#it is the only drawing I’ve been able to produce in a LONG time

[beej-bones]

I did a screenshot Redraw of Angstrom and Canasta (a friend and my lamb ocs) and I’m still surprised with how this came out

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

[anime-grimmy-art]

It’s this time of the year again, folks. Time to wrap up the art Ive made in the last 12 months in another Year in Review! I’ve noticed that this is my fifth Year in Review in a row, so I’ll be making an extra post looking back on the progress in those last 5 years!

I've got a lot to say about this year, but purely art wise, I've gone all when it comes to comics, damn! I've kinda found a format that is messy, and therefore more time efficient, yet still looks good. I even made 2 animatics and lotsa shorts/reels! All that on top of opening coms twice, and, oh yeah, MAKING A WHOLE ASS 4MIN ANIMATION ON MY OWN.

How is my hand still alive.

2023 has been….interesting, to say the least. The first half year I was working on my thesis project, aka making an animated short all on my own (in the art department), which makes it honestly surprising how much I managed to churn out between animating. Trigun rly did have me in a choke hold.

Summer was a bit more spotty, esp. with me not being able to draw anything during August as I was writing my thesis (and doing commissions). And towards the end of the year, Kingdom Hearts tried to save me, but alas, Genshin Impact has finally sunk its teeth into me and dragged me to the bottom of the rabbit hole. It all started with me watching a story summary and lore videos while I was sick after my thesis and I was too intrigued to not dig deeper and well, first I fell in love with Kaeya and then the ships started dropping in left and right.

I’m not gonna lie, the last few months have been weird. I finished my masters in October, and have been on job hunt since, sadly without success so far. I’m existing in this weird limbo of still not grasping I’m not a student anymore after 18 years in education, not really being able to accept I’m an adult, yet desperately trying to find something so I can make a routine, cos rn Im too scared to build a rhythm as I know I’ll have a so much harder time readjusting again. It’s left me in a weird emotional state, where most of the time I feel fine, but when it counts, there’s just, nothing. No joy at getting my diploma, no anticipation to finally go to a convention again, neither any sadness hearing my grandfather died. It frustrates me that it extends to my art as well, there’s excitement over ideas and concepts, but no motivation to pick up the pencil, which makes me either not finish art at all or making so many shortcuts and just ending up with sth not satisfactory to me since it’s not the idea I sought after.

Tho, not everything is doom and gloom. I DID finish a whole ass short animation and got my masters degree, that IS sth to be proud of. Also, while Im struggling at drawing, I’ve also kinda started integrating my shortcuts into my style and some stuff I’ve thrown together actually turns out real good nowadays. Also, and this might be a bit of a weird one, I’m so fucking happy to know I can still enjoy gay ships. I’ve been a bit uncertain over the last few years because when I was around 16-18, I had a real big yaoi phase, which mostly came from the fact so much stuff came out that tickled my brain in the right way (Free, Haikyuu, etc.). But over the years, my enthusiasm died down, and I even started to resent some ships because it’s all some fandoms produced. I often found myself liking a hetero ship more than the popular gay ship, which really made me not wanna stick around because I did not care for most fanart and you can only go through a tag with art you don’t care about so long before you lose interest. I think in retrospect that it rly had nothing to do with the ships being gay ships but rather cos the fans just shoved it in your face when you didn’t care (and shipping culture nowadays also can get real scary). But I’m so happy to see I can still get obsessed with a ship and it’s all thanks to Haikaveh/Kavetham. It really just needed the right flavour for me to dig in again. And oh my god, I FINALLY like a ship with a SHIT TON of art and fanfictions, no more scrounging the crumbs from the bottom of the barrel. 

Anyways, enough lamenting. Here’s to hoping I can bite my tongue and get shit started properly in 2024, and that my brainrots may make me obsessed enough to churn out an obscene amount of fanart again.

[rashomonss]

“I would sell my soul for a bit more time with you…” with Barbatos, please!

I mean, it fits kind of perfectly with him, amiright?

omg it so does fit, and tbh if it’s one thing i love more than smut with barbs is angst with him (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

So sorry for the late reply to this I’ve been going through it lately but I’m finally good now! (I think) anyway enjoy! ♡

just a few more moments of your time…

Humans were fascinating.

Barbatos knew that much. However he never expected himself to get attached to a human; let alone the exchange student his lord brought to the Devildom.

So just what was it that was drawing him to them? It could possibly have been the persistence they had, to develop a better relationship with him, or maybe just sheer curiosity on his part, as to why everyone adored them so much.

No matter the case, Barbatos soon found himself swept off his feet by their presence as well.

He can’t recall the exact moment he started developing a fondness for them, but he can recall how his heart felt.

Whenever they’re near he can’t help but feel slightly nervous. Slightly more conscious of how he presented himself. It’s been so long since he ever felt such a way, so in a sense he enjoyed these giddy emotions you brought on.

At this specific moment in time he was in fact, truly happy, which of course shocked him at first. He had always prioritized Diavolo’s life and emotions above his own, so in turn he never felt the need to prolong his happiness. But of course, that all changed when you had come into his life.

He had truly enjoyed every moment he could spend with you. Ranging from you helping him in the kitchen to tea dates in the human realm, and especially intimate moments privately in his room. Barbatos wanted more of your time, he wanted more of your touch, and he wanted more of you.

He was content on spending more time with you, and he was overjoyed when you felt the same. So because of this a conversation arose and it was only then did he realize how truly different humans were from demons.

It was a subject he never thought would bring up a topic he wasn’t fond of but here you both were.

“Those tea leaves are truly divine. They’re absolutely perfect, down to the aroma and even flavor. I’d love to make some for you if I had the chance” Barbatos explained, as he ranted on to you with a small smile across his face.

You had laid your head peacefully on his lap as ran his gloved fingers through your hair and talked to you about tea and whatnot. There were times when Barbatos was talkative, and now happened to be one of those moments. Once you got him started with tea he ended up having a hard time trying to stop himself, it’s not that you minded though. Since you found his voice to be very soothing in general.

“I’d love to try them, but honestly any tea you make will always taste lovely” you smiled, letting your face fall into his thighs.

Barbatos smiled at your response and brushed a piece of hair from your face. “I promise to make you a cup when the next petals are harvested.”

“I can’t wait, when will that be?” You replied looking up towards him.

“In about a hundred years or so, the leaves are of high quality so they take time to be produced. However, the longer and more patient the tea leaves take to be made, the more exquisite the taste.”

This time you hadn’t replied to his statement. Instead your eyes fell on his beaming smile and you sighed in response. “Yeah I’d love to try them…”

The second the response left your mouth you wished to take it back, to tell him that you wouldn’t be able to, and he probably knew that as well. Barbatos was so caught up in the moment and the true excitement he felt to introduce you to something he loved that he hadn’t realized you wouldn’t even live to see it.

The conversation between the two of you continued however Barbatos soon realized you had become disengaged with the conversation long after the tea leaves had been brought up. He wanted to question you but couldn’t find the words to ask about your indifferent expression or the way your smile strained when he tried to cheer you up.

A few more moments of silence passed and Barbatos sighed moving a stand of hair out of your face again. “What’s wrong my dear? You seem to be upset in some way? Was it perhaps something I said?”

Your eyes went wide and you sat up slightly looking him in the eye. “No, no it’s not you, I assure you. It’s just…” you replied, then stopped yourself. Would he think you to be dramatic if you were still caught up on the whole tea leaves ordeal? You doubted it. This was Barbatos after all, he always understood, but a part of you really wanted to spend all the time you possibly could with him.

You had opted by beating around the bush about how to bring up the topic again, however before you could finish Barbatos picked up on what you were meant.

The thought stunned him for a minute but how could he possibly forget such an important factor? Humans have limited life span, that was just how they were created. He wanted to curse the shortened timeframe they had but nonetheless understood. That was the way of life, many different species have different concepts of time.

Yes he knew this, after all he deals with time itself.

Even with him knowing this factor why did it still create a hole in his chest when he pondered the thought of you leaving this world. What worried him the most was the thought of you leaving him.

Humans and demons grow older at different rates, with that in mind he couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving him alone. After it took him so long so find someone such as you.

If only you could stay with him. If only he could prolong your life slightly, even if it was just for another century. He didn’t want to think about saying goodbye just yet, not to someone he gave his whole heart to.

“I would sell my soul for a bit more time with you.”

Barbatos spoke, grabbing you softly by the waist. While moment was endearing you didn’t want him to give up a part of himself just so you could stay alive longer.

“I can’t accept that Barbatos. I don’t want you giving up a part of yourself for me” you replied, sighing softly.

“But MC if possible I’d like to prolong our time as much as possible”

You shook your head then looked back up to him. “As would I but I’m not going to let you do that for me. If we’re not able to spend any more time together then using the time we spend now I want to focus on the memories we make currently, rather then the ones we could possibly make in the future.”

“Even if we don’t have that long of a future left together I want to spend it like we have all the time in the world” you spoke, flashing him a smile.

The butler hugged you tightly without a word. If you wanted to spend the rest of your time with him then he couldn’t be more happy to spend whatever time he could with you.

Like you had mentioned even if you didn’t have all the time in the world it would be better to focus on what is in front of you rather then the future you both have together. He was going to make sure you felt as if you had all the time in the world, even if deep down he was terrified at the thought of saying goodbye.

[reimenaashelyee]

Clean version here

Not a bingo but a jenga. My responses below the cut

Somehow I have half of this image filled out. I wish I could cash it in for points to redeem.

