#ms paint masterpiece right here

[mediocrehuman1138]

meanwhile, I drew this in MS Paint on a school computer lab computer that was so laggy that the “not responding” pop up would sometimes not respond.

I am proud of the fact that I could even get it to work at all.

[anonymous-dentist]

Playing fast and loose with the rules here, but: an Ordem Paranormal AU (kind of.)

-

So, okay, here's the thing: Roier really doesn't believe in ghosts anymore. Ghosts aren't real, demons certainly aren't real, none of it is!

What is real is Instagram, and so that's what he does best: Instagram.

But the thing is- the thing is! Roier doesn't believe in ghosts, but he's pretty sure his bosses do, because all he does at work is photoshop cheap-looking graphics together and post 'Paranormal Safety Tips'.

"Some people may not realize that they're getting involved with the supernatural," Mr. Veríssimo says, "It's important to make sure that they're at least somewhat protected."

Which is fine and all, but also. Ghosts aren't real. Neither are demons- demons especially aren't real.

But Roier does his job, and he does it quite happily. It's decent pay, especially considering he's been in Brazil for just under a month now and this was the only place to actually respond to his job application. He gets to work from home. He gets one free coffee at a local cafe once a month.

That's right. Roier is the first ever social media manager for the Ordo Realitas, and he's doing a great job at it.

...But also. Ghosts aren't real. Neither are demons. Hell isn't real, and neither is the Devil. Blood is blood, and it doesn't breathe.

(Usually.)

-

Roier's neighbors like to argue all day and throw things and cause immense destruction towards themselves and their property, so Roier usually ends up spending at least one afternoon a week at the nearest library doing his job and watching YouTube videos.

He likes the library. It's quiet-ish, and it's across the street from this really good restaurant that makes Mexican food that almost tastes like the genuine article.

He especially likes the librarian: the one with the scars and the freaky vibes. He doesn't blink a lot, and Roier isn't sure he's ever seen this guy breathe, but that's fine. He always saves a table near an outlet for Roier and his laptop, and he doesn't question the absolutely freakish shit Roier has to make for his company's Instagram page.

Like today's 'Paranormal Safety Tip': 'If you find yourself face-to-face with a restless spirit, it's important to remain calm. Loud noises startle spirits, so stay quiet and back away slowly. Chances are, you'll get out of the situation unharmed. Once in a safe location, call the Ordo Realitas, and we'll send an agent out to handle the spirit for you!'

The text is the second photo out of two on the post. The first photo is going to be a MS-Paint sketch of a pissed-looking cartoon ghost holding a shotgun and shouting, in a white speech bubble, "I'm going to shoot you!!! >:("

Roier doesn't have a mouse, so he draws using his trackpad, and the librarian watches from over Roier's shoulder and only laughs a little.

"Shut up," Roier huffs. "It's art!"

"It is," the librarian agrees. "But that isn't what ghosts look like."

Roier turns around to glare at him. "What, and you know?"

The librarian nods.

Roier turns back around. Everybody's a critic...

"Don't you have a job to be doing?" he taunts.

"Normally, yeah, but nobody else is here," the librarian responds. "It's just us."

He pulls out the chair opposite Roier and sits, arms crossed across his chest. This close together, Roier notices that some of the scars on the librarian's arms almost seem to make patterns: triangles, spirals... words? Huh.

Whatever, that isn't any of Roier's business. So what if his favorite librarian is a shady guy? So is Roier! He can't judge.

But, looking up from his laptop (and from the librarian's very nice arms), Roier notices that there really isn't anybody else in the library. He hadn't even noticed how quiet it had gotten, he was so caught up in his masterpiece drawing. All of the usual patrons- the old man reading the newspaper, the mother and her children in the corner, the students arguing over their latest project- are all missing. So are all of the other librarians.

"Huh," Roier smartly says.

He looks back at his laptop, and then he starts scrolling down through the Instagram page. He's sure that he's written something up about sudden disappearances...

"I was honestly surprised to find you over here," the librarian continues. "I figured you would have gone where everybody else did."

Roier shakes his head. "Nah, I'm here. I've got shit to do, man. Important shit."

The librarian nods. "Instagram."

Roier looks up from his laptop and points a finger at the librarian.

"Work," he corrects, waggling his finger just a little. "I'm doing work."

"You're drawing shitty ghosts and posting them on Instagram."

"And I'm getting paid for it. I'll fucking take this over my old job."

"Really? What was your old job?"

Roier thinks back to Mexico and the weeks leading up to his wedding. Sitting outside of his soon-to-be husband's window at night with binoculars, following him around town, slashing his tires so he wouldn't leave to go to the bar when Roier had a game night planned between them.

"Surveillance," he quickly says. "Like, cameras and shit. It was boring, though. Lots of waiting."

"Sounds fun, honestly." The librarian shrugs; his leg bounces under the table hard enough to shake it, nervous. "I could handle that."

"What, is librarian-ing that boring?"

"No, but it's a lot more socializing than you'd think. It can be a bit... much sometimes."

Roier nods sympathetically. He's more of an introvert than a lot of people think he is, especially now after... after everything.

He frowns as he reaches the bottom of the Instagram. Nope, nothing about weird group disappearances.

...It's probably fine?

Roier cranes his neck to try and look over the librarian's shoulder.

"Where is everybody?" he asks.

The librarian shrugs. "I was on my break. I came out of the break room, and everyone was gone."

He turns his head to try and follow Roier's gaze.

"Sometimes we do community events," he continues, "but I don't think that there was one scheduled for today."

"Huh," Roier says, a perfect echo of when he had last said it. "That's kinda weird, right?"

"...Yeah."

They both sit there in silence for a moment before the librarian awkwardly clears his throat and turns his head to the side.

"Should we... look for them?" he asks.

Every single post that Roier has done for the Ordo Realitas has ended with him telling the public to call the Ordo when they're experiencing something paranormal in nature. So... should he call them?

But also. He's the Ordo Realitas. He's the guy who goes through all of the dms the Ordo gets on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook... everywhere!

Besides! Ghosts aren't real! Neither are demons.

So Roier pushes back his chair and stands.

"Come on," he tells the librarian, hurriedly packing his laptop away in his bag and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I bet they just went outside. We probably missed a fire alarm or something."

"We would've heard a fire alarm," the librarian huffs.

But he stands, anyway, and he joins Roier as he starts making his way through the library.

It isn't a huge library, is the thing. It's small. Its shelves are short enough for Roier to easily be able to see over the tops of them. There's only one main room, and then there's the break room that the librarian seems to believe is also completely empty. There is one set of main doors at the front of the main room, and then there are a few windows along the walls.

As Roier and the librarian pass through the shelves and make it into the open area in the middle of the room- where the circulation desk is, Roier notices a weird chill in the air that he swears wasn't there a minute ago.

"Huh," says the librarian, looking down at their feet, "maybe there was a fire, after all."

Roier looks down, too. His nose wrinkles. This, he remembers posting about.

A thin layer of smoke covers the floor, not quite enough to reach halfway up Roier's shoes. It's cold, of course it's cold. It isn't even smoke, really. It's freaky mist... stuff.

Roier's hand tightens around the strap of his bag: white knuckles and stinging palm. Not again...

The librarian swings a foot through the mist absently; the mist kicks up briefly, but it settles back down almost immediately.

What did that post say, again? God, Roier needs a rubber bracelet saying, 'WWMVD?': What Would Mr. Veríssimo do?

Roier has met Mr. Veríssimo only twice, and he had a gun in his hands both times.

