocean…

[ikroah]

Pistol packin' mama, lay that thing down before it goes off and hurts somebody! —“Pistol Packin’ Mama,” Bing Crosby (1943)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #24 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding III

Collaborative Issue! Guest Artist: @yesjejunus

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Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

Oh noooooooooooo :(

These pages might get shrunken a little by Tumblr for some reason so either right-click to view at full-size or just read it on AO3 at the link above. And give a round of applause to my wonderful and wonderfully talented friend @yesjejunus who returns to guest art duty with this new issue, which is just another car crashing into the pile-up that is happening to Agnes in the closing half of Volume 2. Issue #25 will be all of my own art again, and I've been working for a long time on reinventing the look, feel, and production of IKROAH's artstyle so I hope you'll all be as excited as I am. Some really big things are about to happen.

Original Pencils

Here's another reason why mr. jejunus deserves a round of applause: patience. I talk often about how IKROAH is a very long-term project but this issue marks the longest collaboration in the history of the comic: the original pencils for this issue were drawn in August 2021. This was also when yesjejunus and I first discussed him doing guest art for this issue, and it would have been a lot sooner, of course, but you know, things (like months of burnout) can just happen. By the time this issue was finally next in the queue, I had committed to increasing the resolution of IKROAH's pages just to ease my own production, but these pencils were still formatted for the old size. I had to reformat these pencils for the new size and aspect ratio.

The tumblr editor keeps crashing every time I try to include them, so here's links instead: [1] [2] [3].

The thing about working with yesjejunus on comic issues like this is that at this point we're so deep in each other's heads that I barely even need to give him feedback. He understands the assignment completely because we're both sickos pressed against each other's brain-windows going "Yes…ha ha ha…yes!" and drooling. It's the kind of friendship as well as creative partnership that you really just treasure.

Transcript

INT. BENNY'S BEDROOM, THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS.

AGNES SANDS stares down, exhausted, at BENNY, the leader of the Chairmen and the man who shot her in the head.

BENNY does not stare back. He is dead. His eyes have rolled up lifelessly and blood is oozing from the gruesome wound in his skull.

AGNES looks away.

Suddenly—

SFX: KNOCK KNOCK

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Hey, Ben-man! Everything alright in there?

AGNES jerks up in surprise. She searches her surroundings frantically, looking for a way out. The gun that she shot BENNY with—the gun that BENNY shot her with—is still in her hand. She sees a side door, barely ajar, leading out of BENNY'S BEDROOM with a dim light coming from behind it.

AGNES sprints forward, her arm outstretched to shove open the door, and barges in. Then she freezes in her tracks. In front of her is a large and ambulatory machine, with claw-like arms and a computer monitor in its center. The monitor displays an unchanging vector of a happily smiling face. It speaks.

THE MACHINE: Hello! I'm Yes Ma—

AGNES raises the gun with both hands and fires repeatedly, her eyes wide and mouth agape in terror. She empties it of every single other bullet that was left in it.

THE MACHINE (shorting out): I-I'm sorry…!!

THE MACHINE crumples from the repeated shots, which shatter its monitor-face like a glass window and send it falling backwards. Its robotic corpse snaps and cracks with electricity and malfunctioning hardware as AGNES remains stunned in the doorway.

SFX: KNOCK KNOCK

AGNES looks up as BENNY'S men pound harder on the door to the suite.

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Benny! We heard shots! We're coming in!

AGNES drops the gun and flees through the hallway's secret private elevator.

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Oh, shit, somebody iced 'im! Get security!

[denofbloodandlove]