Jenga:

First comic is a magnum opus: There had been a string of graphic novel adaptations of books I wanted do when I as a young teenager, but The World in Deeper Inspection was my first, substantial, original behemoth of an idea. It was the only one with the power and the potential to stay and push me to become a comics creator. Everything I am and have as an artist and writer is because of TWIDI.

Fan art more popular than OCs: This was going to be inevitable because I hardly ever post about them online. But I suppose if you count my one-off character design illustrations that go viral or my published graphic novels, this box wouldn’t be true… (The God of Arepo is my most popular fan work)

I binged your life’s work in 2 hours: I am glad you like my work enough to be this engrossed in it – but honestly please please reread it again and SLOWLY so you can appreciate the visual storytelling – not just the words and the main action!! You’ll have a fuller experience if you take the time to luxuriate!!

This isn’t even my day job: It both is and isn’t. I do enough from comics that I can survive out of it near full time (thanks to my usual speed; very grateful), but I get financial stability from the monthly paycheck from the actual day job. Relying on my speed to produce near-constant output for money is something I am losing interest in as my ideas become more ambitious and niche.

Subscribe to my Patreon: Somehow I am able to hawk my free-to-read platforms with a certain amount of success but never can get a big dent on my Ko-fi.

Received unsolicited critique on a free comic: Unavoidable reality. Though I hadn’t had something egregious in a long time (and it better stay that way).

Had to explain what a webcomic even is to someone IRL: Nearly all the people I surround myself with are ‘normies’ (people who aren’t so online and/or don’t read online media), so this comes up often – and it will become more frequent as I pursue institutional pathways like residencies and grants. Even if they knew what webcomics were, it would be under the name of webtoons.

I can’t wait to draw this scene in 4 years: lol @ Alexander Comic and TWIDI

Multi-year hiatus: TWIDI’s eternal curse, until I figure out how to build enough stability in my career/life to return to it – full-time and for real.

Financially supported by someone else: My dayjob, mainly, but previously my parents.

Is somehow mutuals with favourite artist: That’s what it’s like as your career progresses and matures! It’s always nice to become peers with those you admire – especially the ones you grow to love only after knowing them.

Characters get gayer over time: Growing up and being able to witness the various ways of living can and will change how one approaches their characters.

Successfully fulfilled a Kickstarter: Not on my own, but I had a few for my books that published smoothly.

Empty space:

ADHD diagnosis: I have ADHD-esque behaviours that I have managed to overcome with ADHD-specific hacks, but whether I actually have the thing itself is a question mark. I lean towards not really having it since I am able to execute and complete tasks regularly.

Works in animation or went to school for it: I used to want to study and work in animation before I discovered the potential of comics as a storytelling medium. I don’t have a desire to break into that industry, even without all the employment and late-capitalism instability that it’s going through right now. I am not averse to trying if asked, however.

Had an art teacher who hated anime: Never went to art school.

Yes I’ve had burnout but what about second burnout: Currently going through a fallow period, but I really don’t think it’s Burnout Burnout. Touch wood, I continue to maintain my love, interest and desire to make comics and stay in my artistic career.

Forgot how to draw main character’s face: Characters are so seared into my brain, it’s not easy to forget. Helps that they each have particular quirks that belong to their design.

This comic gave me my hand/wrist injury: Still out here WITHOUT any of those. I hope I can keep it that way until whenever I retire.

Emergency commissions: Hopefully I will never have to resort to do this. (Very grateful, yes)

Sleep… “schedule”? my 7-8 hours of sleep is essential and non-negotiable.

If it’s not 3 hours long is it even worth adding to the work playlist: This is is referring to video essays I guess? I rarely ever encounter essays of over 3 hours that I am interested enough to watch. (Also I can’t really watch something while drawing; I lose speed/concentration)

Embarrassed to look at early pages: Not embarrassed – I was younger and less-skilled then, that’s just how it is. There were a lot of things younger me did that I could still learn from.

Regrets costume choices: I pride myself in being able to style myself and my characters, and so far I have never regretted the clothes I give my characters – the TWIDI characters all have base outfits from when I was 15!

[amandacanwrite]

Summoning Serotonin by Amanda Cessor

Content Warnings|| Heavy themes around depression, loneliness, failure. Mentions of suicide. Please let me know if there are any I missed. Summary|| A desperate human summons a demon in the hopes that they can trade their soul away for a neurotypical brain and a break from their depression. A/n|| I very intentionally wrote this story without anything that identifies the narrator's gender. Please imagine who you see fit there, whether that be you or someone else.

Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal

So, I’ve decided to sell my soul to a demon.

I know what you’re thinking, that seems a little extreme, but, hear me out.

I have spent so much time, money and energy trying to fix myself. I’ve tried and tried and tried to rid myself of my myriad of mental illnesses, only to watch my life fall apart around me again and again and again.

At this point, I’m either going to sell my soul or off myself. Either way, I wind up burning in Hell. I might as well make the most of the years I have left on this dumpy planet before I spend eternity swimming in a lake of fire.

So, here I sit — on a Friday — that way I have the weekend to enjoy my newfound neurotypical brain. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take a shower.

Big plans, you know?

Honestly, I’m really surprised by how little is required to summon a lord of night? A little sulfur, some graveyard dirt, a few black candles, and a couple drops of my blood. Considering the state of things, it isn’t hard to part with.

I start by drawing a pentagram in chalk on a clearing I’ve made in the clutter and mess on my coffee table, using my sleeve to buff out a coffee ring on the cheap furniture. I place a black candle on one corner for fire, graveyard dirt on another to symbolize earth, sulfur on another for the element of air, a glass of red wine on yet another corner for water. Finally, at the very top, I prick my finger and smear a fat glob of blood to link the spell to me and to represent the fifth element of the soul.

“Hear me, O, knights of Hell,” I say, my voice warbling with my own embarrassment. “Rise from your fiery pit and heed my call!”

This is all the ritual said to say, but once done, I only catch the faint whiff of the sulfur and watch as black wax trickles down onto my already-ruined coffee table. I run a hand through my oily hair and sigh. I’m stupid to think this would work. I’m stupid for even trying it.

I’m about to head back to bed and sleep the day away when the doorbell rings. I jump at the sound — I have visitors so infrequently that I have long forgotten what it even sounded like.

I stand up and go to the door, peeking through the grimy, smudged peephole. Outside of my door, I see a vaguely person-shaped blob. I figure it’s a neighbor that’s come to complain about the smell of rotten eggs. I unlock the door and open it, finding a smartly dressed man with black hair.

And … horns?

Oh.

“You called a demon?” he asks.

“Uhh …”

“May I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” I scramble as I step out of the way.

He lets himself in and strides to my sofa where he sits and wrinkles his nose at the lingering odor of the sulfur I had used to call him. Then again, I haven’t been able to clean the apartment in the last two months. So, maybe he’s reacting to that.

I shift between my feet awkwardly, and he pats the seat next to him, beckoning me over.

I come sit with him, and he snaps his fingers, producing a manila folder with my name on it. He opens it. A pen materializes and drops into his hand, and he jots something down.

I can’t see what he’s writing.

“Alright, so why did you summon me today?” he asks.

“Uhm — I was hoping to make a trade.”

“Mhm — and what are your proposed terms?”

“My soul? For uh —” I sputter, “a properly functioning brain and ample neurotransmitters?”

He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes scanning from my greasy hair to my stained T-shirt to the sweatpants I never bother to wash.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Hell is rather overpopulated right now,” he says as he sets my file off to the side. “We aren’t really trading for souls unless the soul in question is rather remarkable.”

I stare at him for a solid fifteen seconds.

“Are you telling me,” I say, “that I’m such a mess that I can’t even trade my soul away for some peace?”

“I’m telling you,” he responds, “that between all the politicians, the billionaires, and the mega-corporate CEOs, we don’t have much space for anyone else. And, to be quite honest with you, your soul is worth more than a trade for mental health.”

I let out a laugh. It sounds unhinged.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you when I work up the gumption to end it,” I retort.

“Unlikely, we don’t take suicides anymore either.”

He scans my apartment again and then looks at me.

“You’re not in treatment.”

It’s not a question.

“What’s the point if it can’t fix my broken brain chemistry?”

“It isn’t about fixing you, there’s nothing to fix.”

“I can’t get out of bed before one in the afternoon. I haven’t showered in five days. I have no friends, and I can’t keep a tidy home. How can you say there’s nothing to fix?”

“Those are just symptoms of an illness.”

“Yes — the illness I’d liked to cure,” I say. “I just want to be normal.”

“What is normal? Who’s to say that I grant you the cure for your depression, your anxiety, and your ADHD and you don’t later wind up with some other problem down the line that you can’t control? Illnesses just require a little management.”

“I don’t want to manage it. I want to cure it. I can’t be happy until I fix it.”

My tone is getting more and more angry. Tears burn my eyes. The demon sighs and looks around my apartment again. He stands and begins to gather garbage in his hands. Empty instant noodle cups, candy wrappers, soda cans.

“Do you know anyone with diabetes?” he asks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

He goes into my kitchen and grabs a trash bag and starts filling it with garbage. Anything he can find.

“You don’t see diabetics giving up on life because their bodies can no longer process sugar the way everyone else’s can. They take medicine, they find alternative sweeteners, they learn how to work around their malfunctioning pancreas.”