Roier does not have a gun now.

...But, really, are guns even necessary? It's just mist, right?

Only just a little freaked out, Roier shuffles a step closer to the librarian.

"Maybe we should get out of here," the librarian says, reading Roier's goddamn mind. "I mean. If there is a fire, we definitely need to leave."

Roier nods in agreement. "Yes. Definitely."

Neither of them move.

Roier jumps and bumps into the librarian as a book falls from a shelf on the other side of the room.

The librarian grabs him by the arm and stabilizes him, not letting go.

They both look in the direction of the fallen book.

"Dude," says Roier, "I think your library is haunted."

"We're in Brazil," the librarian responds. "I think every building is haunted here."

Roier nods. Makes sense. Ghosts aren't real, but Brazil is probably haunted as shit. That's why the Ordo Realitas is based here and not in, like, Paraguay. Or something.

They stare at the book some more. The mist reaches towards it like a needy baby, but it doesn't quite make it.

"You're a librarian," Roier says, "you should go pick that up."

The librarian shakily sighs, "Yeah. I should, shouldn't I?"

He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. Straightens his shoulders. Marches towards the book, pulling Roier along with him; Roier doesn't fight too much. He doesn't want to be alone right now, either.

They get to the book.

The librarian looks down at it.

Slowly, he bends down. He picks the book up with one hand.

And then he immediately drops the book and skitters back a few steps, bumping into Roier's chest and almost knocking them both over.

Panicked-sounding, the librarian wheezes, "It's hot!"

"It's a book!" Roier argues. "It can't be hot!"

The librarian shakes his head rapidly. "It's hot. It's warm. Like you."

Through all the terror in Roier's heart, he manages a faint blush.

"Are you really calling me hot right now?" he asks.

The librarian looks back at him with a very unhappy expression: wide eyes, unblinking.

"The book was breathing," he wheezes. "Dude, we need to go."

Breathing books... that's new.

Oh, no. That's new. That means that Mr. Veríssimo doesn't know about it yet. That means that it isn't on the Instagram yet. That means that it's Roier's job as social media manager to get it on the Instagram.

Nose wrinkling in disgust, Roier shakes the librarian off of him and crouches down next to the book. He pulls out his phone with shaking hands, opens the camera app. Takes a picture of the book's cover- a children's book: Learn Shapes With Bippi.

"Oh my God, you really are an Instagram guy," the libarian flatly says.

Roier waves him off with a 'Shush!'.

He grabs the book's cover by the corner with his thumb and pointer finger, and it takes everything for him to keep holding it because hooooly shit, it's breathing. It's warm and it's breathing and Roier swears there's a heartbeat, he swears!

"This sucks," he declares. "One more picture, and we're out of here."

He flips the cover over, ready to take a picture of just the title page, but he doesn't even finish reading the title again before dropping his phone and screaming and falling back onto his ass and scrambling backwards like an upside-down spider because oh God what the fuckOh GodWhatTheFuck-

"What the fuck?" the librarian screeches. "Alan?"

The face inside of the book lets out a moaned, pained breath. It blinks slowly, the page it's on trembling with the exertion. Its eyes are open and blank and staring and red and staring at Roier and- and its mouth! It's open and gaping and black and entirely too deep-seeming for the front page of a children's book. No nose, but two nostrils right in the middle of the page opening and closing with every ragged breath the face takes in. No skin, just the faintest indentation of a human face's internal musculature. No bones, just muscles, just muscles-

"'Alan'?" Roier gasps. His back bumps against the librarian's legs; the librarian pulls him up by the back of his shirt and tries to push him behind him. Yeah, no, Roier is the professional here. He's... he's the professional!

The librarian shakily nods. "Children's librarian. He's new. He's-"

"He's a fucking book!" Roier shouts. "What the fuck? Is this normal?"

"What? No! Of course it isn't normal!"

"Well! I don't know Alan! This could be normal! Who knows?"

"I know!" the librarian exclaims. He's still looking at the book. "Why is he a book!"

"How should I know?"

"You're the ghost guy!"

"Ghosts aren't real!"

The face groans and gurgles. The book it's in shakes, and it shakes so hard that it starts to move.

It starts to move right towards Roier and the librarian.

Roier grabs the librarian by his sleeve and starts tugging him away. Fuck his phone, fuck his phone! Mr. Veríssimo can just get him a new one! It's only fair! What the fuck!

"Cell... bit..." the face rasps.

The librarian grimaces.

"What the fuck is a 'Cellbit'?" Roier asks.

"Me," the librarian responds.

"Nice," Roier comments. "Stop looking at it. Let's go!"

But the librarian- Cellbit- doesn't budge, even with all of Roier's pulling.

"But... it's Alan," Cellbit insists. "He's a book. Is-" (He looks around the library, turning more and more pale with every passing second.) "-is everybody a book now?"

"Um," says Roier, looking around with him.

Now that he's looking, he can see that every single book on every single shelf around them is quivering in the same way the Alan Book is. There's a faint droning buzz around them that Roier is starting to think is actually hundreds of thousands of moaning, groaning, dying book faces.

He's going to be sick.

"This wasn't on the Instagram," is all he says before grabbing Cellbit firmly by the wrist and pulling him with all his strength away from the shelves. This time, Cellbit goes along with him even after jerking his wrist out of Roier's hold.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Cellbit shouts as they run. "People don't just become books!"

"I know that!" Roier replies. "This is fucked up, man!"

Another book falls from a shelf and starts wiggling towards them. And then another, and another, and another, and Roier knows that each one has a face inside. Every single one was a person ten minutes ago, but now. Now they're faces. In books. Flesh books. With heartbeats. And lungs.

Roier jumps over a fallen book. He glances down as he does so and gasps as he watches the cover fly open by itself and as the face on the title page snaps upwards and tries biting him with teeth that weren't there two seconds ago.

"They have teeth?" he cries. "Ew!!"

"They're book faces!" Cellbit huffs. "Why wouldn't they have teeth?"

"Fuck this. Fuck this!"

They make it out into the open area and the circulation desk. But the entire library around them is shaking and moaning and screaming- oh, the screaming!

Hundreds of books litter the floor slowly inching their ways towards Roier and Cellbit. They're all screaming as they drag themselves across the rough carpet.

Oh, God. The kids. Every person in this library except for the two of them are books. Including the kids.

"Doors," Cellbit wheezes, nodding towards the library doors.

Roier nods. "Doors."

They look at each other briefly before nodding in sync and taking off for the doors. Books fall all around them, tumbling to the floor and crawling after them with garbled screams and moans of pain.

"I'm trying to think," Cellbit breathes.

"Well, don't! Just run!" Roier snaps.

Cellbit ignores him and continues: "I wasn't holding a book. You weren't holding a book. We're fine. Alan was re-shelving the kids' section. He's a book."

He dodges to the side as a book lunges at him from its shelf.

"Okay?" Roier asks. "And?"

"And I bet everybody else touched a book!"

"We touched books!"

"But these ones are- fuck!" Cellbit swears and kicks a book that was trying to bite him away. "They're trying to bite us!"

Something sparks in Roier's brain.

"Werebooks?" he demands. "Really?"

Cellbit throws his hands up in the air. "I don't know! It's just a theory!"

Roier rolls his eyes, but he doesn't argue. Werebooks, sure. Those can be real. (Not ghosts, though. Or demonds.)

He and Cellbit get to the door.

They push the door open.

They run outside and wince at the sunlight blasting them right in the eyes.

But there are still books behind them. Roier can hear them.

Fuck! WWMVD?