Predator(s) and Prey

**Please note this is a complete work of fiction.  There are trigger warnings in this.  This particular story is 4 pages it is a bit long. Enjoy** Kate paced back and forth like a caged animal, her eyes constantly darting towards the giant three paneled frames that housed nothing but clear glass.  Beyond it: woods.  What the fuck had she been thinking when she signed up for this? She knew better! But fuck she needed the money.  Kate was beyond broke, so when she read the add that hung in the college square for the thirty somethings that were still lost as fuck in life, she jumped at the chance. The add simply read “You are the prey, we the predator” “Five thousand for the night, per predator. More details when vetted.”  Every single slip, every little column of paper stared at her as it swayed in the breeze.  Not a single person wanted in on this, but fuck, Kate hadn’t eaten is days, all her money going towards the ridiculously priced art supplies she needed for her one stupid class.   Kate had no one, unlike most of the people at the overpriced school, she was alone in this world, struggling to be an artist.  “Fuck it Kate do it.” Grabbing her phone, she texted the number that was neatly printed on the little slip of paper.  Within seconds she got directions to the place she was now at.  All it said was to be there promptly at 4 pm, so she could get ready.   Ready apparently meant that she would be pacing in this giant over expensive living room with giant glass panes overlooking the most forbidden forest she had ever seen.  But from her artists eye, it was beautiful.  Lush green trees grew thick together, so thick that it made the low light look black.  Kate could barely see through the branches, different shades of greens worked together creating a green waterfall of beauty.  Nerves ate as her, her fingertips in her mouth as she chewed down the quick of her nails.  She should just leave, right? What the fuck did that paper even mean?  Her red converse shoes would be wearing a hole in this nice hard floor soon.   “You already look perfect for the part Kate.” A deep voice echoed from a dark corner of the room, so farl she had to squint, her heart thumping in her throat.  Kate hand wrapped around her throat defensively as she stopped her pacing. “He….hello? Wh..wh..whose there?” She stammered over her words as fear ate at her, she could feel the pulse in her throat grow wild.  Her eyes hurt from being so wide, staring into the darkness.  And she watched in terror as a giant of a man stepped forth. Dressed in all black, the man was head to toe in tactical gear.  Pockets lined his pants, pants that ended in thick black combat boots, the kinds that hunters would wear.  His black tank hugged his rugged body, the skin that was visible was covered in vibrant tattoos.  Ink covered every inch, all the way down to his knuckles, the shirt he adorned was covered by some kind of black vest that held even more pockets.  In his ear hung some small piece of wire, it reminded her briefly of an earpiece.  But her mind was disjointed, not putting every detail together.  “Whadda mean” Kate stammered as she backed away instinctively, her ass hitting the glass she was just pacing in front of.   “You.  You answered the add.  The perfect little prey.  Already so scared.  I can see how the blood is flushed under your skin, giving you the perfect shade of pink. Your eyes wide, your breathing labored.  Did you know that panic makes the body feel dizzy, your muscles tense, tremble.  Your brain becomes too aware of possible threats and begins to become hyperactive. The midbrain, the amygdala become too overwhelmed.   You can feel it.  The fear. We can see it.  Taste it.  Savor it. Tonight, we will own it.  You answered, we called.  Predator.  Prey.” Kate began to hyperventilate, his words rattled around in her empty brain.  What the fuck did she do? What did he mean? Too much was going on, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air, spots began to dot her vision, she felt fuzzy all of a sudden. He was right, whoever he was. Panic, fear, terror coursed through her blood.  “It’s okay though Kate.  You texted, that initiated the contract.  Twenty thousand has already been funneled into the account you provided.  Four predators for the night.  Rules are, you run, we chase and we capture.  And when we do capture, we own.  There are no safe words. No limits.  No escape really.  Just primal urges and fear.”  The man held his hand up, showing a metal glint that shown off the lights, with a simple click, the panel that she was plastered against slid open, forcing Kate to fall flat on her ass on the massive deck outside. Scrambling backward, Kate almost crab walked backward only to fall off stairs that led to the soft grass.  Following her out the man smiled down at her, his grin more wolfish, predatory.  She was frozen in fear as he stood above her on the deck, his arms now crossed over his chest.  With another flick and click, lights that shown behind him went dark, immersing him in shadows that moved.  An inky blackness that moved and multiplied.  Blinking her fear filled eyes, her brain was playing tricks on her.  One suddenly became four. Four men, four giants, four horseman stared at her with hunger.  As one, they moved in sync, each reaching up and grabbing that wire to place it in their ear.   “It….it was an earpiece” Kate whispered to herself.   Shock flooded her already tight system.  Her nails dug into the soft ground as she tried in vain to calm herself.  “You have thirty minutes, it’s a head start to begin running little mouse.  The sun will begin setting in that thirty minutes, and then we hunt.” As one, the four men silently disappeared into the darkness, leaving her seemingly alone in the dying of the light. Tears sprang from her eyes, fat drops flowed like rivers down her cheeks as she bought her knees to her chest.  Kates arms wrapped around her knees to hold herself together as she cried in fear.  She could feel the hot sun on her bare shoulders, as if it was making fun if her. Slowly dying, allowing more of that dreaded darkness to consume everything.  Just like it did them, the Predators.  Her heart thumped hard in her chest.  Was she going to be hunted to die? No, they pai her.  Why would they pay her just to kill her? Plus they, whoever they were put a very public add out, one that could be traced.  Right?  Her mouth was so dry, her breath coming in too fast, she had lost semblance of breathing through her nose, her body taking over and panting out of her mouth. Swallowing she began to rock back and forth as she tried to think, to remember what he said.  They were going to taste? What did he say? Claim? What were they going to claim? She had nothing.  Nothing to give.  But. Kates breathing stopped as her mind finally fucking clicked.  The fact that she was hungry from not eating, sleep deprived from school and fear coursing through every single fiber of her being, her brain was sluggish.  It took longer for her to realize what they were talking about.  They were going to claim her, claim her body as theirs.  In the most primal way.  They were going to fuck her, rape her, fill her with everything.  Her brain screamed for her to run, run away now and as fast as she could.  Her heart the muscle that stopped momentarily began pumping so fast in her rib cage it hurt. But her cunt was suddenly dripping. A flood of juice gushed down, coating her in thick honey.  She had only been with two people her entire boring life. And both were less than mediocre.  So boring she didn’t even remember their names.   Kate shook her head as her body began a war with itself.  Fight or flight.  Fight. Flight.  Fuck.   “Tick Tock Kate.  Thirty minutes in now twenty.  You not running will only make it worse.  We chase, releasing energy.  If we don’t chase, where do you think that energy will be directed?  The dark voice whispered from the darkness of the house that now stares at her like a menacing creature.  A nightmare that was sent to terrifier her.  Kates feet kicked out sliding against the grass, her hands moved, her ass slithered across the earth, scrambling for purchase, but fear made it hard for her to gain footing.  With a low groan she heaved herself over.  Her converse slipping, running in place slowly, then picking up speed.  Her arms pumped as she began to finally run. And she swore she could hear a low “Good girl little mouse” as she ran to the thick trees. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Licking his teeth, he grinned.  Fuck she was perfect.  Ass that was round, tits that were bigger then any of their hands, when he’ll get to grab them, they will spill out of his palms.  Thighs that were thick, legs that were long, and hair that fell in thick waves.  Waves that meant he could wrap his hands in and hold her in place as he shoved his fucking rock-hard dick down her throat.  Her other holes used by his team.  Ripped open and stretched to the fucking max as they fucked her senseless.  Tilting his head, he barely glanced left or right. He and his team had gone over this hundreds of times, making sure that whoever answered their add would not get away. Move right, left, and middle. Goggles on, the light will be gone soon. Her eyesight shit, Fear will make her sloppy.  First one gets her sweet pussy.  Remember the rules.  Knives not too deep, ropes and bondage tight enough but not to cut off circulation. She must feel the pain.  She signed up for this fellas.  Lets hunt.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Adrenaline rode Kate hard as she ran. Her muscles burned as she tried in vain to dodge branches and brambles that tore at her skin and clothes.  She could feel what must be a million tiny cuts along her flesh as she ran blindly through the thick foliage.  She could not hear anything, except the pounding of her own heart, the rush of her own breath.  The light was now miniscule, filtering through the thick trees, limiting her visibility.  Her legs felt like lead suddenly, her blood like molten lava she tripped over her own feet and began to fall.  Her hands hit first, debris embedding itself into her soft palms.  Her knees crunched against pebbled and detritus shooting pain up her spine.  Yelping she rolled, hitting broken shrubs from a life that grew too fast for little things.  Rolling, she finally came to an agonizing halt.  Fresh tears dotted her eyes, her poor addled brain confused.  Blinking rapidly, silence descended.  Not a single thing made a sound.  It was as if the forest itself was waiting for something to happen.  For her heart to explode, for her brain to leak from her ears.  For her to shove her hand down her pants and fuck herself into a screaming rage.  Gods this was so fucking weird.  But the night decided for her when a twig suddenly snapped from behind her. Rolling over she kicked her feet, her foot she realized was shoeless, lost in the tumble through leaves and dirt. Her toes dug into mud, giving her some form of grip but as she was just beginning to hurl herself forward, a tight hand gripped her ankle and yanked her down.   Loudly screaming, another set of hands wrapped around her throat, silencing her.   Kate kicked out, eliciting a heavy grunt and she fell forward, the hand at her throat loosening momentarily, giving her enough time to push and run. Laughter echoing behind her.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He had her in his palm, felt her erratic pulse under his fingers, beating like a hummingbirds wings.  So fast it felt like she was flying under his palm.  The night vision goggles shown her pupils were blown, so large they enveloped any color she may have had.  The sun was completely gone now, she was running blind while they watched.  He knew like him all their cocks were hard, ready.  They couldn’t wait to capture her, string her up, cut the clothes from her body and fuck her raw and hard against the woods.  Sweat beaded his brow, his lips and down his spine. “Go around, track her and surprise her.  She’s headed towards the cabin.   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kate was lost, dazed, terrified, tired. She had fallen too many times to count, her hands hurt, her knees bled and somehow, somewhere she twisted an ankle. Her hands clawed at the trees surrounding her.  She couldn’t see shit.  But she was not expecting a tight hand in her hair wrenching her head back hard enough she saw stars.  Screaming in horror, she tried to kick again but heard a tsk.  Each ankle was lifted, legs spread.  Her knees bent and bucked under the intense strength.  In her ear, she felt a puff of hot air, followed by the words “Found you little mouse.”   Hands gripped her roughly, keeping her immobile as they worked quickly.  Her other shoe was ripped off, something tight wrapped around her ankle, then the other and she was suddenly dropped.  Her bad ankle giving out. Her hands, arms though were still held tightly, her wrist burning suddenly with abrasiveness.  Screaming into the night her slow brain once again caught up too late she was being tied up, her back arched as her arms are wrenched up and back.  Her back slammed against the tree rough bark speared her thin shirt.  Tears flowed freely from her eyes as her heart exploded behind her sternum, but every single fucking sound stopped when her heard the sound of zipper teeth echo into the night. Part 2 coming soon.