I watch as he continues to clean my apartment, waving his hand like he’s Mary Poppins and levitating a stack of my books onto my bookshelf. I wince as he opens my blinds and my windows. A breeze flows into the room and I realize just how stuffy it’s been lately.

“Why should your mental health be treated any differently?” he continues.

“Diabetes doesn’t ruin friendships?” I say, almost annoyed with the comparison.

“Says who? Alcohol metabolizes as sugar. What if your friends only like to drink and party? What do you do when you can’t drink anymore?” he points out.

“Those don’t sound like very healthy friends," I say.

As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, he sets me with a deadpan look. One perfect brow arched as if to say you’re proving my point, you idiot.

“Losing friends because of your mental health is more of a reflection of those friends, not you," he tells me, just incase I can't put it together myself..

“But, I get so clingy and needy. I lose my mind with people.”

“Because you’re not in treatment. Those things get better when you go to therapy and start taking medication for your poorly functioning synapses. You learn tools to regulate your emotions, and you find people who understand you when you can’t regulate.”

He tosses a dishrag at me and starts doing my mountain of dishes. I stand up and join him at the sink and a quiet falls between us as we work away at the stinking pile. I put them away as I dry them. When the pile is nearly done, I finally ask him.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks at me before looking back to the dish he’s rinsing.

“You’re in a bad way. You just need a little stepping stone. A clean flat is a good start. Then, maybe after a long shower, we’ll call some doctors and schedule you an appointment so you can get the treatment you need,” he says. “If you don’t feel better after getting the help you need, I’ll take your soul. But you better think of something more fun to trade for than curing your depression. Give me a challenge, for God’s sake.”

I laugh first.

And then I cry.

The kind of crying that seems endless — streams and streams of tears that seem to come from some bottomless reservoir. He pats my back, and I feel catharsis for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

Is this what it’s like when someone understands you? When someone can see your pain and can speak directly to it?

“I can’t believe I had to summon a demon to get something so small as help cleaning my apartment and scheduling a doctor’s appointment,” I say.

“I bet there are people around you that would have been happy to help you — I bet you struggle with asking.”

“It’s hard,” I say through hitching tears. “I’m so ashamed.”

He nods and offers me a black handkerchief; I take it and wipe the wetness from my face.

“It gets easier once you get the help you need. Medication, therapy — those are stepping stones too. And once you’re well enough to do these basic care tasks, then you can tackle finding friends that care about you, curating goals and dreams you want to accomplish,” he says. “Living is a lot easier when you have something to live for.”

I have no idea how he reads me to filth, but I appreciate it.

“Now into the shower with you — I’ll get the flat cleaned in the meanwhile," he says with doting fussiness.

When the demon is ready to leave about four hours later, my apartment is spotless. It smells like peaches (he gave me some scented candles), and I have both a therapy and psychiatrist appointment booked for the following week. It has been a long time since I felt hopeful. For once, I see light at the end of the tunnel.

When he stands to leave, I don’t want him to go. He seems to sense this because he sighs and looks at me.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay, but you know where to find me. I’m your caseworker now, so if you have need something — and I do mean desperately need —” He holds out his hand, and I watch curiously as a wisp of black smoke spins there, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, until it solidifies into a band of black stone, “use this. Spin it on your left index finger three times counterclockwise, and I’ll come to your aid.”

He holds it between his elegant fingers and drops it into my hand. I slide it onto my index finger, and it fits perfectly. Made just for me.

“How do I repay you for everything?” I ask.

“The sulfur and blood will do. I’ll check in after a few months and see how you’re faring,” he says.

I nod and smile at him. “Thank you, again, for everything.”

His lips curve slightly in an enigmatic smile.

And, then, he is gone.

____________________________________________________

I hope you enjoyed this little short story. It's one that is very near and dear to my heart and represents conversations I've had with heartbroken friends and also, myself. Sometimes things are hard and we need a helping hand. If you are thinking of harming yourself, please call or text 988 (if in the US) or find your local crisis hotline here.

Tagging a few people who stated interest in reading this: @carrotsinnovember @whateverwarrior @lightningsrikes @a-crystallen-author @jessicagailwrites @artbyeloquent @csdarkfantasy @dyrewrites @dru-reads-writeblr

(PS I'm blown away that of you were excited for this little story, I really hope you liked it and that it didn't disappoint.)

[yowyowyaoi]

Zetsu’s Daily Texts from the Akatsuki

From Nagato

You can’t keep eating them without checking to see if we’re using them first.

300 miles? Is that really the closest?!

I can put you with Tobi or Hidan. Take your pick.

Put the letters where they can find them, then stay somewhere hidden to see their reactions.

Keep an eye on them please. No explosions, no sacrifices. Nothing to draw attention.

I’ve been practicing every day. Legs feel stronger.

I’d only risk it if you also want to risk being placed in a gengetsu.

I’m sure I’ll be gone before her. All I ask is she be well taken care of. It’s all that matters.

No. Under no circumstances. I need them all ALIVE and able to work, please.

You can ask but she’ll probably hit you hard enough to REALLY split you in half.

From Kakuzu

Yes well your appetite is proving quite costly.

Find where he’s hiding and I’ll give you a third of his bounty.

I’m not so sure that “intelligence” is a quality I’d associate with any of them.

Actually if you could naturally produce that we could sell bottles and make some money 🤔

Much, much too expensive.

I don’t care if you eat him but wait until I get his heart out first.

I’d rather you ate me; my body won’t be on display for him to entertain Deidara with.

It’s complicated. And by complicated I mean I let a one time physical urge turn into a years-long relationship. 

It’s the 1st. Rent and utilities are due. 

If I didn’t we wouldn’t have *anything*. Be grateful.

I’m not sure if my threads would hold for plant-skin.

Stop losing them for God’s sake each one costs $50 in materials to make!!

I’ll take your word for it. That voice creeps me out.

From Konan

Please don’t ever do that again. Nagato almost had a heart attack. 😡

It’s funny in a shouldn’t be funny way.

Wait you’ve seen him without the mask 👀

No I don’t care if they’re annoying we don’t have the time to replace them now!!

Ask Sasori to take a look. He enjoys a challenge.

I don’t care how easy it was to get, I’m NOT cooking with that kind of “meat” 🤢

No offense but do you even have nails 🤔

I’d rather we didn’t need to pick up and move again unless absolutely necessary.

Since we were children 🥰

I’d kill anyone who tried. With my bare hands.

Kisame may be able to but the rest will need it cooked.

You’re THAT old?! 😵‍💫

Stick to guys. I will remain the only woman in this group.

Can’t you eat them? Aren’t you part Venus fly trap??

From Hidan

Freak.

Then stop watching, weirdo!

Because if you take the body before my praying is finished then the entire ritual is void!!

Not to be gay but yeah I see what he sees. 

Then steal him some damn glasses next time!

But do plants even have dicks? Like is it green? Does it smell like grass? 🤔

He’s such a liar he wanted me since the day we met 😂

I saw you eyeing that cat and so did Itachi.

How do you say “Fuck you” in plant-speak?

They’re not “pink” they’re “rose”, heathen.

Ribs without sauce is like fucking without lube. Like what’s even the point?

If I could convert even one of those fucks I’d become a High Priest for Jashin.

Can’t. Kakuzu’s “withholding my paycheck” until I pay off that bounty of his that I killed. 🙄

So come with us. Everyone’s weird you’ll fit right in.

From Sasori

Elderberry, nightshade, and primrose. For now.

A mouse learns to fear other mice before it even thinks about predators.

Please stop that you gave him nightmares last time and I couldn’t work on my puppets for a whole week 😒

I don’t care as long as it has a big enough space for a lab.

Damn blue eyes trapped me for eternity.

An interesting experiment, certainly.

I have vague memories but that’s all.

You appear to be “friends” so talk to him and tell him to back off. 

Who do you think I am? That freak Orochimaru?!

I don’t buy that stupid act for a second.

If I suggested aloe vera would you find that insulting?

You and I are the least bothersome in terms of eating. I don’t, and you hunt.

I’ll contribute when the expense is relative to me.

From Kisame

So far only Itachi knows about it but the water there is clear and beautiful.

Your way of thinking is truly fascinating.

Of course you’re welcome to join us but you’ve voiced objections before to both tea and sweets.

No, I’ll BURY him myself before I let you eat him.

Crab and shrimp. Especially crab.

I’m aware. His smell is getting weaker and his chakra is shaky.

I admire your patience for it but I don’t do so well in the sun for so long.

Again? Why?? Who attracted attention this time? 😒

I don’t but Samehada seems to.

The battlefield is empty. Care to join me at the buffet? 😋

Between the prayer rituals and the constant bombing I just can’t handle either of them.

Salt is for the weak. Pure fear flavors the meat better than any seasoning. 

From Deidara

You can’t prove that was me, that could have been anyone!

If I’m successful there won’t BE anything left of me to eat so 🤷🏼

Idk you just look gray. Maybe stand in the sun for a while?

Ok we may eat more BUT his food costs more!

Wait is it real hair or like plant stuff 🤔

I didn’t this time he was dancing and he tripped on his cloak like an idiot.

Honestly not until I met Sasori lol 

Omg where?! Riverbanks are always a goldmine of natural clay! 🤩

I get that but I’m just not interested, eternity is so boring.

Low key he goes into this voice sometimes that scares the piss out of me.

Bc it’s weird man it’d be like watching my mother shower or something 😖

Like usual he couldn’t shut up and almost got us killed on the spot 😡

Not unless you want to pick the lice out of my hair afterwards.