The Ordo Realitas hunts the paranormal, Roier thinks. That's what everybody else does. But he's just a social media manager! He doesn't do that kind of stuff!

But if he doesn't stop all of those books from leaving the library, then God only knows how many of them would do... werebook things. They're disgusting. They're inhuman. They're monstrous. They're a danger to the world, and Roier has to stop them.

But how do you kill a bunch of books?

For whatever reason, his mind takes him back to the night after his wedding. Natalan stands in front of him with a lighter held to their marriage certificate, smiling as Roier struggles against his ropes to try and save their marriage from quite literally going up into flames.

"Fire," he gasps, suddenly back in the moment.

He spins to look at Cellbit, but Cellbit already seems on it. His hands are already searching his pockets desperately, and he's swearing under his breath.

Roier looks around the street desperately. There's the restaurant across the street. There are cars on the road. Tourists taking photos. Dogs. Cats.

An old man lighting a cigarette on the corner.

Roier grins and charges towards the old man.

"Sorry!" he shouts, swiping the lighter from him and ignoring the shouts (and the angry old man) following him as he runs back to the library.

Cellbit immediately reaches for the lighter. "Let me. It's my library."

But Roier ducks away and flicks the lighter open himself.

"And it's my job," he says. "Stand back."

He stares at the lighter's tiny little flame nervously, and then he looks at the doors to the library.

When he moved to Brazil a month ago, he didn't think he would be committing arson. But, well. Life isn't always what you expect it to be.

Roier takes a running start, and then he throws the lighter into the library. It hits the carpet, and the flames spread, well, like wildfire. (Thank God, the building is old...)

The books all scream in agony as they're burned, but Roier doesn't really give a shit. Fuck them, they're evil. Creepy-ass books...

He kicks the library's doors shut, and he walks back to Cellbit and the very angry old man.

Panting, Roier leans against a telephone pole. His bag is somehow still on his shoulder, but his phone is still inside.

He looks at Cellbit.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asks. "I need to call my boss."

Cellbit doesn't look away from the library. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it with his thumbprint, and holds it out for Roier to take.

Roier puts in the Ordo's number and puts the phone to his ear. He listens to the dial tone, and he smiles as he hears the secretary's voice.

"Can you give me Mr. Veríssimo?" Roier asks her. "He's gonna want to hear this."

[holllandtrash]

hi friends im alive i miss u all

sadly, for the time being, i have stopped writing fanfiction. i need to focus on my career and also on writing a story that i so desperately want to turn into something real

i wrote a little synopsis of something im working on if youre curious and you can read a snippet and see the chat gpt curated cover below the cut lol

The Art of Falling

Indy Brookes has spent her life immersed in the art world, navigating the delicate balance between creativity and commerce at the prestigious Westmont Auction House. She understands that every masterpiece holds hidden depths—stories layered beneath the surface. So when the new Head of Client Relations, Sunil Dival, steps into her world, she can’t help but see him the same way: a piece of art waiting to be unraveled.

Indy thrives on passion and instinct, while Sunil holds tight to logic and control. Though they each bring something valuable to the table, their visions for the future are fundamentally at odds.

As their lives begin to overlap, Indy realizes that Sunil, much like the art she loves, has more to him than meets the eye. In the fast-paced world of auctions and high-stakes deals, they find themselves navigating not only their work, but the unspoken connection growing between them.

Wine bottle in hand, I headed back upstairs, my footsteps quiet on the marble floors. I was going to grab my bag from behind the reception desk when something caught my eye in the gallery—Sunil, standing alone in front of the red painting I had just shown Ms. Bass.

His hands were slid into his pockets, his posture relaxed from what I could tell. The soft glow from the light fixture above the painting cast shadows across his side profile. Much like Ms. Bass, he stared at the painting in confusion. But instead of asking what he was supposed to feel, Sunil stared at it as though if he stood there long enough the answer would jump out. I waited in the doorway, watching him for a second longer than I probably should have.

The painting had a way of doing that—drawing people in. But it was strange seeing him like this. Still emotionless, but more composed. I couldn’t tell if he was just in work mode or if there was something else.

I leaned against the doorframe, the bottle dangling loosely between my fingers.  “Admiring the art?” I called out, my voice sounding more casual than I currently felt.

Sunil didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone flat, as if he were working through something in his mind.

I took a small step into the gallery, unsure if I was intruding on a moment I didn’t fully understand. “What are you thinking?”

He finally glanced in my direction, though not quite meeting my eyes. “Just wondering why people are drawn to it,” he said. His voice was measured, detached. “There’s been so many calls about it, you know? It was the piece that Ms. Bass was here to see too, wasn’t it? I just don’t get what makes it worth the attention?”

I hesitated, not sure if he wanted a real answer or if he was just thinking out loud, but I had just had this same conversation only minutes prior. I took a step closer. “It’s about how the artist uses color and texture to create emotional tension,” I said carefully. “The red isn’t accidental, it has a purpose—it’s layered with meaning. Passion, desire, love. It’s almost as if the artist wanted you to feel conflicted, to question what you’re supposed to see.”

I paused, watching for any reaction, but Sunil’s expression remained impassive, his eyes still fixed on the painting. 

“The longer you look at it,” I continued, “the more it forces you to engage with that tension. That’s why people are drawn to it—it’s not just about what they see, but how it makes them feel. It doesn’t let you be a passive observer.”

He didn’t respond right away, then, without glancing in my direction, he said, “Or maybe people just like to overthink things.” His tone was flat, but the words cut through the air with a dismissive edge.

I stopped in my tracks, realizing at that point that he wasn’t asking for an explanation the way Ms. Bass had. He didn’t care about the history or the artist’s intent. This was something else.

“It’s nice, I guess.” he muttered, almost to himself. 

Nice. 

Nice. 

That word felt like a direct slap to the face. Nice? I had spent years studying pieces like this—pouring over the intricacies, the layers of emotion, the painstaking detail behind every ounce of effort put into it. And Sunil stood there, calling it nice? It was like hearing someone call a symphony ‘catchy’.

The part of me that wanted to set him straight bubbled up to the surface. I wanted to tell him that this wasn’t just a painting you glanced at and deemed ‘nice.’ This was a masterpiece, something you had to feel, something that deserved more than a casual shrug and a throwaway word.

A mild summer breeze was nice. A freshly-mowed lawn was nice. This painting landed in a category of its own that I was actually offended by his comment. 

I could almost hear the lecture forming in my head—something about the delicate use of the color red, the emotion hidden beneath the shadows. I wanted to ask if he even knew what it meant to truly see a painting like this, to understand the depth it carried.

But then I stopped myself, the words slipping away as quickly as they came.

What was the point? He wasn’t here to appreciate the art the way I did.

He wasn’t a curator. He wasn’t a historian. He was Head of Client Relations. His job revolved around the sales of the auction, not the beauty that was stored within our walls.

Sunil wasn’t asking for an analysis or a history lesson. He didn’t need to be corrected or belittled. Maybe, for him, ‘nice’ was enough. At least he was taking the time to even look at the piece.

I bit back the urge to put him in his place. Sometimes people just needed to have their own moment and this shouldn’t have been about me proving I knew more. 

For a moment I was envious of the lack of emotion he felt. I knew too much about the artist and his collection. I felt too much, but it wasn’t my place to force someone to feel the same. Maybe he just needed to stand in front of it, lost in whatever he was seeing, without someone like me shoving meaning down his throat.

So I stayed silent. I let him have this. His moment.