[lyrakanefanatic]

Hii!

I recently read your tig children hcs and can you write a fic where Jameson finds out Hannah's throwing out her sketches and saves them everytime without telling her ❤️

OKAYY 💗💗

Jameson walked towards the library, aware that Hannah was apparently in there. Dinner was almost ready, and since everybody’s families had decided to come to Hawthorne House over the weekend, we planned on eating meals together, especially dinner. Heading inside the library, he walked towards the desk that Hannah was always sketching at, and knocked on the desk to get her attention. She looked up, a bit startled, before realizing it was just him.

“Jeez Dad, you scared me.” She says, huffing. Jameson laughs before glancing down to the sketchbook in her hands. His smile grows as he goes to reach for the paper. “I was gonna call you down for dinner, but what’s this?” He asks, but before he can pick up the sketchbook, Hannah quickly yanks it away. “Nothing. I messed up anyway, so I’m just gonna throw it away.” She said, hiding the sketchbook from him. Jameson frowns. “Well, can I at least see it? I’m sure it’s amazing Han, I’ve seen your art and I know how good it is.” He says. She groans, and still doesn’t budge. Stubborn, Jameson thinks affectionately, Just like her mother. “Please Hannah?” He asks, his tone serious yet gentle. She gives him a look for exactly 4 seconds before sighing and giving in. “Fine. But just a quick look!” She demands, giving the sketchbook to him. Jameson takes it from her and sees the drawing, to which his jaw immediately drops.

It’s a photo—sorry,—sketch of Calla, Graysons daughter. She’s grinning into the imaginary camera and her eyes are sparkling. At first sight, it looks like Hannah had just printed out a photo of her, but the sketch marks say otherwise. Jameson struggled to see where she had “messed up”, and spent a couple more seconds obscurely analyzing the page for anything, to which he found nothing. There were some unfinished parts, like her hair and some of the shading on her face, but the drawing was absolutely remarkable in every way. He gaped at the drawing for about 20 seconds before Hannah yanked her sketchbook from his hands.

“I said a quick look!” She said, looking slightly embarrassed from Jamesons reaction to the drawing. “Hannah, please tell me you’re keeping that and framing it. It’s absolutely beautiful! How are you this talented?” He said staring at the drawing in her hands again. She looked down awkwardly. “Thanks Dad. It was supposed to be a gift for Callas birthday since it was soon, but no matter what I keep messing up, and it has to be perfect if I’m going to give it to her.” She says. The look on Jamesons face was utter and complete confusion. “This is perfect. Calla would love this! And I don’t even see where you ‘messed up’.” Jameson said, using air quotes on the last two words. Hannah sighs and points to the teeth on the drawing. “How? I messed up the teeth so many times that no matter how much I keep erasing, it just looks dark and weird. Also, the nose is smudged. How do you not see this?” She asks, looking at him as if he were the weird one. “First of all, the teeth don’t look weird at all. Second, even if you took a magnifying glass to that nose you would not see a single smudge. I’m serious Hannah, this is amazing. You have to give it to her.” He says, with no sign of budging. She sighs and stares at her work of art herself, biting her bottom lip in thought. There was a look on her face that said she’d seemed to consider giving the drawing to Calla, before it fades and she rips the drawing out of her sketchbook. She crumples it in her hands before throwing it in the trash, and Jameson gasps. “I’ll try again after dinner, I promise. Now let’s go.” She says, getting up out of her chair and walking away before Jameson could protest. Glancing at the trash bin, he fishes the drawing out of it and flattens it out on the desk.

“There,” He mutters, unable to stop staring at the piece of art. “Good as new.” He takes it with him to his room, which wasn’t too far from the library, and walked in. Opening the first drawer, he takes out the folder he had kept with all of Hannah’s “unwanted”, as she called it, art, and put the sketch inside. It hurt him to see Hannah be so hard on herself and beat herself up for tiny “mistakes” that only she notices. Jameson wished that she could see just how beautiful the art she made was, and how talented she is. Hopefully one day she will. But for now, Jameson thought, Instead of a frame, the folder will have to do.