From Itachi

Not sure of the exact dynamics but I think it’s second or third cousins.

Maybe it’s best we all just live with our own partners. Too many in one area and eventually someone figures it out.

No he’s as gentle as possible. I just have sensitive skin.

Yes but cabbage is so versatile.

You saw him? Did he look well? 👀

The glasses help some but most everything is still a massive blur.

I tried. Nagato tried. He refuses to give up on the idea.

There is no “before” and there’s no “after0. There’s just NOW.

No I know he ate it because he had the jam smeared all over his collar.

22 doesn’t really interest me.

From Obito

The right arm still twitches if I try to lift too much.

Come on weren’t YOU happy when he died?!

He can’t turn me down forever. Just picture him with the Uchiha fan on his back 😍

Yeah well he’s still my little cousin and I still worry.

I think it scares him a little, he almost walked into a tree that first time I did it on accident.

It’s not excessive; the sugar is literally the only thing pushing me forward right now.

I would bet money that he’s the worst Sensei ever to those kids. No wonder Sasuke was so weak.

The constant money woes are so tedious.

Blind or not his reflexes are unmatched and he could still take me out in one move.

We should have put more emphasis on intelligent and less on “skills”.

You’ve gotta admit the explosions DO liven things up 🤷🏻

What if you ate him and he could still talk from inside of your stomach though? Is that a chance you want to take?

Bonus: From Madara

He stopped responding two years ago he acts like I’m dead.

What? That little shit. 😡

If the blonde is giving him too much of a distraction, dispose of him.

You don’t need to pre-chew my food I’m not a baby bird.

Have you seen my good blanket?

What happened to my slippers?

🍆 I want this. I’m craving this so bad. Please bring it to me.

Tell that boy to come back I need a good bath and a haircut.

Perhaps if you hadn’t recruited so many *brats* you wouldn’t be having such an issue.

Whatever you do, do NOT let them breed.

Did you remember where I stashed my last painting of Hashirama?

If I was younger I could have eliminated the entire group within seconds. They’d never even know what hit them.

Please procure a backscratcher and industrial grade toenail clippers.

Wait until he sleeps and move several large rocks into his room. I guarantee he’ll cry.

First that young lass, then the Hatake boy, now the blonde. He never learns his lesson does he?

What do you mean he cut it?? An Uchiha’s hair is his crown! Tell him to get back here NOW.

I should have chosen Fugaku’s son instead. Likely a lot less crying.

[erimeows]

Bloodborne

So, this is the third installment of my Akatsuki x Reader series. If you'd like context for this oneshot, read the first part here on AO3! Hope you guys enjoy- more chapters centered around the other Akatsuki members will be posted soon (:

Every Friday night since you’ve joined the Akatsuki, you find yourself in Sasori’s bedroom at the Akatsuki’s main hideout. You sit on a stool with your body tense as he sits directly across from you and focuses on his work. You can’t bear to look, so you close your eyes and hold your breath when you see the man start to unpack and prep the needle he’s going to use.

You wince from the sensation of having your blood drawn- the needle being pushed into your vein, the tourniquet wrapped around your arm, the headache that comes with squeezing your eyes shut. 

In return for saving your life once, you promised Sasori that he would be able to use samples of your blood whenever he needed them. You have a rare kekkei genkai that allows you to produce poison from your skin, and apparently, there’s enough of that poison in your bloodstream for Sasori to use in his puppets. 

You tend to keep your word, so as he requested earlier on in your ‘friendship’ (or, you like to think it’s a friendship), you come to his room once a week and let him draw your blood. The two of you chat about what’s going on in the Akatsuki, and honestly, you thought the two of you were getting somewhere. Underneath his Hiruko puppet, Sasori is quite attractive- he’s intelligent, creative, beautiful, strong, and easy to be around. You crushed on him from the start and assumed that with so many weeks of spending time together, he would at least see you as a friend, but…

“You seem on edge… More so than usual,” Sasori points out as he smoothly slides the needle out of your arm, stores the blood in vials, and wraps your bleeding arm. Then, he unwraps the tourniquet and leans in- perhaps a little too close. He smells like fresh cut wood and cedar, and his fluffy scarlet locks are ruffled from a long day of working on his puppets. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” You lie through your teeth, standing up and clutching your arm.

Sasori rolls his eyes and turns to label your vials of blood before putting them in his miniature freezer. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” He points out with his back turned to you.

You frown.

“How can you tell?”

“I’ve been alive a long time… Been around,” Sasori turns in his chair again, this time to face you. The expression on his face is calm and leveled as always. You can’t help but find it frustrating. You know full well that, a few times, you’ve lost your composure in front of him; shown up injured and in need of help, cried when you were in pain, let little hints of your feelings towards him slip. Sasori, on the other hand, is always composed. He seems slightly fond of you and that’s it. You’ve seen no signs of love or adoration or even of just a little crush, and he’s certainly never shown weakness in front of you. He merely shrugs as he continues to talk, not meeting your eyes. “You learn things, especially when you’ve been lied to your whole life.”

“That’s awfully cryptic,” You respond, sitting back down and staring up at the ceiling.

Now, you can feel him looking at you again, but you refuse to meet his prying gaze. If he can already tell when you’re lying, letting him look straight into your eyes will only make your situation worse. 

“As I tend to be… But what’s bothering you?”

“I was talking with Deidara,” You finally admit.

Earlier in the day, Deidara heavily scolded you for spending so much time with Sasori, insisting that the puppet-user held no fondness for you and was strictly using you for your blood. While that was what you intended your relationship with Sasori to be at the beginning, you’d hate to think that after all the nights spent in his room talking to him while doing this, that he isn’t even remotely interested in you. But, he is a cold man, and Deidara knows him better than anyone else in the Akatsuki… So you can’t brush Deidara’s words off as easily as you’d like.

“Oh, please,” Sasori scoffs, rolling his eyes again. “What did that idiot say that’s put you in a mood like this?”

You wince at Sasori’s tone. Though he’s clearly not upset with you, it sounds like he’s already agitated with Deidara- a regular occurrence, from how you’ve seen the two of them interact. 

“Don’t be mad.”

“Have you ever seen me angry?” Sasori asks as if the answer should be ‘no’.

“Only when someone keeps you waiting,” You shrug, then think back to the many times you’ve seen him lash out at Deidara for either showing up late to a planned meeting or arguing with him about their perspectives on art. “Or when it’s Deidara…”

“Let me rephrase that… Have you ever seen me angry with you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then spit it out.”

At that, you twiddle your thumbs and do everything that you can to avoid Sasori’s icy gaze.

“He said that… Well…”

“What?”

“I consider you a friend, but he said that you were just using me for my blood, which I guess is fine- that was the agreement since you saved me,” You explain. You’re so anxious that your stomach churns with anxiety as you continue. “But he said that one day you’d get sick of dealing with me and that you’d kill me and turn me into a puppet.”

Sasori simply shakes his head, as if your words are completely ridiculous. 

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’d eventually run out of poison, since it comes from your veins. If I were to take those out to make you into a puppet, you’d be useless,” Upon hearing Sasori’s words, you can feel your expression drop. It’s like he’s only keeping you alive because it’s practical- not because he enjoys having you around. “It’s not just that, I…”

“You what?” You question.

“I don’t mind your company. I have a million spies and a million assistants, (y/n),” Sasori reaches forward and, much to your surprise, places a single hand on top of your knee. You nearly jump out of your skin at the touch- on a normal night, he wouldn’t dare put his hands on you unless it was to draw blood, and even then, he’s usually gloved. “If I didn’t want to be around you, I would have them do this and bring me the samples back- or I would have them find another member of your clan to use instead.”

You furrow your brow and stand up to leave the room once more.

“So all I am to you is bearable.”

“That’s not it at all. This is grunt work, (y/n),” Sasori stands as well and follows after you. Before you can reach the door, Sasori catches your wrist in one hand. “I’m doing it to be in your presence… At least more than the others are.”

“I’m glad you enjoy my company, then.”

“I more than enjoy it,” Sasori pauses. You look back at him, confused. Though his expression tends to appear flat, he actually seems conflicted. His wooden fingers still wrapped around your wrist make your heart beat hard and fast in your chest. Then, looking you straight in the eye, he confesses. “I assumed I’d lost the ability to feel love a long time ago, but you’ve made me realize… That I’ve merely been around the wrong people all this time.”

You don’t believe it at first. If Deidara was right, this can’t be true. Maybe Sasori sees you as a friend and is trying to spare your feelings? Or maybe he’s just trying to keep you around so he can keep using your blood? With that thought, you try to reassure him that he doesn’t have to sweet talk you for you to keep to your arrangement.

“Sasori, you don’t have to-”

“No, let me finish,” Sasori interjects, shaking his head and moving to stand closer to you. “I don’t want you to feel as if I don’t value you for you.”

“What… What do you mean by that?”

“Of course, when we first met, our arrangement was merely for convenience, but… I’ve developed these feelings for you that I believed were impossible…”

Finally, Sasori leans in and presses his lips against yours. They’re incredibly soft and delicate- one of the few human parts from his old body that he kept when he transferred his soul into the puppet version of himself. Regardless of how taken aback you are, when Sasori releases your wrist, you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. 

“Sasori,” You whisper, pulling away and staring straight at him. Before, you wouldn’t have been so bold, but it seems as if he likes the attention as he smiles down at you. He allows his eyes to flutter shut with his long lashes resting against his high wooden cheekbones. “Does that mean… That you…?”