I took a step back, muttering a quiet "Goodnight," as the space between us grew. 

Sunil nodded, still looking at the painting. "Goodnight," he repeated, but there was something in his tone that made me pause. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it wasn’t warm either. It was just…there. Like everything else about him since he’s arrived—distant.

I lingered for a second longer, waiting for some kind of clarity but it didn’t come. I couldn’t get a read on him. With a small sigh, I twirled the wine bottle in my hands and made my way out, leaving Sunil alone in the gentle glow of the nice painting.

--

yes her name is indy like indy car!! u can take the girl out of motorsports but u cant take motorsports out of the girl !!

[anavi-vrg]

Undead Unluck Cinderella!AU: The Masterpost

Hi :3 it's been a while, but i had been non-stop drawing to bring you all the Cinderella!AU cast with UU characters, i will write the basics of the story later bc i'm incapable of writing long paragraphs.

The drawing that made me start this AU

Let's start with our protagonist, Fuuko as Cinderella:

But our dear protagonist needs her mice friends:

We got our mains first: Haruka, Top, Gina, Sean and Chikara, taking the places of Jaq and Gus

I remember that there were mice kids/children, the younglings!

Phil, Bunny, Tatiana, Lucy and Betty (almost forgot her)

Mice! Veronica and Tella are here to take care of them/protect them from the evil cats

With how many chores have to be done everyday around the house, there have to be some specialised mice:

In the kitchen, Billy works with the sweets, Enjin helps with the almost everything (he's too passionate for this job) and Rip cuts the veggies. Yusai can´t be let near the drinks alone, but she always knows the best one for the occasion.

There's so many clothes that need mending and cleaning, the Sewing Team: Latla, Kurusu and Leila, are the right mice to do the job.

(ps. i bet Kurusu and Gina smugled that book to make cute dresses for Fuuko)

Sooo many books to keep clean and organised in this house, good thing Mice Anno Un and Akira are doing their damn best to keep the house library in peak condition, they even have the time to dramatise Fuuko's favorite romance books for everyone

Mouse Feng does everything around the house, why? because he wants to be better than Fuuko in everything

Miscellaneous Mice bcs i don't know in what role do they fit: Grandpa Isshin, Creed, Mei, Shen, Mui, Mui's little brother (do we even know his name?), Ms. Hawkins and Void.

And we can't forget our dear doggo Burn, taking dog Bruno's place

This Au is not complete without some villains

Human! Luna as Lady Tremaine, BUT she's not Fuuko's stepmother, Lady Luna is a distant relative, grandfather's niece and further kinda deal

Lady Luna has three kids:

Big Brother Soul, the kind of person to say "BuT wE aRe FaMiLy" when he does something bad to Fuuko but would absolutely not tolerate any of Fuuko's mistakes

Middle Brother Apocalypse, evil? no, no, no, he's a tsundere, the kind to say "i'm not washing the clothes because i want to help you or anything! it's just that you are too clumsy". Fuuko sees right through his bullshit and thanks him eveytime she can to Apocchy's embarrassment

And Little Bother/Sister Ruin (i'm more inclined to fem!Ruin), she's considerably more aggressive to Fuuko than the rest, her aggressiveness spurred on by her mom Luna and big brother Soul. Apocalypse has tried to help her to no avail.

THE CAT! Why should we limit ourselves to one evil cat, when we can have FOUR?

Shadow hides in the dark corners and stairs, waiting for an unsuspecting victim, putting themselves in the middle of the path to make them trip

Blood wakes up and craves violence, he scratches the furniture, the curtains and people... Fuuko stays the fuck away from this evil cat

Spoil can't be let alone with the food, he steals it but he doesn't eat it, no, he enjoys watching it spoil and the faces of disgust from the people that find his masterpiece, fortunately dogo Burn is always guarding the kitchen.

Seal enjoys watching the desperation in peoples' faces as he slowly pushes the fine glassware from the top drawer to the cold hard floor, unfortunately for Seal, Mouse Feng is always watching

Do you remember the Gran Duke? the poor man was so close to die, but for this AU, we have the Grand Duke and Duchess, Nico and Ichico (Which one is who is up to you)

We got our King! King Juiz, KING JUIZ, KING JUIZ!!!

If you saw the third animated Cinderella movie, you would remember the Queen's paintings, and i decided that we need a Queen (an alive one), salute our dear Queen: Queen Victor!! (do you forgive me for putting him on a dress? 🥺)

At last, we need our prince for this AU, but why have only one?!

Crown Prince Andy and Second Prince(ss) Julia

We need our Fairy Godmother to bring some miracles to life! And i couldn't pick anyone else for this role than my beloved, Spring 🌸

Let him have some fun!!

This is the real last one, but although it wasn't a sentient character, it would be unforgivable not casting Clothy as Fuuko's dress

(Can you imagine what Andy would do to Clothy once he discovers that he's Fuuko's dress? 💀)

That's all the character designs for this AU, and now i can start drawing some scenes for this AU.

Enjoy this AU compiled timelapse for all the designs in the meantime!

[dkniade]

World Quest “Ancient Colours” Act I spoilers?

I was watching a playthrough of the Mamere quest “Ancient Colours” and of course there’s already something off about Mamere (and it’s so sad that she always collects paint alone)—

Warnings: slight horror stuff involving blood, mentions lightheadedness and hearing voices, dialogue on emotional manipulation

—but that just took a really dark turn the moment Jacob showed up.😭

I thought, huh, surely this is just a cute quest about Mamere and painting and Elynas. And for the first half of Act One it is fun for the most part.

The little sound effect that plays when Mamere is talking and gesturing is so cute…. Wiggle wiggle…

Lots of people have tried to buy her art but she doesn’t need Mora, huh. And Paimon tried to appreciate the artwork. This does feel like a sunnier and cuter version of the 2.3 Dragonspine scene with Albedo.

This is not a sunnier and cuter version of the 2.3 and the 1.2 Dragonspine events.

Still, Mamere talks about tall people but it’s really nice that the camera angles are from her eye level when she’s talking to Paimon. It feels nice to be lower to the ground.

-

The paint in the bottle is a warm and beautiful colour… It’s not blood is it

Paimon: No need to apologize! A priceless masterpiece like the one you’ll make should also need priceless paints, after all!

(If player has completed Shadows Amidst Snowstorms)

Traveler: I do recall us helping Albedo gather Starsilver back then…

-

There’s that speech pattern again of Mamere trying to understand Paimon’s intentions

Mamere: Also, there's no need to worry. I've always gone out to get paints on my own, so I'm used to it...

Paimon: Wait, so you don't have friends accompanying you most of the time?

Traveler: Ahem.

Paimon: Oh! Uh... What Paimon means is... Um, sorry...

Mamere: Huh? Why are you apologizing?

Mamere: Oh, I get it, Paimon! You feel bad for me because Seymour can't move and I might be lonely while collecting paint, right? You're so nice... Thank you.

It’s hard to describe. What is it about her that feels notable? Usually people would be sad or upset if someone points out that they don’t have friends to accompany them, but Mamere seems chill about it?

-

…Isn’t the stone mechanic kind of like how you need to get red stones to melt the special ice in Dragonspine

Mamere’s concept of making paint seem to be different from Paimon’s concept

Mamere: These ores contain a lot of impurities. If we were to make them into paint like this, the colours won’t be even—they’ll look dirty.

IMPURITIES….. Albedo… Starsilver… If Starsilver symbolize one’s worth in relation to Rhinedottir, then what do the red ores here symbolize?