THANKS FOR THE REQUEST IT WAS SUPER FUN TO WRITE THIS!! 💗💗🫶

[siilvan]

Solitude

Characters: Mylène "Petra" Scholten de Ridder

Summary: The feeling of being alone. (Or something like that.)

Genre: Light angst? Idk, it's just sleep-deprived rambling lol

Warnings: Semi-proofread, light cursing, some mentions/allusions to canon-typical violence, again it's just random shit

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: I wrote this in a few hours because I've been an emo bitch lately and figured I'd do what I always do when I'm sad, AKA take it out on my oc (◡‿◡) I might leave it up, I might cringe after I wake up and delete it, who knows honestly? I promise I'm working on things people actually want to read, btw

If Petra was one thing, it was a woman not easily phased by trivial matters. War, violence, exhaustion, death – all things she was experienced with. All things she knew how to handle on any given day. She earned both her call sign and her position for exactly that reason, even.

Now, if Mylène was one thing, it was a woman constantly weighed down with the things she faces on any given day. War, violence, exhaustion, death – it haunts her every waking moment. She had learned to deal with it over the years, how to put a pin in her emotions for the sake of getting the job done. People needed her to be the steady hand, so that’s what she became.

She never quite learned how to deal with the loneliness, though.

"Just call me if you need me, okay? Any time, I don't care when or where. I'm there."

The words felt foreign as soon as they left the captain's lips. She wasn't used to hearing that. She was always the one people came to rely on.

A heavy sigh escapes Mylène's lips as she unceremoniously flops down on the sofa with her old scrapbook in-hand. It was a hobby her mother had, one she didn’t understand until it was too late to even tell the woman that she learned why she loved it so much.

That's another thing she was. Sentimental. All she ever seemed to do when she was alone was reminisce. The good days, the bad days, the moments that she was sure went right in and out of anyone else's brain – her first sniping lesson with Price, the first time Nikolai called her "Mila," the first time she heard Ghost's genuine laugh, when she and Soap discovered their mutual love of art, the one single time she almost beat Gaz in a race… small moments, but ones she held close to her heart.

As she flips the near-overstuffed book open, she's immediately greeted with another memory. One she was honestly surprised she could still recall so clearly, considering she was only six years old during it.

A photo, taken in the dead of winter. Her family was in the states, visiting her aunt and uncle for Christmas. They were at the dinner table – her aunt was to the left, her honey blonde hair tossed over her shoulder as a few streaks of silvery grey finally started to show, with a three-year-old Emiel sitting in her lap and babbling away to her. To the right was her uncle, the grey in his dark hair and beard far more visible as he leaned back in his chair, a soft smile resting on his lips as he watched the six-year-old in his lap frantically scribble away on a piece of paper with a crayon. In the back, standing in the backyard and visible through the half-open glass door, was her father – younger, not yet the man she knew him as – and her two cousins, tossing a football back and forth and laughing away. Even her childhood dog was there, a blur in the picture as she ran after the ball.

Her mom wasn't in the photo. Judging by Emiel pointing somewhere behind the camera, she was the one taking it.

The more Mylène thought about it, the more it almost became funny. There was a point in time when she was surrounded by people, almost too many for her to keep up with. Her gaze lifts from the page; she tries to ignore the wetness clinging to her eyelashes as she looks around her living room. Other than her, it's empty. Her brother was somewhere else in the world, surely finishing another sensitive mission that Laswell assigned to him. "I want the best for the job," she always says. Her aunt and uncle were still in the states, but every time she thought about them, all that seemed to come to mind was how they lost fifteen years to the anger of her father.

After years of losing people left and right – allies, entire teams, patients in her care, civilians, friends – maybe it was for the best that she was alone. Even the task force had some close scrapes over the years, moments when she worried about losing one of the people she had come to consider a second family.

Mylène closes the scrapbook with a heavy thud and sets it down on the small coffee table in front of her. She shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest and eyeing the cellphone sitting next to the book. It was silent, save for the occasional spam email or update from her superiors. If she wasn't a woman ruled by her sense of pride, she'd consider sending someone a message.

Maybe she could text Freya and ask about her progress with the recent training exercises she gave her. Or, maybe she could text Christine for an update on the new batch of recruits. Maybe she could even come up with some lame excuse to text Olga, ask her how she's doing after her company rapidly expanded out of the blue.

No, no… She's a woman with too much pride for that. Johnny, Kyle, Simon… She didn’t have a viable excuse for bothering any of them. Between their work and their partners, she doubted any of those three had time for her, anyway.

Price? No, definitely busy with the missus. Nikolai? She can never predict what he's up to, but she assumed it was probably work or his own love, too. Laswell? God, what weak excuse could she even come up with in that scenario.

"Any time, I'm there."

She lowers her head and lets her chin rest on top of her knees. She was only home because she had to be – the captain claimed she was working herself to the bone and needed the time off before she ran herself ragged.

"You can take a week off," He chuckles, patting her shoulder before squeezing it in a firm grip. "Everything'll keep running when you're gone, I promise. We won't fall apart without you."

She laughed at the time. "Just give me a call if Johnny blows one of his fingers off, he's already almost done that three times this month alone." She said.

Was she selfish for feeling a pang in her chest? "It's natural to want to feel wanted," she can already hear someone wiser than her saying. Who could she actually say that to, though? Everyone around her was too busy and too interested in their own lives. She was just… well, herself. Lieutenant Petra; always stable, always the guiding hand, always the last one to complain when times get tough.

Her phone buzzes as the screen flashes to life. She picks it up and sees her brother's name in the notifications. When she clicks into their messages, it's a picture of him sitting in the back of a helicopter, his gear half-stripped off but his mask still on, covering the lower half of his face and leaving his smeared eye black and messy hair on display as he gives the camera a little thumbs-up.

Always his way of telling her he's okay after a mission. Whenever she was sent out, she'd do the same. Mylène sends a quick reply – "Try and spend more than three days at base when you get back." – and turns her phone off again.