“I love you,” He clarifies, putting an end to your misery. You let out a sigh of relief at the same time that butterflies start to flutter around your stomach. Briefly, you start to think that joining the Akatsuki might’ve been one of the best things that’s ever happened to you. “So tell that fool Deidara to shove it next time he tells you that I’m using you for your blood… Part of why I’ve been doing this is to get closer to you.”

“Ha, okay. I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“Come again next Friday, my dear, and I promise I’ll show you just how much I love you. I’ll plan something wonderful to repay you for all you’ve done for me. How does that sound?”

You grin, then lean in to kiss the redhead again.

“I’d love that.”

[doshmanziari]

Hey, everyone.

In 2022, I wrote and illustrated a short comic book which I published and sold copies of at that year’s MICE. Entitled Adyton, it was a brief exploration of what I'd very loosely call the close encounter phenomenon, with an emphasis on the abduction aspect. Since then, I’ve wanted to expand on the book; but, as is usual for me, I have to ruminate on something for a long while until embarking on the project feels right. This recently happened, and I’ve decided to entitle what I intend to be my first complete and long-form graphic novel Can You See Behind the Moon? I’m not going to say where the title comes from, and will leave it to those who are more familiar with some of the paranormal literature to recognize its origin.

Over the years, I’ve made sputtering attempts at other graphic novels, but the lack of a clear narrative direction for one doomed it to oblivion (Underbrickers), while the creative momentum of the other seemed bound to a very particular timeframe (Grim Synergy). Differently, I see this project as encompassing ideas which, to varying degrees, are present within my mind every day, or every other day, and I do think it can be sustained by that persistence. If I were forced to speak in very general and perhaps reductive terms about Can You See Behind the Moon?, it is my attempt to explore possibilities implied by close encounters in a way which emphasizes a deep and occulted relationship humanity appears to have with itself, the cosmos, and what one might term the evolutionary impulse.

The first four pages you see here (not counting the cover) are recreations of Adyton’s first six pages. As should be apparent, the narrative is not linear. Like Adyton, the plot sometimes progresses according to visual resonances which can also be interpreted as conceptual resonances. For instance, the as-yet-unnamed young man’s finger-gun gesture becomes the transitional point for a reference to the so-called Kelly-Hopkinsville encounter, wherein guns figured prominently, and unusually.

To be clear, this work has been done very quickly, in the interest of submitting it to relevant publishers as proof-of-concept material, and so that I’m able to maintain a pace of a couple of pages every two or three days (while also producing “fine art” for gallery shows, to say nothing of various other side projects). But I also like the roughness of the drawings, and the color of the newsprint paper… so, the making of these has also carried with it pleasure and occasional surprise at the results. Since I’ve decided to work within a limited palette, I’m relying heavily upon the linework.

For Christmas last year, my partner — somewhat regretfully — got me a comic book about UFOs published the same year by Dark Horse. I write “somewhat regretfully” because she didn’t really like the look of it; and when I received it I had to agree: the art is so simplistic, mundane, and ugly that I don’t think I’ll ever do more than skim some of the pages (the author also seems to have only done the bare minimum of research regarding Betty and Barney Hill’s case). But I’ve used the book as a point of motivation: surely, if something that bland could get green-lit by a fairly well-known comics publisher, then my work stands a chance.

Another one of my particularities is that I tend to get through projects more quickly when I don’t assign their completion an arbitrary date, and also when I don’t make myself beholden to publicizing all of the progress. I don’t intend on making a Kickstarter or anything for this — unless it becomes necessary — so I’m not sure when I’ll be prepared to share more. But, the time will come.

Anyway — even if there’s not much here yet, thanks for looking!

[phantomram-b00]

I know I’ve been on a good omens brainrot. But I want to stop and talking about something, some movie as it been exactly this day (edit: yesterday, I meant to post this yesterday but it got hectic and I couldn’t finished until 12. So my bad, I tried. That and the wifi is shit, so forgive me) (at least released on Netflix). But it just not some movie, you might know it, you might not that’s okay because I would like to talk about…..*drum rolls*

Now for those who don’t know and without spoiling too much as I recommend this movie, it follows Kat Elliot a black teenage girl who’ve gone through a traumatic event of her parent’s death and have two demons, Wendell and Wild, who have their own agenda of opening a theme park for the souls. Can’t stress this enough that this movie is worth the watch. Please go watch before going to see this post as I will be discussing the movie, spoiler warning ahead 🤭 unless if you wanna get spoil then, that’s on you, who am I to tell you what to do am I right? With that being said let get into this

(Disclaimer: Now, I am planning a drawing for it so stay tone for that. But I couldn’t finish in time due to being on vacation but it will be done! ^v^ now onto the post.)

Honestly, this is my second stop motion picture movie since coraline, who funfact Henry Selick directed. He also directed Wendell and Wild and was produced by Jordan Peele who also stars as Wild himself with his friend Keegan-Michael Key who plays Wendell; honestly to see these two play the demon bring be back to Key and Peele show they did, always happy to see them together and be chaotic duos. But I do wanna give honor to Jordan Peele as imo, his movies have been phenomenal between Get out, Nope, Us, and now Wendell and Wild (granted produced but he did have control), I can’t wait to see what else he got in plan. I think what make me appreciate his directing/producing is how he can say and I quote in this news article,

“I feel fortunate to be in this position where I can say to Universal, ‘I want to make a 20$ million horror movie with a black family’ and they say yes” - Jordan Peele (2019)

And frankly, I’m happy representation is happening, (I’m not black, I’m only Puerto Rican, but to have poc representation make me happy! but also that, imma say this, representation do matter. You (and I’m talking to the non-poc/white) might not think it not a big deal, but trust me, it is matter and it is important. And it should. And I’m happy Jordan Peele for example here is able to diverse the cast, and like he said, “not that I don’t like white dudes but I’ve seen that movie.” I’ll dive deep soon so remember this.) and I hope they keep going with representation.

Henry Selick, he’s responsible for Coraline, Nightmare before Christmas and more! And to see another Henry Selick movie, I had a feeling with a help of Jordan Peele that I was going to love it. And I did! I’m excited to see whatever he come up with next, though if it another stop motion, which I love stop motion animation as much as a next person, however, do you know how long these shit takes? Like I gotta give them prop for the dedication! But I don’t know how you get patience for stop motion- but back to Henry, he responsible for my love for Coraline and nightmare before Christmas, and I gotta give him and Jordan Peele props and credit, and also to thank them for making this movie!

Now the casting, honestly the casting imo was fantastic, Lyric Ross was excellent as Kat Elliot, both when Kat is a no nonsense headstrong character to when she is actively grieving of the death of her parents as she grows from her trauma. Very much Phenomenal work and her chemistry with Wendell and Wild is what make it much cool as well as her chemistry with Raul (Sam Zelaya), Siobhan (Tamara Smart) and even Sister Helley (Angels Bassett herself!). I feel the casting was phenomenal and was well-casted I don’t think I had a moment where I think “oh this person could’ve been better” or “wow they bad”, nope I don’t think I have a complaint. Oh and Father level bests (James Hong) was just the right amount of a comedic antagonist next to Siobhan’s parent, his delivery was comedic and also a right amount of asshole. They all ate, and it was worth it for the cast!

The story! While I do think the pacing could’ve been better to flow better and also other qualms, but I won’t say that what toke me away, as I really like the story, I like how while yes the title and that it is about two demons, but I do like how we get to see Kat’s story and how she grows. As Jordan Peele mentions in again this article, the demon represent her personal demons with both her guilt and anger, and how she can overcome and wear your fears in a sense as well as dealing with her being a hell maiden. This was done well, and I like how it was done, sure was it a messy landing but it landed and it did well. Learning to overcome your demons is a challenge, hell I’m still trying to overcome them as I go and I’m twenty one, but as Kat shown, we can overcome our demons, and learn to carry on. And now as we saw at the end, she while she still grieve her parents, she learns that she not or never will be alone as she now surrounded by people who care and who won’t hurt her like the people in her past. Even accepting her two person demons, and being a hell maiden (which I will say, I think the demons can also represent how you handle them, like helley bottling up her demon can be a commentary on bottling up your problems rather than facing them. And seeing the amount that was there she had the bottle it up alot, which I can relate and I feel it was done well as well.) if they ever do a sequel, I would be here for it, i doubt their might because 1) stop motion takes such a long time. 2) the advertisement for this movie was done dirty. But if they did, I will be here for it and can’t wait to see what they do.

And finally the representation, honestly the presentation and the diversity of this movie was amazing. My eyes widen seeing just how diverse it, something I wish I had growing up as stated by Peele, I’ve already seen movies where predominantly of the cast was white, and (and this isn’t me saying “I hate white people” let me put this out there) I’m tired of seeing an all or almost all white or cast, I think it been done so many time and also it feel tiring and disheartening not to be represented in a way or even if there was it done stereotypical. So seeing representation was wonderful between black/Asian/Latine/Latinx/indigenous representation to there being Trans and disability representation. I hope more representation keep happening and there is, very much so! And as I said and I will say again, representation matters! And this movie’s rep was done very well! Im sure I’m missing some (forgive me it been a while and I don’t have access to Netflix as of now. Please forgive me, if I miss any please let me know!)