Mamere: Hehe. At this time, we need to find purer ones, grind them down, and then mix the powders together.

?? Not going to discard the impurities like Albedo would? Would that really help the paint making process?

-

But, what is this.

Traveler gets dizzy multiple times from presumably toxic ores and starts hearing voices, Jakob breaks into Mamere’s home and emotionally manipulates her. How long has this been going on?

-

Mamere: That "you've never seen paintings like these before," that "you'd like to collect them"... That you could... understand them...

Mamere: You did all that... for things that have nothing to do with the paintings themselves, right?

Jakob: You misunderstand, Ms. Mamere.

Jakob: I have never intended to deceive you. Even now, I have nothing but admiration for your work.

Mamere: But you called them... "shambolic doodles"...

Jakob: And I apologize for my imprecise use of words. I was truly mesmerized by their unpredictable, chaotic nature, and I can appreciate the beauty in them, so incomprehensible to the rest of the world.

-

…

This guy… There’s a word for what he’s doing, aside from manipulation.

[howling-harpy]

A gift from the heart

Pairing: Malarkey & Skip Rating: G

Word count: 2520 Summary: Skip and Don have a day in Paris, and they are on an important quest. [ao3]

A/N: Happy birthday @lyselkatz! This is for you, I hope it’s to your liking.

*

Skip had clearly taken his pass to Paris with a plan in mind. “You have got to help me find the perfect present for her!” he begged as soon as Don walked up to meet him, his hands crossed in a prayer that was surely blasphemous. “What is she going to do with a present at this point?” Don argued back. “You’re shipping yourself back home soon enough.” His heart wasn’t in it, not really. He was arguing more for the sake of arguing, but it was true that they had this one afternoon off and their chances of success were pretty slim.

Paris was a great place to rest and pretend to work at an airplane exhibition, the city was nearly bursting with emotion and will to go back to peacetime, and any heartsick soldier was bound to find something good to send back home to his sweetheart. Don wasn’t sure if he was trying to talk his way out of a shopping trip, or was he simply relieved about Skip’s energy and how he displayed it despite the broken arm and cuts and bruises and drawing the banter out. “With that attitude you will be very unlucky in love!” Skip declared. “My mom said that men who think of themselves as the greatest of gifts will find themselves very lonely indeed, and I plan to make the most of this mortal life and make sure that my girl has nice things!” “Fine then, since you’re the romance expert out of the two of us,” Don gave in and finally allowed a grin to spread on his face. “But what would she like to have?” “That’s why I need help,” Skip said, raising a finger to make an important point. “I’m the romance expert, yes, but small gifts are not my area of expertise.” The thought both did and didn’t make sense, but Don was past arguing over the title of romance expert and instead tried to think of the kind of gifts girls liked. His idea of a good time was an ice cream date and listening to good music, but that was something you did in person, not wrap in brown paper and ship across an ocean. “Uh… Perhaps a good record?” Don said uncertainly. That was more like something he would have liked to unwrap himself and then be delighted about how well his girl knew him, but it was a thought. “Nah, I’d get you a record,” Skip said, nudging Don’s side with his elbow, and flashed him a knowing smile. “No, this has to be a Faye Tanner-gift. I can’t give her a Don Malarkey-gift.” Don shrugged, then gestured at the streets lined with shop windows all around them. “Maybe we should ask around?” If possible, Skip brightened up even more. He seemed to be almost trembling with excitement and ready to explore the city. “That’s great! But we need some places to hit. Make it a proper mission.” Don smiled indulgently. He had had enough of missions and objectives for a lifetime, but Skip was feeling as playful as ever and he knew it was a joke, so he allowed it. “Alright, fine,” he said, then paused to think. “Let’s think some things that she likes and what she’d like to get, and then think where we’ll find it.” “Oh yes. A guest for a true love’s gift! Onwards!” Don smiled for real then. That made it sound like an adventure in a jungle or perhaps across castles and fields and forests instead of an all too real endeavour in current time with real consequences. It almost felt like they could have been friends since they were children and run wild in the woods playing adventurers and wild children. Together, they took to the streets of Paris, Don leading the way as he sometimes knew where they were and where they were going. The list of things that Faye might have liked was growing slowly: Something distinctly European, something pretty or something sweet. Something pretty would have probably been their best bet, given both could recall a dozen times a girl back home had referenced European fashion or make up, but that was quickly becoming a dead end for them. Post-war Paris was many things and there was no doubt about fashion coming back, but right then it wasn’t exactly a priority. At least not at a reasonable price. There were shops open and some driftier places sold many mismatched piles of treasures Parisian ladies had no doubt emptied from their closets while trying to make the ends meet, but Skip and Don quickly realized they didn’t know enough to make a good judgement about them. “This is just… Not Faye!” Skip huffed as they strolled down the street after the fourth shop. “She is pretty and I think she wears cute clothes too, but it’s just… Not like this.” Don didn’t know about fashion either, just of what looked pretty to him, but looking at Skip and knowing him he could imagine Faye was probably not the beauty queen type. “Okay, forget about dresses and hats,” Don thought out loud. “How about a ribbon? Or a scarf? Or jewellery?” Skip thought it over, but then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t really do her hair, says it gets soaked and flops down anyway, so why bother.” “Okay, so something distinctly European then.” Aside from the airplane exhibition Don was consulting at, several other local cultural exhibits were also opening. Curators at Louvre had apparently cried when their looted treasures started to return in their collection from Germany, and museums and galleries had started to open again, even if only to clean and air the premises. It seemed people missed beauty in their lives, and Don couldn’t fault them on that. They all did. Still, the only thing sold at Louvre were postcards and other souvenirs. There was a certain charm to them, and perhaps sending some cool trinket home along with perhaps some photos and a letter with loving regards would do. Faye sounded like a girl who appreciated the personal touch and the thought more than anything material, so a breeze of culture from France might be the thing they were after. There were plenty of soldiers buzzing around the museum and the park, plenty of them apparently caught by the same idea, everyone trying to decide which artwork was the most suitable one to convey one’s feelings. Skip didn’t pay too much attention to anyone there, but Don had learned to recognize plenty of soldiers by their uniform, and a familiar one drew his attention right away. “Hey! Lieutenant!” Don called out as he recognized a familiar profile and a set of broad shoulders. “Do you know what’s the best gift for your lover?” Lipton jumped in surprise when he was spoken to and nearly dropped the stack of postcards depicting some old, cracked paintings of Roman soldiers. “My what?” he asked, immediately flustered. Skip giggled and skipped over to join them. “Not yours, sir,” he cackled, the entire idea absurd, “we’re trying to find something for Faye before I go home. She will feed me to her cats if I don’t send her a nice present beforehand.” “Oh,” Lipton said and cleared his throat, awkward and jittery on the spot. He set the postcards back to the holder and turned his back to the photographs of Roman generals and Greeks in aggressive military formations. “A wise choice,” Skip solemnly advised him with a heavy nod. “I don’t think any girl will like those. You ought to pick something more… Elegant! Beautiful! Something European.” Lipton smiled politely and shrugged. “Technically Roman Empire used to cover most of the continent what we now call Europe, and what we even consider Europe varies through history.” When Skip and Don just stared at him, he became flustered again. “I… Uh, I’ve been listening to some radio programs at night,” he explained. Skip laughed again. “Getting a history lecture is just about the most boring thing I can imagine doing in bed,” he chuckled, and Don joined in for the plain amusement of the mental image. Lipton lowered his eyes and blushed scarlet. “Well, to each their own,” he allowed diplomatically while swaying on the heels of his boots.   “Sure, sir,” Don said, then reeled them back on topic. “But the gift! Skip needs a gift for Faye.” “Oh, right,” Lipton said, visibly more at ease now that the attention was turning away from him. “Well… I don’t know Ms. Tanner, but you do, so you should use that. Whatever the gift is, the most important thing is that it makes her feel like you have listened to her and know what she likes.” “Uh-huh,” Skip said, and Don nodded along. It was a wise piece of advice, but not concrete enough to actually help them. Judging by Lipton’s smile, he realized exactly the same thing and shook his head at their impatience. Don was almost ready to appoint Lipton as the new romance expert if it wasn’t for his choice of Roman art and Greek pottery. Lipton sighed. “There’s a postcard of just about every European masterpiece here. Why don’t you look at those and pick one that makes you think of her?” Even though Lipton slipped away with a postcard depicting Marcus Crassus battling the rebel leader Spartacus, his advice was actually good, and Skip and Don started browsing the many pictures of various beautiful ladies and princesses and queens. They didn’t understand about the styles or periods but trusted their own eyes to tell what was really beautiful. Momentarily Skip was taken with a painting of a golden-haired woman wrestling a large book from a brown eagle with two heads, but even if beautiful she was too distressed, and the painting was too dramatic anyway. Eventually Skip picked up a postcard depicting a fairly modest painting of a girl dressed in simple clothes and a blue scarf on her head. She couldn’t have been more than ordinary, but the longer you looked at her gentle eyes and lips parted like in a half thought out question as she looked at you over her shoulder, the more convinced you became that she was by far not only the most beautiful but also the most intriguing of all women pictured there. “This one,” Skip said as he held the card. “She looks a bit like her too.” Still, having a simple postcard wasn’t a gift yet. It was a greeting, a simple souvenir, and it needed something more, so the quest went on. “What does she like?” Don asked Skip again as they strolled through the gardens outside of Louvre. “I think that based on all your tales of your bets and highjinks all I know is what she doesn’t like, and that’s you being an idiot.” Skip threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe so! Well, let’s see… Faye likes… Me. Cats. Baseball. Homemade pies. Milkshakes. Dancing. Pretty normal stuff, I’d say.” Just a normal girl, with normal interests, she seemed to be. Don was again at loss. It was a beautiful and hot summer day, and there was a small café on the street by the garden, and just the sight of it made them both feel suddenly thirsty and their sweet tooths ache. Mostly the café was serving coffee in tiny cups, but their display was also showing signs of revival as they served cakes, flaky pastries and chocolate treats. The prices were high and there wasn’t enough to fill the display completely, but what there was looked delicious and made with great care. They got two small éclairs because they looked nice in the window and the little sign in front of the tray had the word “chocolat” in it, and with their little treats they ventured back to the streets. Don was almost used to French baked goods after three weeks in Paris, but Skip savoured his from the very first bite. It was no wonder, the soft, fluffy dough alone was a treat, but the chocolate icing that cracked softly when you bit into the pastry was perfect, and from the face he made Don could tell that Skip hadn’t expected the cream filling. Skip chewed on the éclair slowly with his head tipped back towards the sun, and for a moment Don led him by the arm because he refused to look in front of him. “If only I could send something like this back to the States for her,” Skip sighed around a mouthful. “That would solve literally all my problems. Get a box of these or those little pink cookie things and that would be it. Too bad they wouldn’t make it to the States.” “You’re right, but maybe something else might,” Don said, his eyes already scanning for another shop. “Something sweet would do nicely.” They had to try a few shops for what they were looking for, but eventually Skip managed to find a metal tin filled with hard fruit toffees in candy wrappers. The candy itself wasn’t an extraordinary delicacy like fresh pastries were, but just as important was the beautiful tin they came in. It was like two gifts in one, European candy and a new decorative tin for buttons or letters or whatever Faye fancied. It was nearing evening, and Don had an early morning ahead of him and Skip had to report back to his commanding officer too, but the quest wasn’t yet done. “Don’t forget to wrap it up nicely too,” Don reminded Skip. “Sure, the postal office will put it in brown paper, but that’s not good enough for a gift for your girl. You got to at least find a ribbon to go under the boring paper and string so that she knows you’ve thought about it.” “Good point,” Skip said. “I’m sure I’ll find someone with a ribbon to trade – even something that doesn’t belong in some another dame’s underwear set. Thanks for the tip.” “Sure,” Don said. “Should I see you back to the station?” “No, that’s okay, I’ll find my own way,” Skip said. It was sensible that way. Don’s hotel was in the opposite direction and if he were to walk with Skip, he’d triple his own walk, and Skip knew it too and wouldn’t accept such a bother. Still it felt bad to part ways before they had to since things were uncertain, a discharge and a ticket home might come at a day’s notice, and then they wouldn’t see each other again. Not being able to say goodbye loomed over Don and kept him lingering. Skip seemed to sense it from him, because he smiled and reached to gently touch his arm. “Don’t worry, we’re headed in the same direction eventually. And when we get to the States, I’ll mail you the best present you can imagine.” Don was implored to smile, and despite the melancholy played along. “Really? What’s that?” Skip grinned bright as a summer sun, spread his arms and gestured at himself.