It would be easy to message someone at this point and tell them the truth. "I'm feeling lonely, do you have time to chat?" are just nine little words. She was always the one telling her teammates and the soldiers under her command to reach out if they ever needed her, and yet the thought of doing the same felt like an impossible goal.

She turns her phone on its face and leans back against the cushion. After years of being her own shoulder to cry on, why was she suddenly feeling so lonely? She didn't need to be coddled, she didn't need to be someone's baby, she was always capable of relying on herself and no one else. She promised herself that the last time she broke down in front of someone else would be the last time she let herself do something like that. She didn't need it. She could take care of herself.

Mylène pushes herself off the sofa, worrying at the inside of her cheek. Everyone has their priorities and people they're already focused on caring for. She has herself, and that's all she needs. She doesn't need a shoulder to cry on or someone who knows how she's feeling all hours of the day.

"Verdomme…" She lifts her hands up and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. "Get it together, Scholten…" She mutters in the empty room, drawing in and releasing slow, deep breaths until she can lower her hands to her sides once more. She handles it, just like always.

She has herself, and that's all she needs.

[eljackinton]

Elegy for a Dying Industry

By the time I'd hit my third year of university I was certain I wanted to be a comic book writer.

It's hard to put into words just how vibrant that land of opportunity looked back then, in 2007. Marvel and DC had bounced back from their near death in the 1990s, with DC's spin off Vertigo leading the way with a tidal wave of adult focussed titles, while Image comics was quickly rising to become an ascendant third party in the previous binary landscape.

Walk into any comic book shop at that time and you'd see shelves filled with literary mainstays. Preacher and Sandman were always in stock. Recent series like Fables and Y: The Last Man would be seeing new volumes every six months. Older titles and obscure series that hadn't been seen in years were getting new print runs. Image itself was willing to take a punt at putting out any number of odd and offbeat titles. Girls. Savage Dragon. Army @ Love. Works like Jack Staff and Strangehaven that had struggled in obscurity for years were finally finding an audience.

Outside the printed page, others were thriving too. Webcomics had become big business, growing fandoms such that they could rival their printed competitors, and it wouldn't be long until Penny Arcade and Gunnerkrigg Court would find themselves sharing shelf space with Superman and Dick Tracy. On the big screen, Sin City had captivated audiences and brought the comic that inspired it a whole new readership, while a big screen adaption of Watchmen was purported to be right around the corner.

The way I saw it, I'd spend my twenties working the small press, making connections before breaking in some time in my thirties, giving me the rest of my life to put together my magnum opus.

What actually happened was I spent a decade dealing with depression, unemployment, a pandemic and an environment of constantly unstable social media sites that scuppered my ability to build a following. Even with that aside though, I discovered that I had severely underestimated how much work it would actually take to get my foot in the door. Now, on the eve of my first time exhibiting at the prestigious Though Bubble convention, I look at the comic book industry and see what looks like an unscaleable wall.

In the run up to Thought Bubble, I messaged Joe Glass, writer and creator of The Pride, to find out if he'd be exhibiting at his usual table there this year. What he told me was that he was basically ready to throw in the towel. Sales were down. Interest was down. He figured he'd have a better chance in the world of literature, and who can blame him to come to that conclusion?

To me, Joe Glass was a known guy. Someone who had been around in comics for a long time. The Pride was constantly praised, as well as considered a landmark in the history of LGBTQ comics. Damn, I thought, if he's struggling to make it, what chance on Earth do I have?

Another anecdote. I was at New York Comic Con in 2011. I sat in on the Image Comics panel where they announced a rebooted run of comics starring characters from Rob Liefeld's Extreme Comics line. (Rob actually got boos from the audience when he came out, which, however you feel about the man, was pretty disrespectful, and now looks like a grim foreshadowing to the state that online comics discourse was heading towards.)

One of the titles announced was Prophet, written by Brandon Graham and illustrated by Simon Roy. The series was met with great acclaim, and praised as one of the best comics coming out at the time. It was Roy's art in particular that was singled out as one of the comic's greatest strengths. There was a sense that Roy had really made a name for himself with Prophet, and that he would ride the wave to mainstream success.

After several years of his work showing up in places as varied as 2000ad and the Halo comics, Roy would go on to create Habitat in 2016 and First Knife in 2020, which should have gotten a bigger readership than they did. The comics were very clearly passion projects, yet didn't really get the promotion, coverage, or widespread release they deserved. It was very clear that there was more to these fictional worlds that Roy wanted to explore, but in the end, it took self publishing to do it. He started a follow up, Griz Grobus, as a webcomic, crowdfunding the physical release, before it was eventually picked up by Image again for a retail market.

It's not that I think Roy feels he got the short end of the stick. He's gone on record about how satisfied he is with the stories he gets to tell, but I look at what the world was like back in 2007 and I think about how by all rights his "Grobusverse," should be a household name, with an animated series and several video games by now.

Just like Joe Glass, whose recent The Miracles I believe could have been this generation's Invincible, I can't help but feel like modern comics, far from cultivating new and exciting talent, is doing nothing but stifling it.

How did it come to this?

It happened in multiple fronts, but the most critical blow came from corporate consolidation of the internet. At the turn of the decade, comic book journalism was bright eyed, popular and vibrant. Comic Book Resources and Comics Alliance both were constantly shining a light on new talent, new stories, as well as branching out towards exploration and analysis of the medium as a whole. I remember Comics Alliance once doing a special "Sex Week" where they released seven days worth of articles exploring the subgenre of erotic comic books.

Such an idea seems unthinkable now, in an age where sites are forbidden from straying from safe, corporate sanitisation. Indeed, both CBR and CA would find themselves stripped of identity and ground to the bone as they were bought out, sold, and bought out again by larger and larger conglomerates. Now CBR is little more than a platform for big industry press releases, while CA has been repurposed as a news aggregate site, the cruellest of fates. Just visiting the site feels like you're looking at a killer wearing the skin of it's victim.

The second blow to comics came from, and I hate to say it, Hollywood. With the booming, relentless success of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, many assumed that the comic book industry's ascent to becoming a dominant cultural force was assured. However, in this instance, the rising tide did not lift all boats. As surprising as it is to hear, sales of Marvel comics have not significantly increased since the MCU came onto the scene in 2008. Despite becoming one of the most profitable franchises in history, audiences have not been particularly motivated when it comes to exploring the source material that their favourite films originated from.