Before I close this blog, I gotta say, the advertisement for this movie was done very dirty! Like i don’t know what it is, but I felt we hardly saw any promotional work for this movie, it the same thing that happen with Disney’s Strange world. If there was, I probably missed a lot because I felt there wasn’t much ads for this movie, and because of it, I felt it didn’t get the recognition it deserved. So if you made it this far whether you seen this movie or you haven’t to please go watch Wendell and Wild, I promise you will have a good time and a wonderful experience watching this movie. I can’t wait to show the drawing. And I just needed to talk about this, as it one of my favorite stop motion films, I can’t wait to see where Wendell and wild go, and hope we get more of it. Even if we do get a sequel, I hope we see more of hell maidens and of Kat’s journey with her demons and her friends. hope you enjoyed. Phantom. Out.

[miniscule-meow]

Isabell and the Lads: Unfortunate First Meeting (5)

Word Count: ~1.8k

Masterpost

First Part | Last Part | Next Part

“Hey.” The word rumbles around her, dragging her from her sleep. His fingertip nudges lightly against her shoulder. She lets out a small yelp as her eyes shoot open. It is darker in the room than it was before. A small light illuminates from the living room, silhouetting the gargantuan being before her. His hand is far too close, one fingertip still resting against her shoulder. He’s leaned in to look at her, she can see his smile glint in the darkness. Maybe it would have been reassuring if he was properly lit, or if they were the same size. But as it stands, his shadow is stretched over her, covering her completely. It feels quite menacing. She painfully pushes herself to a sitting position and shoves herself back, trying to create some more space between herself and the human looming over her. What a wakeup call. She groans, immediately wincing at the movement. She feels absolutely wretched. Her body is sore and aching, she feels stale from crying and her head rings with a dull pulse left over from the alcohol.

“Hey, you’re okay.” He says softly, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” His hand slides forward again, finding it’s way behind her. His warm fingers press into her back, offering- no, insisting their support. She cringes away from them. Marcus is obviously ignorant to the fact that he is exactly her problem. “You were asleep for a couple hours. Zeke went to bed, and I’m here to watch over you. I figured you could use something more comfortable than a paper towel to sleep on, so…” he draws out the word as he produces a shoe box, setting it on the counter next to her. “I put this together for you. I think you’re gonna like it.”

The hand that rests against her back shifts. His thumb snakes around to her front, gently pinching her in his grasp. His other fingers curl in around her, offering their support. Her heart hammers in her chest, she can’t breathe. His fingers aren’t squeezing the air out of her, it’s her own anxiety doing that. Though, his fingers do press into the myriad of bruises decorating her ribs. She cries out in a mixture of alarm, discomfort, and panic. “Relax, I’ve got you.” Against her will, her body lifts from the counter, and she is placed inside the box. “There.” He withdraws his hand. “Nice right? It’s like your own little bedroom.” He grins at his cleverness, wanting her to be pleased. Her head whips around seeing no doors, only walls.

“L-let me out.” She turns up to face him, wide eyed.

“Listen, Zeke is already asleep, and I have to go to bed soon too. I don’t want you running off and hurting yourself in the middle of the night when neither of us are awake to help you. Okay?”

“Let. Me. Out!” She shouts up at him, more insistently this time. Her voice is tight with panic.

“In the morning.” He says again, she gets the feeling that he's not going to budge on this. “Get some rest, okay?” With that, he disappears from her sky, leaving her to helplessly look around her cardboard prison.

There’s a bottle cap of water, and a folded up paper towel with some fruit on it that captures her interest. In the other corner of the box there’s a plush rectangle with some squares of fabric draped over it. A bed. Or at least, an attempt at a bed.

Isabell makes a b-line for the food first. Part of her thinks that it might be a bad idea to trust food given to her by a human, but it’s just a passing thought. She is so hungry, and it all looks so perfect. If somehow this food is going to kill her, at least she will die happy.

She hasn’t been able to get her hands on fresh fruit in a very long time. And when she was able to get it, it was typically just a small crushed berry. But now she has apple slices, and banana slices, strawberries, and blue berries.

She feels better once she’s eaten her fill. She carefully wraps a small chunk of apple up in some of the paper towel it was sitting on and stows it away in her pack. For later, because she is getting out of here and she might not ever get to have apples again. Hopefully she can make it home before it gets too mushy. Though, things aren’t looking good for her considering they put her in a box.

She moves awkwardly with the bandage on her leg, limping over to the wall. If she had any of her climbing equipment on her she might have been able to scale it. But without it, she is trapped. She goes over and flops into the bed. It’s soft, she’ll give it that. Though she feels just as tired, it takes longer for her to fall asleep this time. Her mind just keeps spinning, trying to form a plan. But she’s too tired, and everything seems too helpless. She drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

She wakes up several times. Eventually, the light in the room has shifted enough that she figures it’s almost morning. When she moves, she feels like death warmed over. She wants to just drift back to sleep until the humans get up and decide what to do with her. But that feels too much like giving up. She’s not about to ride the slippery slope from shoe box to proper cage. She forces herself to get up, and look around again for anything she can use for an escape.

The base of the bed was a sponge, wrapped in cloth. With great effort she shoves the blankets off and stands the sponge-mattress up against the wall. It isn’t quite tall enough. She tosses the water out of the bottle cap, after greedily drinking from it one last time. Then she uses the cap as a final step on top of her makeshift staircase. Stepping back, she admires her handywork.

It is... precarious to say the least. If she wasn’t injured, she might be less weary. But she’s been left with little choice. Her legs shake as she pulls herself over the side of the box. She takes extra care in making sure that she lands only on her good leg when she drops down to the counter below.

Now she just has to get down. She frowns, looking over the edge of the counter and seeing the long drop to the floor. She looks across the counter for anything that might be helpful, and she sees her rope! One of the humans took it down from the cabinet, but left it on the counter in a heap. She’s saved!

She begins the long and arduous process of scaling down to the floor. It’s a familiar journey, it just takes more than twice as long to complete. She can’t afford to burst a stitch here. She picks her way to the floor, being as slow and methodical as possible.

Once she gets to the bottom, she pulls the release on her knot, and it falls down to her. She coils it and attaches it back to its rightful spot on her pack. She just has to get across the apartment, under the entertainment stand and through the baseboard to get home. Her heart soars, but she doesn’t let herself celebrate for too long, that’s still a lot she needs to accomplish. She walks through the kitchen, hugging the wall just to be safe.

The kitchen opens up into the living room. The door to the apartment is to her right, there’s a hallway to her left. She’ll have to cut across the gap in the hall, but then she can hug the wall the rest of the way to freedom. Marcus is out in the living room, asleep on the couch with a controller in his hand. Whatever game he was playing is paused on the screen. This is just too easy.

Until it isn’t. She swears she hears fate itself laughing at her as a door down the hallway opens, then shuts, the other human stepping out into the hall. Zeke is awake.

She slams herself against the baseboard, hoping that the overhang of the cabinet is enough to obscure her from his view. Maybe he won’t even look down here. She feels like she jinxed herself as soon as she thinks that. The human pauses next to her, his socked feet falling still, close enough she could lean out and touch him. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch her, he looks over to his sleeping roommate.

“Marcus.” He pauses, no response. Zeke sighs and walks over to the couch, nudging him awake. “Marcus.” He repeats.

“Ah- What?” He mumbles groggily, screwing up his face, blinking at the dim light of sunrise hitting his eyes.

“Where’s Isabell. You said you’d keep an eye on her.”

“I am, I am.” He insists groggily.

“You were obviously sleeping," Zeke retorts, unamused.

“No, I know. She’s in the box on the counter.” He slurs through his words, falling back asleep as he speaks them.

“You put her in a box?! Damnit Marcus.” Zeke huffs, sounding incredibly frustrated. Marcus jolts at his tone, rubbing his face in an attempt to wake himself up.

“What? I wanted to keep her safe while we were both sleeping. You would have done the same thing.” He says, defensively.

“No. I really wouldn’t have.” Zeke’s footsteps thunder past her as he quickly steps across the room. Alarms go off in her mind.

Things are much more complicated now. Marcus gets up and goes to mess with the game systems in the entertainment stand. He’s crouching right over where she needs to go for her escape. But more alarmingly, Zeke is checking the box that she has notably, escaped from.

“Shit.” He says quietly. “Marcus, your stupid plan didn’t even work.” He grumbles, looking back to his friend.

“What?”

“She’s gone.” He says simply.

“What?!” Marcus repeats obviously flustered, leaping to his feet.

“Stop! Marcus don’t move.” Zeke raises his voice, freezing Marcus in his tracks. She gets the impression that that isn’t something he does a lot. “Listen to me. Be. Very. Careful. Watch where you walk, okay?”

“What do you think I would-” Marcus begins, but Zeke must have flashed him a pretty severe look, because he stops. “Never mind. Uh. I’ll just… I’ll just stay here.” He carefully settles back down onto the floor. Placing himself unmoving right in front of where she needs to go. Damn it. “She probably didn’t get far, right? She might be on the counter still. I don’t know how she could have gotten down. Check behind stuff, maybe?” Marcus rambles, trying to be helpful.

“Thank you. Marcus.” Zeke says in a short clip. Obviously annoyed by Marcus’s chatter. Marcus takes the hint and shuts up. Zeke carefully beings picking through the countertop.

“Isabell.” He calls her name gently, sending eerie chills down her spine. “Please don’t hide. It’s a lot safer if we can see you.”

This is as good of a window she’s going to get. He’ll turn his attention to the floor when he’s done with his search of the counter. She has to get moving. Small bump in the plan, not a big deal, she tells herself. She’ll just have to take a detour.