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #633: So.... About Sephiroth....(SSBU x Persona 5)

Ryuji: Ok. I know we should be focusing on Christmas Shopping and all, but can we PLEASE talk about how and why Sephiroth is in this mansion right now!?

Morgana: What?

Futuba: EX-F**KING-CUSE ME!???

Makoto: Futuba, what do we told you about texting out cuss words in our Groupchat?

Futuba: I covered up the middle words!

Makoto: Even still, that doesn't make it any less inappropriate. Please don't do it anymore, okay?

Futuba: Yes, ma'am.....

Ann: I'm already lost. Who's Sephiroth again?

Ren: Silver Haired guy with Long sword. He's also a one winged angel.

Futuba: The One Winged Angel.jpg

Ann: Wow he's hot. But alas, my heart still and will always belongs to my dear Shiho-kins~

Haru: Awww~

Ryuji: Okay, Ms. Shakespeare lol.

Ann: ಠ︵ಠ

Sonic: Cute lovers' stuff aside, let's not forget that this man has been the thorn in Cloud's side ever since day one......Whenever that is.

Haru: Goodness. I wonder what he has done to make Cloud-Senpai so upset.....

Morgana: That's what I've been wondering too now that I think about.

Futuba: Well, for starters, he murdered Cloud's best friend, Zack, and his companion named Aerith.

Haru: Oh my gosh, REALLY!!?

Yusuke: Oh dear.....

Makoto: Excuse me!!?

Morgana: My god! I didn't know all of that!!!!

Ann: Yep. Now, I'm definitely glad I don't any feelings for him now.

Ryuji: Right!? The guy's a ruthless monster! Even if he is cool looking!

Ren: So is he like.... Officially moving in the mansion now. I mean, I know people say that he's one of the new entries in Smash Tournament and all, but idrk.

Futuba: WAIT! HE'S A NEW WHAT NOW!!?

Sonic: Well, he doesn't really moved in or anything. He only comes here for Ganondorf's League of Villains Club or whatever. Not only that, but Hades actually brought him from hell and everything.

Ren: Now that's freaky.

Ryuji: I know, right. I'm guessing this was after Cloud killed him in that Advent Child movie I watched a while back.

Makoto: I can't believe Hades would go as far as to bring someone back from the dead....

Sonic: Tell me about it, but there is another reason why he did this besides joining some villains club.

Futuba: For real!?