And yet, even though the comic book industry has gotten little from Hollywood's success, more and more of their territory and space has been ceded to it. While comic book conventions have always involved partial coverage of film and TV, they have, at their heart, always been COMIC BOOK conventions. You'd get a ticket, head down, meet some writers, watch some announcements of what the next big events comics were going to be, check out some shoe boxes of back issues, sit in the Batmobile and maybe go get Lou Ferrigno's signature.

Now, so much of the floor space at the big conventions have been given over to Hollywood, and only Hollywood. News coverage out of SDCC or NYCC is almost always "Here's what film is coming next. Here's there cast of xyz. Here's some stuff about video games." The heart of the cons, what made them what they are in the first place, is getting pushed further and further aside. Now visitors get their ticket and shove their way though to Hall H to find out that RTD is back to play Doctor Doom, before they put on VR goggles to play the next Call of Duty game and then spend the rest of the money they have on Funkos or ten foot tall Pokémon plushies. If the mood arises, they might consider taking a glance at a self published comic book while they queue for an hour for Lou Ferrigno's signature.

Finally, the coup de grace was delivered by the deadening of online spaces. As we spent a decade migrating from our enthusiast forums over to the shared spaces of Twitter and Instagram we were forced to tailor our output to the broadest audience possible. We were forced to become our own marketers. Our own brand managers. The work could no longer speak for itself, because how on Earth was it possible for people to even find the work?

Yet despite all that, the algorithm crushed us anyway. Flighty and unknowable, as though some kind of special combination of words and images will chart the path to success, writers and artists were left like passengers on a sinking ship, drowning and desperate, stepping on top of each other in just the hopes of staying above water for one more moment.

When I was in a newly opened comic book shop in Chester I picked up a copy of Local Man by Tony Fleecs and Tim Seeley, on a whim. I had frankly never heard of it. I was astounded at how good it was when I had read it, but what stood out to me more was how it needn't have been this way. This is the kind of comic where once upon a time talk of it would have been everywhere. It's the kind of thing Comics Alliance would have been writing think pieces on for like a month. Now, however, it passed completely under the radar.

Where do we even start to solve a problem like this? Corporate media is now more powerful than ever, and social media dominates. If we are to start anywhere, it's got to be with each other. Writers, artists, colourists and letterers are going to have to come together and rebuild things wholesale. Personally, I honestly think we need to see a comics media landscape that's run by creators for creators. An independent, co-owned media that isn't going to sell out to conglomerates or Hollywood. We need a resurgence in sites like Comics Alliance, we need podcasts that garner a strong audience, we need video sites like Nebula that can stand in contrast to YouTube's dominance.

In the end though I'm just some guy, who has yet to even get his foot in the door. Best I can do is speak it, and try and will it into being. Casting out a message in a bottle in the hopes that somebody will find it. There are people like me all over the world with art to create and stories to tell. The next Hellboy, Invincible or Gunnerkrigg Court is out there right now and it's drowning on that sinking ship. If all I can do is shout the alarm in people's face, like Diogenes screaming from his barrel, then hell, that's what I'll keep doing.

Though if you are at Thought Bubble next weekend please consider buying some of my comics, books or artworks. That would be appreciated.

Addendum

Some comics you should check out:

The Miracles by Joe Glass and Vince Underwood

Habitat by Simon Roy (and then read the rest of his Grobusverse comics)

Local Man by Tony Fleecs and Tim Seeley

Strangehaven by Gary Spencer Millidge

O Sarilho by Shizamura

Prism Stalker by Sloane Leong

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

Jack Harvey 2024

[ficforyourart]

superman x batman // gala nights

Based on this art by Umikochanart on Instagram.

I'm back again! Please click the link above as Umikochanart does not allow reposting of her art.

SUMMARY: Clark is more than happy to help Bruce out at the fundraiser and woo donors. One problem, though. Clark doesn't know how to ballroom dance.

READ ON AO3.

Chapter 1 - One, two, three

There's nothing like the Daily Planet. The soft clacking of keys as brilliant minds put words to page, the gentle ringing of one of the world's last remaining landlines and of course, Lois' soft sighs of frustration make him feel right at home. He purposely straightens, stretching his arms over his head—a secret signal for his mentor and friend.

“Smallville,” Lois clips from the other side of the cubicle.

“No c's, just k's. It was a branding choice, remember?”

“Gotcha,” she hums, and her agreement is followed by the tapping of keys. “What would I do without you, Clark?”

A single-wrapped cookie makes it over the paneled wall that separates them and hits him on the head.

“Ow?”

Lois pokes her head up, frowning at him. “Really? Every time? How do you not expect that?”

There was a time where Clark was sure she was training him Pavlovian-style to be her personal spell-checker. He'd been inspired by her work ethic, intimidated by her determination and when he found out that the great Lois Lane still needed help spelling tomorrow, well, he was in love. She doesn't need to reward him. It's an honour to help. Plus, he pays attention.

Clark looks up at her from beneath his unstylish glasses and pushes them higher onto the bridge of his nose. A gentle flush colours his cheeks. “Well, I… was focused, you see.”

“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Thank you.” Lois adds with the deepest sincerity before disappearing back into her vortex of productivity. Clark is one of the few friends she's made at the Planet; it's almost like ‘How to Lose Friends and Alienate People' was made for her. Might as well keep the one that sticks around.

At times, when Clark lets his mind drift, he can even catch the faint flickering sound of a phone screen lighting up—one that's been silenced—and calling out for his owner. He'd turned his downwards, if only to stay focused. He's got a pile of condominium by-laws to sort through to find inconsistencies.

One of the icons lights up at the bottom of his screen, and a notification box slides up the corner. Bruce Wayne says ‘Kent'.

Hm.

The last time Bruce messaged him at work, they'd wasted time which was Bruce's intention—he wanted a distraction from the meeting he was in. The deadline for this article is fast approaching and he figures if it was urgent, Bruce would call. Clark looks back down at his papers.

‘Wow, really? You're going to leave me on read?' reads the next pop-up box, and he can't help the way his eyes flicker to it anyway.

Clark hadn't even opened the chat. He looks around, confused. There's no way Bruce is here. The chatter would have reached him easily. He squints at the cameras in the office, then directly at the one on his monitor.