[annieshubblecreations]

Story time:

I’m an artist! Whoo! I recently finished this painting, no reference, just exploration, and… I hate compliments on it.

Why? Like, asking the universe, asking myself, why do I hate compliments on it?

And I received a comment on it on Instagram: “I would buy a painting from you!”

And I said thank you and I wanted to throw up.

This painting will sit and it will probably be put up in an art show I have in 2025. Why do I hate positivity towards it?

It’s because it’s not what I want to create.

I’ve been an artist ever sense I found out as a kid that Pokémon were drawn. And I would say that: “I want to be an artist!” So I was thrown into art classes — but it wasn’t what I wanted to learn. (Useful! But still.) And I went to college for art and was seen as a Creative and told “here’s art with a specific job!” And I went into scenic design. In graduate school for scenic design, I had to take a costuming class. I took too long designing the characters and I spent too much free time writing my book (which, fuck you, I published it) and I was told to stop doing anything but scenic design. I needed to stop drawing people.

I dropped out. I later got a MA in Illustration.

But now I’m disabled and our economy sucks and I have a full time desk job and a part time art teaching job that I had to cause because of my health.

This painting was the last thing I created in the classes. It represents the only art I know that people will actually give me money for because… I can do it in my sleep, from the intense training I had when I was able to absorb and had passion and energy and didn’t have fifteen diagnoses.

I want to draw characters and be a character designer and comic artist and I hate I can’t. I hate I can’t produce quickly, I still need to Really Pay Attention to anatomy, that consistency is so hard. And I have a full comic planned. A full five arcs. And I hate so much of my art because I can’t do what I’ve wanted to do since I found out what manga WAS.

I hate this painting because it was goodbye to the one art income I had because the number of hours caused me to have a pseudo stroke and my brain isn’t connecting right to my body all the time and

What if I lose myself before I can even share what I want?

(Also, the other part of myself screams that all art is worth money, not just my fucking paintings)

((It’s okay to compliment the painting, I just need to express my frustration and that might end up being the burning of this))

(((But hey, link to my Etsy in my profile)))

[goodfish-bowl]

EctoberHaunt and Ectober Week 2022 Master Post

Happy Halloween! Here’s my complete collections of prompts for this month. Big thanks to those over at @ectoberhaunt and @ectoberweekofficial for the prompts! All fills should be correctly tagged, fics contain summaries and AO3 links, and please do mind the warnings if they’re there.

All my Ectoberhaunt22 fics can also be found here on AO3

Ectoberhaunt22

Day 3 - Order: Order to Entropy (poem)

Day 3 - Chaos: Refraction Chapter 3: Break to Build (fic)

Day 4 - Box: All Boxed Up (art)

Day 4 - Staff: Spirit of Rock (art)

Day 5 - Wraith: Paved with Good Intentions (fic)

Day 5 - Banshee: The Last One (art)

Day 6 - Burn: Fevour (fic)

Day 6 - Freeze: A Mercy (fic)

Day 7 - Purify & Infect: Detox(ic) (art)

Day 10 - Hunger: Taste Test (fic)

Day 10 - Harvest: Harvest Moon (art)

Day 11 - Drown: A Nap with the Fishes (fic)

Day 11 - Thirst: A Craving to be Sated (fic)

Day 12 - A Way of Life & Cause of Death: A Way of Death (fic)

Day 13 - Restored: Humanity Restored (comic)

Day 13 - Abandoned: The Haunting of Amity Park: Part 1: The Neon District (fic)

Day 14 - Haunted House: The Haunting of Amity Park:Part 2:  FentonWorks (fic)

Day 14 - Costume Party: Double Trouble (art)

Day 18 - Eyes: A Trick of the Light (animation)

Day 18 - Teeth: Teeth Bared (art)

Day 19 - One & One Hundred: Hall of a Hundred Eyes (art)

Day 21 - Coronation: The Dragon Queen (art)

Day 24 - Future: The Price of Knowing (art)

Day 24 - Past: Too Dead for This: Chapter 1: Seven Years is a Long Time (fic)

Ectober Week 2022

Day 26 - Six Feet: I’ll Come Home if You Call (poem and art)

Day 28 - “Psst, you’re dead. Pass it on.“: Two Paths (animation)

Unprompted

Cosmic Perspective (art)

Dead and Gone (transparent art)

Squeaky Toy (animation)

Ectoberhaunt21 Master Post

Commentary Under the Cut

It has been supremely challenging and fun to do all of these prompts! I know I’m not a super prolific author and artist, but I really enjoy events like this. While it’s been hard on me to produce this sheer amount of content, it was engaging and active, giving me something to do and has motivated me to put out more content in a month than I would normally do in a year on my own. I also love seeing the improvement in my content from this year to last year, when I first took part in this event, along as throughout the event itself, I noticed improvement. While I might not have been able to fill all of the prompts I had planned to do, I also did much more than I originally planned as well, shooting to fill all of the prompts, both for each day. But with 29 fills, 3 of which have no prompt at all, instead inspired by other things throughout the event, I’m satisfied.

I’ve had so much fun throughout this entire event, from planning my fills, to the story line made up by the Ectoberhaunt crew, to drawing and writing my fills themselves. But of all of them, I do have some favorites.

I found my trend of horrible angst holds true, with some of my most severe fill, at least in my opinion, being Paved with Good Intentions. Vlad’s perspective of Danny’s grief was definitely something I found fun to write.

I noticed I used a lot of Outside, or limited perspective, especially with The Haunting of Amity Park, where you only get the perspective from the camera, so it ended up being mostly descriptions and dialog. The morticians perspective in A Way of Death was also amusing to write.

I tried out a lot of different art techniques this year as well. I messed with my style, bouncing back and forth between a more semi-realistic style and then a more cartoon-esque style for the more humorous fills, and then the simplistic style for a few other ones. I definitely think I’ve improved over the past month, just due to the sheer amount of art alone. The animations were fun themselves.

My ask box is always open if you want to talk to me about a particular piece.

See ya around!

[leefi]

The Flower that Bloomed Nowhere Read-through | Part 7: 90-100

Part 1: 1-14 | Part 2: 14-22 | Part 3: 22-34 | Part 4: 34-64 | Part 5: 64-80 | Part 6: 81-90 | Part 7: 90-100 | Part 8: 100-127 (caught up here)

Bal is soooo funny for choosing to simply sit out and wait the loop. If that were me I’d be acting out. I’d be skipping around the sanctuary acting mischevious and committing hooliganry. Hey does Fang have loop memories

SU NAME REVEAL!!! KUROKA!

raises hand. I have another question. did samium also fuck that old man

Shiko is so sweet oh my goddddd 😭 I wonder if Kuroka fell in love with her...

I hadn't even realized how much of a fan I was. That another me had been growing on those lonely nights, only waiting for someone to draw it out.

Even though it was such a small thing, for the first time, I felt like I was able to be someone other than myself. Someone who shined brightly.

Just like her. AWWWUWYYYYYYUUUUWUWUUUUUUUU!!!!! AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

"Fang, Su, have you still got enough eris for barriers?"

Fang looked at their scepter, making a thoughtful hum. "Yeah, for a few minutes."

I thought Fang didn’t have their scepter?

Another thing I'd failed to understand at the time was that this was largely by design. Replicating high-quality food was impossibly cheap, and a low-hanging fruit in terms of helping people's quality of life. It was the politics of spite, or 'tough love' if you wanted to be charitable; choosing not to help others for no reason other than them having not earned it, or at least treating it as not worth the infinitesimally minor inconvenience to their betters.

oh i dont like this worldbuilding that much anymore

“Nowadays you can get your nutrition managed with pills anyway. It's not like when we were kids, when it actually mattered what you ate."

"There's still no long-term research into the subject," [Shiko]’s mother replied, frowning. "And besides, it's not simply a matter of health. There are social consequences to having a limited palate."

“social consequences”? lets kill her

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to be a little more conscientious," Shiko's mother insisted, holding up a hand. "And I know I've only been here for a couple of years now, but I really don't think it's that bad. Some parts in town seem a little deprived, but the theater is nice, and I've never had any trouble finding anything from the shops. It's hardly Altaia or Old Yru, but it's not as though we're eking out a living on the Lower Planes."

KUROKA BABY IM GONNA GET YOU OUT OF THERE. IM GONNA GET YOU OUT

Shiko’s granddad and Samium were conspiring to use her???? “Get the drop on her”???????? I mean this isn’t anything we didn’t already know but hearing them speak so plainly and shamelessly about it IN HER HOUSE is repulsive

I'd done a lot of stuff for a person my age, especially if you counted the stuff from-- Well, you know. I'd traveled by carriage, bus, tram, vacuum tram, boat and airship. I'd been to seven different countries and lived in four. I'd played in an amateur sport team (assuming chess counts as a sport).

it does not

Ophelia had been unspokenly left out as well; she apparently produced such an aura of eternal femininity that our minds had just silently registered it as the correct call after we'd only been able to find three shovels in the greenhouse.

also me if im being completely honest. *the gorillas get released* sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

Hey while they’re digging I’ve been thinking. using the dying gods as their proxy has me wondering if this really is an integrated pneuma in some person enacting its long thought out (hehe) revenge. But that doesn’t explain multiple culprits especially considering they’ve been referring to death with different gendered pronouns

She looked between us. "Questions?"

Linos looked to the side. "Uh, do you see any problems with the plan, Zeno?"

There was a pause, then an approving thump from the luggage pile.

funniest character

a possible explanation for many of these contradictions was that there wasn't just one 'mastermind', but competing groups.