Ryuji: Hey!

Sonic: Yep. You guys remember that whole World of Light fiasco we all been involved in, right?

Ren: Yeah. Those were some really crazy times for all of us back then.....

Ryuji: But what does that have to do with anything?

Sonic: Well, you guys remember we all had to split into two groups to clear out all of the remaining forces of Galeem and Dharkon.

Morgana: Oh yeah, I remember now. We were all assigned to deal with the rest of Dhakron's mess.

Sonic: That's right. While you guys did that, me and the other half of the group face off against Galeem on our own. It was hard work, but eventually, Sephiroth came in at the right time to slice that thing in half, causing an army of Master Hands to disappear.

Ren: Huh. That's.... actually pretty cool of him to do that for everyone.

Sonic: Yeeahh, but.....

Ren: Oh god. What did he do next?

Sonic: Nothing too major.....He just attacked us is all.

Makoto: Why?

Sonic: I don't even know myself, Queen. He just flew in and bodied almost all of us without breaking a sweat. Greninja, Pit, Rosalina, Samus, Bayonetta....

Ren: WITCH MOMMY!?

Sonic: Yup! Especially her! And I haven't even gotten to the part of what he did to my poor pops!

Morgana: You're talking about Mario, right? What did he do to him?

Sonic: Wellllllll......

Sonic: Fatal Strike.jpg

Ryuji: HOLY SHIT!!!!!

Ren: ........WELL!!!

Makoto: Oh my god!

Morgana: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!!!?

Ann: (‘◉⌓◉’)(‘◉⌓◉’)(‘◉⌓◉’)(‘◉⌓◉’)

Yusuke: This can't be real.....

Haru: Oh my goodness. I think I'm going to cry....

Futuba: FHJKJVFFJN MARIO FREAKING DIED!!!?

Sonic: Everybody, CALM DOWN! Relax! Mario is fine. I repeat: Mario is 100% fine! Look!

Sonic: Sike! He Missed!.jpg

Ren: Oh thank Goddess Mom.

Futuba: Right!? That is such a relief!

Makoto: I agree. I don't think my could take it if he actually got himself hurt like that.

Ann: Hey, Haru, are you okay at your end?

Haru: I'm doing much better now that my sweet little Mona-Chan is here with me~

Haru: My Little Knight and Shining Armor.jpg

Futuba: D'awwwwww~

Ryuji: Damn, Mona. You really are her son lol.

Morgana: Shut it, Ryuji.

Haru: Mona-Chan, are you embarrassed of me? :(

Morgana: No! Of course not, mom! I love you with all of my heart! Really!

Haru: I know you do, sweetheart. I was only messing with you is all. I love you too~ ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Morgana: Haru why?

Haru: I just wanted to see that adorable face of yours flustered. I'm sorry.

Morgana: It's fine. I forgive you.

Haru: ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

Sonic: Adorable cuteness aside, the plumber dad was in no harm whatsoever. And mom makes extra sure he stays that way too, cuz I just saw her hugging him like a teddy bear in their bedroom.

Sonic: Protective Momma Peach on Duty.jpg

Ann: Yeah. Not gonna lie, I would totally do that for Shiho if she ever gets hurt.

Makoto: I would do the same for Ren.

Ren: Why?

Makoto: Because you're a reckless idiot and I love you.

Ren: Love you too, 'hon~ :D

Makoto: ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

Futuba: Ignoring the blantly obvious Married Couple, I'm glad all of you guys are safe.

Makoto: ಠ_ಠ

Ren: ಠ︵ಠ

Sonic: Thanks, Futuba. If Cloud wasn't there to fight the madman, we all would've been done for.

Ryuji: Speaking of which, how does Cloud feel about Sephiroth joining the tournament?

Sonic: He's not too happy about it. But he has been ignoring him since a day or two ago, so that's something.

Haru: That's wonderful news. I sure do hope his presence doesn't cause Cloud Senpai too much trouble in the future.

Sonic: Same. The poor guy look like he's been stressed about it for days.

Makoto: While we're on the topic of Sephiroth, I think it's best for all of us that we stay clear from him for now.

Ren: I agree with Makoto on this one. If.the guy's that strong enough to beat half of everyone in this mansion, I stutter to think what would it be like if any fight him. So let's not get in his way, alright?

Ryuji: Right.

Ann: Roger.

Yusuke: Very well.

Haru: Okay.

Morgana: Good enough for me.

Makoto: That means you too, Futuba.

Futuba: Why me specifically?

Ren: Because we all know how much of a fangirl you are in almost everythingg video game related. Sephiroth looks like the type of guy who is dead serious on everything and I don't my baby sister to get hurt because of him.

Futuba: Rennnnnnnn I'm not a baby!

Ren: You are one to me damnit.

Futuba: ಠಗಠ

Ren: Okay. Okay. I kid lol. But seriously though, just try and stay away from him for me, alright?

Futuba: 'Aye, 'Aye, Captain!

Yusuke: I apologise to ask you this so suddenly, Sonic, but do you still have the picture you showed us not too long ago?

Sonic: The one Fatal Strike one? Yeah, I still got it. Why? You need it for something?

Yusuke: Yes. I must make a painting of this immediately!

Ryuji: Dude, seriously? Why?

Yusuke: I am not too sure about the reasons myself, but.... the dark, gloomy atmosphere of the picture alone has already peaked my attention. And it's telling me to create a masterpiece of it immediately.

Futuba: Of course you would be interested in making something like that, Inari.....

Ann: Could we just focus on our Christmas Shopping plans instead please? I don't even wanna think about that photo.

Haru: Me too. It makes me sad every time I see it.

Yusuke: Very well. I suppose I can try painting it in memory. Or at least, I hope I can....

@keyenuta

@princekirijo

@26shann

@italian-love-cake

@albion-93

@chompycroc

@incorrectsmashbrosquotes

@toriwest

@caleb13frede

[peterstanslizzie]

Re-watching Lizzie Mcguire: Episode 2.8 (Inner Beauty)

Miranda and Lizzie making detention fun

- Gordo wants to expand his filmmaking repertoire and so, he wants to shoot his own music video for the song, ‘Us Against The World’ by Play, starring his best friends, Lizzie and Miranda whom are both practicing their dance moves in Lizzie’s living room:

“Britney, Britney, Janet and J Lo” vs “ Brtiney, Janet, Janet...”

- The both of them then take a snack break to which Gordo get all concerned about because he thinks they’re not taking his new venture seriously. Relax Gordo, there’s nothing wrong with taking a break lol. 

- In school the next day, we see Miranda being upset about getting a B on a recent Science test. She basically feels like she’s coming up short, which I can totally relate. 

- To make matters worse, she now thinks she’s fat after looking at the stills Gordo took of them from rehearsals the other day. It’s sad to see her nitpick every single body part on that photo. Anyways, it’s pretty clear what direction this episode is going to take and what issues that are going to be tackled, which are body dysmorphia and eating disorders. I definitely have my own personal opinions regarding how Miranda’s storyline was handled in this episode but I’ll save it for the ‘Overall Thoughts’ section. 

- Lizzie and Gordo are clearly shocked to hear how negatively Miranda views herself and she also declares to them that she’s going on a diet. 

Crash Diet Woes

- At lunch, Gordo notices that Miranda isn’t having anything to eat. Miranda gives the excuse that she had a very heavy breakfast in the morning. Even after Lizzie tries to offer her some of her own lunch, she strangely acts like she just got a paper cut and has to go to the bathroom to run her finger over cold water. Girl, we know you’re not a good actress...stop it! 