That's ridiculous, he tells himself. Bruce wouldn't… would he?

Clark rolls his eyes. Yeah, he absolutely would.

The papers are pushed aside as Clark pulls his keyboard closer. He clicks open the chat.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

How can I help you, Mr. Wayne?

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Are you coming to the fundraiser?

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

I wasn't invited. Perry's going on behalf of the Planet. Lois too.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

You weren't invited on behalf of the planet. You should've gotten a personal invite like all the V.I.P.s.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

Ha! Me? V.I.P.? I don't have that kind of money.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Exactly. Very Important Peasant.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

… hey, why can't I block you?

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Huh, strange 🙂

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

I've been staying with Ma the past two weeks. Barn needs to be repaired. I'm helping with chores until it's done. I'll pass by my apartment tonight for the mail.

… was there a reason you wanted me to come?

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Do I need a reason to invite my friend to my party?

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

Fundraisers are not parties. They're work. I distinctly remember you saying that.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Fine, then I was hoping to have my partner in crime to help little old me win over some donations. I'll play bad cop and you can play good cop.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

Uh, okay, sure. What do I need to do?

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Chat people up.

Invite sweet old ladies to dance and win them over with that classic Midwestern charm of yours.

Throw in a couple ‘ope's and you're golden.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

I don't say ‘ope' that much. Small problem, though.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

I already bought you a tux. It'll be sent to you in time for the event.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

No! I have a suit!!!!!!

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

I said tuxedo, not suit.

They're different.

What's the problem?

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

It's about the dancing.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

What? You can't dance?

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

Not unless you want me to start a line dance.

‘Achy breaky heart' is an underrated ‘banger'.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

You can't dance.

CLARK KENT - Daily Planet - Metropolis, NY

I will not tolerate line dancing slander. I'm telling Ma.

BRUCE WAYNE - Wayne Enterprises - Gotham City, NJ

Unbelievable. I can't take you anywhere.

***

“One, two—ouch.”

“Ope,” Clark flushes, and tucks his chin into his chest, sheepish.

Bruce gives him a look, and it only worsens the blush on Clark's face.

“Don't say it.”

“I don't have to, you already proved my point. Now, pay attention. All you have to do is count to three to the rhythm of the music and make a square pattern with your steps. Easy.”

Bruce rambles on about the different shapes on the floor, and its a wonder he doesn't break down the exact angle at which Clark needs to tilt his body while leading to guide his partner into the most perfect Fibonacci sequence.

When Bruce said he'd help Clark, he didn't think it would be this… hands on.

Clark looks down at Bruce, tipping his head to watch the way Bruce's brow furrows slightly and the gentle dip at the corner of his lips when he's unsatisfied with his explanation. He barely hides his smile.

He's so focused.

It's not unlike the way they train together. Bruce instructs, then they practice. He's gotten Clark to the approximate level of a brown belt in jiujitsu because, and Clark, quotes, ‘you can't always punch your way through everything'. (Spoiler alert: he can.) Clark accepted to roll with him anyway because it was fun and there's nothing like the little expressions Bruce makes when he's teaching.

He's cute.

“Again,” Bruce grunts, keeping his eyes downcast for his own safety. It's bad manners, as he instructed, but all his other dance partners couldn't shatter his toes on accident for being distracted.

Clark straightens. All of Bruce's advice is locked into his mind, yes siree. Just a square, anyone can do a square.

“One, two, three. One, two, three.”

The dance starts slow and when Bruce deems Clark's technique suitable, he picks up the pace ever so slightly.

Aside from training, they've never been this close before. In training, Clark can't admire Bruce's pretty lashes, especially when he's looking down at their feet, or the pout of his lip when he's unsatisfied with a move Clark's making. He doesn't get to drink in the little imperfections like that one strand off hair that escapes the rest of his perfectly styled hair, errant over his forehead making him seem younger than his years.

(He won't say how many years, Bruce will know. He always knows.)

Bruce has honed himself to be the perfect human weapon—a ninja, an olympian, a dashing rogue and an acrobat—and yet Clark still catches the way his breathing ticks up when they've been practicing long enough.

It's so soft.

Both Bruce's lips and his breath distract him. Clark's mind begins to wander. The only other time Bruce looks so delicate is when he sleeps, but even then, the only times Bruce has ever allowed Clark to see was against his will or out of necessity when he's battered, bruised and exhausted.

“One, two, three. One, two, three.”

One of Clark's hand's rests at the small of Bruce's back, his arm providing a rest for Bruce's, and the other clasps his hand with all the care in the world. He's long stopped worrying about hurting Bruce—or anyone—with his strength. It's the moment that's fragile, easily shattered with one wrong step. (Okay, okay, several but he has to be close to the limit, right?) He likes supporting Bruce. He likes touching him in such an innocent way. They're just dancing and Clark feels like he's flying.

Does Bruce feel it too?

“You're too fast.”

He probably doesn't. Bruce is a man who leaps off the highest building in Gotham without thinking twice. He is a man who catches himself. What's a little dancing to him?

“Clark—”

Clark wonders how Bruce feels when he takes him up into the skies and blankets him in clouds. Does his heart feel light like this?

“Don't step there. Hey—”

Goosebumps skitter from the tips of Clark's toes up to toy with the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Bruce has been by his side for years, and he swears—he swears he has never seen him like this. The suit, though still needing to be tailored for the gala, fits perfectly on Bruce's smaller, more lithe frame.

The dance stops, abrubtly.

“Is there something on my face?” Bruce looks up at Clark, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Huh?” No? He would've noticed if there was anything wrong with Bruce's face. The more important issue is how everything is right with his face. Wait, that doesn't make sense.

There's an unshakeable silliness hanging of Clark's heart, nagging at him like popcorn in his teeth. He wants to pick at it until it goes away because he's so distracted and Bruce is being very kind in helping him learn how to dance on time for the Gala. He wants to bury his face into his hands and groan until he's expelled all the silliness out of him—until he can focus on what's being asked of him.

“You've been staring at my face,” Bruce pauses, deadpan. “For fifteen minutes straight.”

“Have I?” Clark asks, very intelligently. “Haha,” he adds, as if that helps his situation any. He didn't even notice how long he'd been staring. “Time sure flies when you're having fun!”