One calls it 'master'. The other calls it 'Her'...

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES. It's almost like...a battle of wills? A battle of competing ideologies?

"I think I-- I think I have a hernia," I said weakly.

"What you have is a case of the weeny-whinies.” THE WEENY WHINIES!!!!

KAMRANSU SWEEP!!! im doing yuri multiplication in my head rn

hum. "Indeed, you've stumbled upon the fundamental issue. After all, if what we inhabit is not the true reality, but merely the product of a physical process within another, it seems very improbable for our 'creators' to be playing with tools akin to our own. Our very conception of inter-dimensional spacetime - and the associated concepts of entropy, movement, and finite energy - could be nothing more than an amusing fabrication, with no bearing on actual physics."

Kind of like how a two-dimensional creature can only interpret a 3-dimensional world from a 2-dimensional perspective, and a 3-dimensional creature can only interpret a 5th-dimensional world from a 3rd and simplified 4th dimensional perspective…but what defines “actual?“ is any of your universe “actual”, for that matter? You have no confidence that your reality is real beyond the myths you’ve heard of the ironworkers. I don't mean to explicitly suggest this is a simulation by any means, but rather...I'm thinking back to Zeno's question. "Why turn back the self when you can turn back the world?". Well, if you're conflicted on what a "self" constitutes, it only follows to reason that the nature of the world around you too would also fall into question...

Well, that depends, Utsushikome. Do you believe a pawn is destined only to look across at its rival pieces for eternity, by its very nature?" She stabbed her fork into a tomato, spilling its red fluid. "Or, perchance, might it learn to crane its neck towards heaven?"

My eyes drifted from the tower towards the ceiling of the bioenclosure proper. The blackness.

Slowly, I clicked my tongue. OHHHHOHOHOHOGOGOGOGOGOOGOGOGOHOHHOHHOOHHOOHOGOGOGOGOYOYO RHHEEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHE

She nodded several times, like I'd said something profound. "Yes. That's it exactly." She exhaled. "It's cowardice. People are afraid of death, so they try to turn it into something it isn't. Something beautiful and cathartic, something symbiotic with humanity, just like Grandmaster Melanthos was talking about. So they don't have to face the truth that it was all for fucking nothing. That being mortal is an accident of material circumstance, just as much as hunger or, or-- I don't know, going *bald*.” 🦍

"When people think of truly eternal lives, of sticking not just a few more centuries on the pile but outlasting the lifespan of stars, the scope of the proposition is harrowing. What would we become, in trying to achieve true stability as creatures of chaos and change? Could we?" Her voice grew a little quieter; solemn, almost. "What would we do, without that option to simply fade away?" She looked towards me. "What do you think, Su?"

I went for a third round of blinking, just to emphasize the point.

Why does [Kam] always single me out in these conversations?

big ass crush on you

Ohhh Kam is a 60 year old minor! Cool!

Even though she'd dismissed questions on the subject with an affect of far-sightedness back in the transpositioning chamber, the fact of the matter was that people our age getting stressed out about their own mortality was freakishly rare; I'd literally never met another person quite like [Kam].

This trait she and I share. I was having existential breakdowns at the tender age of 5

Ohhh Su is in her early-mid thirties! Okay yeah that checks out with her mental illness

You're only 32, Su," she said, frowning. "It's a little early to making world-weary statements like that, don't you think?

*looks at su* *looks at orv*

*looks back at su*

Of all the years I could live, could thrive, until all those regrets are nothing more than a single drop in a vast lake. I'm sure the same is true for you, too."

This really was out of character for her. I felt a complicated feeling in my chest. "That's, uh... Kam..."

"Is this really the right time for this?" Ran asked flatly. "The philosophy was one thing, but this is getting weirdly romantic."

Kam scoffed, making a gesture of distaste. "Don't be peculiar, Ran."

KAMSU SWEEP WE HAVE LITEREALLY NEVER BEEN MORE BACK THAN WE ARE RIGHT NOW

"Perfect," Kam said, stepping towards it immediately.

"Feels a little weird to be looting the dead," I said, glancing around.

"This is no time for sentiment, Su," Kam replied. She walked up to the cabinet in question and, after unsuccessfully trying the lock, took the butt of her refractor rifle and shattered it, before casting it aside and sliding the larger weapon out.

this actually became a COD lobby im crying

saw Samium lying down in the bed, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling. Other than the fact that there was a book by the side that seemed to be gone now - fiction, probably, the cover depicting a ship - that felt a little confusing. So he could read a novel, after all? Or maybe someone had left it here?

Ship of Theoseus chan?

Why did the playwright just look at me

"Okay, so. Here's the thing," they said. "The monster might be, uh, real."

SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP

WE HAVE LITERALLY NEVER BEEN MORE BACK THAN THIS MOMENT FOLKS THIS IS IT. THIS IS REAL. IT'S HAPPENING

Okay for all my excitement about the beast is there any way to check if that’s actually the phantasm conjuring arcana they talked about earlier? Could explain the grim reaper but I don’t remember if it could produce sound or not…or how big it could get. Could also just be a really advanced golem since the power was active while this was happening? (And that was the negating factor when they were debating COBD (cause of Bardiyas death before))

I’m pretty sure the beak thing is actually real though, so many people have corroborated it. The beast only showed up while people were panicking

Man I wouldn’t be surprised if this conversation with Samium we’re seeing over the logic thing concluded with Su pushing him out the window. my rationale towards this is would that be fucking crazy or what

So, this sounds like it's coming from way off in the distance-- Like really far down the hall, or behind a wall, or something. Now, I'm getting a really bad vibe at this point,

Have i mentioned yet how much I love fang

Ann says we should just gun it." Anna's eyes narrowed slightly at her name being shortened, but didn't interject.

Have i mentioned yet how much i LOVE fang

I said something stupid about hiding up in the armory, maybe grabbing some of the grenades, so we went all the way up

they are addicted to those grenades

If Ptolema thinks the beast is fake then I believe that it's fake. She’s consistently proven to have the best observational skills of the entire group, picking things up that other people don’t see. As she says, she's got the mind of a surgeon. She knows how a body is meant to be built and interact with its environment. Believe women!!!! Ema sweep!!!!

Can I be honest. Creepy children’s stories scare me so much and I could barely get through that one barn quest in Cyberpunk 2077 and this children's slideshow with the piglet is reminding me of that. I literally couldn’t sleep for a few days after playing that. Anyway. Animal Farm? because there is a farm with animals

no i'm being deadass was that an animal farm redux. it felt like an animal farm redux

It would be so funny if Fang acted the way they do because something was wrong with them. But it would be even funnier if they're just like this

[tamberlanecomic]

The Tamberlane Patreon is the absolute best way to support the comic and its continued creation! But as a creator with chronic health issues and a desire to have my dedicated team of helpers focus more on the creation of the comic, I’ve made a few adjustments to my Patreon tiers and rewards.

You can read a full list of the changes and full transparency about why they were made here in this public Patreon entry, but here are some of the more major changes I felt were worth noting:

Monthly Tales From Treehollow Comics and Short Stories

Tales from Treehollow are one-off comics and illustrated short stories that expand upon the world and lore of Tamberlane. They were released exclusively to patrons, then after three months were listed in the Tamberlane Shop for public sale between $3-5. While we love Tales from Treehollow as a great way to share more stories from the universe, they are unfortunately VERY expensive to produce and garner little interest, even from Patrons. For my number nerds out there, check out this Patreon newsletter for a detailed breakdown of what all goes into creating just one of these publications.

Does that mean we won’t have the occasional one-off story? Heck no! It just means they will now be created on an occasional basis depending on workloads and budget instead of monthly.

The good news is you can purchase all available Tales from Treehollow short stories and comics here, starting at just $3.

Shop All Tales from Treehollow Downloads Here

Character Cameos in the Comic

For a long while, we were offering patrons the ability to have their personal characters appear in the comic and, in some cases, become recurring characters. While this worked great for a while, we’ve run into the issue of far too many cameos we still need to catch up on. We will be fulfilling all outstanding cameo requests to the best of our ability while still putting the integrity of the story first, but going forward cameo opportunities will no longer be a Patreon perk. Instead, when we have cameo needs they will be available for purchase.

Read more information about how character cameos will work going forward here in this public Patreon entry.

Commissions

Originally, $50+ reward commissions were quarterly full-body sketches. For the new system, these will be changed to sketched busts, drawn every two months. These are significantly easier for me to draw, and there are a lot of them. This will make it easier to keep up while drawing the comic, and will mean that $50+ members will get twice as many commissions as before!

In line with this, $100+ members will be able to have their busts drawn with flat color as opposed to sketched, also on the every-other-month schedule instead of quarterly!

These busts can also be turned into Telegram/chat stickers!

$250 commissions are now going to be 1-hour illustrations with a list of limitations. I kept going above and beyond on my commissions but it kept me from getting any other work done, so I’m being firm and limiting myself to 1 hour only.

Here are some examples of what 1-hour commissions look like:

Thank You!

All that said, thank you to everyone who supports me and my work! My health has been an up and down journey, and by making these changes, my hope is that not only will patron members have a bit more clarity about what they’re receiving, but that I will have an easier time managing things and delegating as much of the non-art related tasks to my team. We want the comic to come out consistently and at its best, and this will help continue to make that happen!

Subscribe to the Tamberlane Patreon today to get in on lots of goodies and help keep the comic going!

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