The look Bruce gives him is not a good one. He finds no fun in puns or familiar adages. It's a Batman look. The look of a hater who cannot truly appreciate Clark's craft.

“Again.”

“Mhm,” Clark hums and straightens his back. The dancing resumes.

He could fit in my pocket.

It's a thought that occupies Clark's mind more often than not. On some days, he'd like to tuck Bruce against his breast for his own safety and on others, he wishes he could tote Bruce around and show him all the things that make him happy. Bruce would love the Kansas State Fair. There's a tour of the Strataca Salt Mines. It seems right up Bruce's alley—wait, no, right up his cave.

Clark grins to himself, proud of his own word games.

“Clark,” Bruce reprimands.

“Hm?”

“What?”

Clark knows what's being asked of him, and he's really not in the mood to be interrogated. It's not nearly as fun as it sounds and many would argue it doesn't sound fun at all.

He bites his lip, worrying at it while staring at Bruce, which only makes it worse.

“I'm not going to ask you ag—”

“Has anyone told you how pretty you are?”

“Huh?”

“Like really pretty? Like, the kind of pretty that's distracting and it stays on your mind a couple days after you've noticed.” The words spill from Clark's mouth, honest and earnest all at once. Tons of people have told Bruce he's handsome, Clark knows that. He doesn't mean it in the same way the others do. At least, he hopes it doesn't come off as… that.

“I—What?”

Clark tips Bruce's chin up delicately, still holding hands with his other, and cups the sharp line of his jaw. He says, very softly and directly: “I think you're really pretty, Bruce.”

The battle that takes place in Bruce's mind translates onto his expression through a ticked jaw and a furrowed bow. He glares at Clark like he's committed the greatest faux pas on the dancefloor and maybe their friendship—

Clark releases him and backs off. “I mean! Your parents did a great job!” He holds his hands out.

“My parents did a great job?” Bruce recites back at him.

“Ope, you've got a phone call coming in!”

Before Bruce can reprimand Clark for the (weird) compliment or for trying to dodge the subject, his Bat-phone vibrates. After a couple of grunts, he excuses himself to go on patrol.

Clark doesn't know why he does that; they always end up together anyway.

***

The Batman glowers.

Gotham's lights reflect on his face, illuminating the sudden emergence of stubble and the frown lines around his uncovered mouth. Whoa, how many times is that now? How many times has Clark's gaze sneakily drifted down to those cute frowny—

Focus, Superman.

A cursory glance around the city shows that their perps haven't moved from their meeting spot inside the warehouse, and he listens into see if they're ever coming to the tail end of their negotations. (They are not.)

He tips his head into Batman's line of sight, trying to follow his gaze. Clark tries to track it and by his guesstimation, the Batman is glaring at the… ground? The arms folded across means that whatever he's thinking about is Very Serious™ too. He doesn't dare look beneath the cowl—that's rude—but he thinks he catches the sight of a faint, faint blush on his cheeks.

Clark hums softly to himself, steps back and beams brightly into the night.

Thinking Bats are best not disturbed.

[is-she-suffering]

In 2001 Queenadreena members had already clearly developed vision for what they want the next album to sound and look like. In a lot of the interviews it was constantly highlighted that they strived for simplified, raw sound, stripped off of all additional layers, leaving simple rock sound, often laced with anger and white noise. Album art had to reflect that simplified, raw direction. Blurry polaroids were rather a surprising transition from artistic, cinematic photos of Taxidermy, inspired by silent films. Polaroids are most often associated with instant capture of a moment in an amateur way, without much of planning. The cover and sleeve pictures were created out of cut up and arranged polaroid photos, creating surrealistic, distorted portraits. The cover shows Katie Jane crouched in a bathtub, disfigured, with head smaller and limbs appearing thinner than they in fact are. The back collage shows Katie’s legs, scarred and bruised after intense live show. There’s also a secret x-rated inlay photo, hidden behind the plastic part where CD is locked…

Katie Jane: „It is these small infinite frequencies that are begging to tell a 149 story. I can hear many voices and little melodies, like water flowing over a window or in a glass. It's very nice. And that tells me what I have to say. You have to listen very carefully, sometimes for hours. And if we listen and obey, there is a very coherent story waiting to be told. This is a blank page, like the desert or the ocean of infinite possibilities with nothing written on it, but everything, EVERYTHING, contained therein. Already very small, I could not sleep without hearing the water running. Must be amniotic, uterine, or something like that.”

„That's why you're in the fetal position on the cover?”

Katie Jane: „Yes, maybe. We made a series of self-portraits polaroids, very poor. There is something fetal but also something fossilized... which would have remained underground for a long time.”

The designer behind art of Drink Me and Pretty Like Drugs single (another collage of cut and bruised limbs, arranged in a way that at first glance you don’t really know what are you looking at) was Martin Andersen. Back in 2003, a Queen Adreena fansite called Room Eleven hosted a small interview with Andersen, in which he described how it was like to work with the band.

Martin Andersen: The Queenadreena project was an interesting one. First of all I have been working with many bands over the last 5 years, mainly for records labels ‘4AD’ and 'Rocket Girl’ Records. Queenadreena has been one of the most professional, entertaining and open-minded bands I have worked with. The band had been recommended to look at my portfolio by Glen Johnson of Rough Trade Records (and lead singer of 'Piano Magic’, whose CD cover I had designed a few months before).

We set up a meeting in a bar in Primrose Hill. After looking through the work we decided to start working on their releases DRINK ME album and PRETTY LIKE DRUGS single. The band had taken numerous polaroids which they posted me - to start working with. The basic concept was to show the band in a 'angelic yet dark-surrealist way’. I shot different portraits of the band and printed some of their polaroids. I cut all of the material up and re-composed the different images together. I then re-shot these compositions to create new surreal portraits of them (with stretched arms, eyes, faces etc). I especially like my photographs of Katie in the bath (DRINK ME) and the one of Crispin (who I think like a punk-biblical-character). In total I took between 50-70 photographs. We had a great working relationship, managed to get drunk every time we met and I have enjoyed seeing them live numerous times (THEY ROCK!).

Scrapped Kitty Collar Tight single cover whic was used for Pretty Like Drugs single instead