- After leaving in a hurry, both Lizzie and Gordo are even more concerned now because it’s obvious that Miranda is forcing herself to go on a strict diet. Lizzie even points out that Miranda is not that kind of person to starve herself like that.  

-  After school, Lizzie and Miranda are going through another practice session and this time around, they’re showing their moves in front of Lizzie’s mom, Jo. Jo is super impressed with the girls and asks Gordo if she can be in his MV (music video) too. but he kind of indirectly shot her down lol. But worst of all, she was trying to act all cool despite being disappointed about being turned down:

Her face here definitely does not read “I’m kidding” lmao

- Anyways, throughout the rehearsal, it’s very apparent that Miranda is starting to feel woozy based on her facial expressions. Despite this, she still insists that she and Lizzie continue practicing. Big mistake here because a few seconds into their next run-through, she becomes lightheaded and drops to the floor. They all rush over to help her up and they ask her what’s up. Miranda lies again and says she had a really heavy lunch when she definitely did not. Lizzie is definitely concerned about her best friend’s wellbeing. 

Defensive Miranda

- Some time after Miranda’s fainting spell, Lizzie and Gordo are discussing what they should say or do with regards to Miranda’s problem. Well, it’s mostly Gordo who’s talking because he’s not giving Lizzie any chance to give her two cents. But I got to say this; It’s unfortunate that Gordo thinks that just because Miranda is a girl, he feels like he can’t talk to her about the issues she’s facing with her body image. As her best friend, I feel like he should at least hear out what's going through her mind. But again, I need to remember that Gordo is just a teenage boy and he can’t help but to feel awkward in this type of circumstance.

-  Next, we see Lizzie at the mall with Miranda to shop for new outfits for their upcoming MV shoot. As I’ve predicted, Miranda feels dejected going through the rack of clothes she thinks she won’t look good in. Lizzie tries putting things into perspective with Miranda but she just gives off this nasty and defensive attitude towards Lizzie.

Again, what’s with the attitude?

- Lizzie decides to come clean and be honest with her best friend by saying that she’s making a bad decision by going on all these crazy fasts. I generally feel like what Lizzie said to Miranda was appropriate, especially after reminding her that they’re best friends and she should feel comfortable being able to open up to her. 

- Miranda is just not having it with Lizzie and says something really passive aggressive and in the end, she just storms off. I feel like being Miranda’s friend is exhausting at times. 

- At home, Lizzie is feeling down about what just happened and she explains to her mom about the problems she’s facing without revealing Miranda’s identity. Poor Jo first thought that her own daughter was the one with body image issues. Also, who is Lizzie fooling when she tells Jo that she’s talking about a friend? It’s pretty clear that this friend she’s referring to is Miranda lol. Well, at least to me it would have been obvious.

-  Well, Jo is just as shocked to find out that the person is actually Miranda and she freaks out about it some more after connecting this to the fainting incident in their living room a few days ago. Luckily, she calms down and tells Lizzie that if the situation doesn’t improve in a few days, she will have a sit down with  both Miranda herself and with Miranda’s mom. Daniela. 

Opening Up

- It’s the day of the actual music video shoot and Miranda surprisingly shows up. Gordo tries apologizing to her for the comment he made about her eating too much but Ms. Sanchez is still upset at him for who knows why. Lizzie then steps in and apologizes to her for butting into her life and her issues at the mall.  But she also tells her that she’s very concerned about her wellbeing and it’s actually scaring her. Aww poor baby.

- In my opinion, I feel like Lizzie doesn’t have to explain her concern over Miranda. I think it’s very obvious that Lizzie only has good intentions. But I guess sometimes it’s good to break it down to the other person who is going through the motions. Fortunately for all three of them, Miranda opens up to them about all the issues she’s facing at school and the pressure she feels coming from her parents regarding what she wants to do in the future. 

- Because of the overwhelming pressure she’s facing, she feels like she needs something in her life that she is able control, which are her eating habits. I think this is a very common feeling to have amongst people who suffer from eating disorders or body dysmorphia. And I like how Miranda explains that it’s something that she really feels deep within even though it doesn’t make sense on paper. It’s just how our brain works really. 

I wonder if that look Miranda is giving to Gordo is a good one or a bad one lol

- Lizzie explains to Miranda that she relates to her struggles as well because she too, feels pressure to fit in. Even Gordo shares the same feeling for being non-muscular and probably short lol. She then reassures Miranda that being her best friends means that they will support her through this no matter what.  And  in the end, Miranda thanks them for having her back. I'm glad she came around lol.

Rock those flips Hilary!

The teacher definitely has some moves of his own too!

- The episode ends with our favorite trio watching the fully-shot iconic MV of Miranda and Lizzie dancing incredibly and looking amazing together at the same time. But most importantly, they look healthy and happy.

Miranda is definitely feeling herself in this music video

B-Plot: Matt’s 5687th Career, An Artist 

The resemblance is uncanny

- In this episode, Matt’s storyline centers around him being an artist, to which his school apparently thinks he’s a very talented one at that. They notify Jo about his ‘newfound talent’ and she wants to nurture that in him. I can already tell this whole plot is going to be campy. At least Sam is questioning this whole thing:

“Sensitive? Matt eats mud!”. ICONIC

-  We then see Matt creating a portrait of Lanny in the backyard using the splatter paint technique, if I’m not mistaken. As expected, he makes a mess outside because he got his paint all over the patio, the plants and even Lanny himself. I don’t get why Jo is encouraging this given all the shenanigans he  pursued in majority of the past episodes. But most of all, I wonder who is the teacher at his school who thinks he has this talent? I could be wrong though; He might actually have a gift....

- Later, they decide to take Matt’s work outside and both Matt and Lanny are now going through pieces of junk outside to see what can be used for his next masterpiece. I smell disaster in the horizons for sure.

- And I was right! The Mcguire home is ridden with all the trash Matt and Lanny brought home with them from the junkyard.  Jo and Sam sees this and they are just shocked. But I’m very surprised to see that Jo is still trying to encourage Matt. I thought she would put her foot down by now. 

OK. This should be the trigger lol

- Matt pretty much butchered poor Sam’s car. Jo finally sees that Matt has crossed the line (when she should have reeled him in days ago) and tells him to stick to creating art on paper. This boy needs to be restricted, which come to think of it...it’s not really an appropriate word to use given the main storyline of this episode but I’ll just leave it at that lol.

Overall Thoughts

- I feel like this is the first episode of Lizzie Mcguire so far that dealt with a very serious topic, apart from maybe the bullying situation Matt was facing in the season 1 episode, ‘Sibling Bonds’. Episodes like this one really stood out to me over the years till today because it was mainly on an issue a main character was facing both physically and internally.  And it had nothing to do with relationship drama or girl drama. So naturally, the episode was very memorable.

- In terms of the execution of Miranda’s eating disorder storyline, I had issues with it but I also have some positives to say. Let’s start with the negatives; I just feel like the show kind of made it seem that Miranda’s body image issues went away within a week of it popping up. You can see by the end, Miranda was happy with how she looked in the music video. In fact, she was even praising herself. And that’s just not the reality of most people’s struggles with ED and body dysmorphia. These things just don’t go away so quickly. That being said, I definitely don’t think Miranda had an eating disorder based on what I’ve seen in this episode. But because things are shown through the lens of a children’s TV show camera, things might not appear to be so clear cut. 

- But I could view them having showed the viewers that Lizzie and Gordo having Miranda’s back no matter what means that they will continue to be there for her in case the issues she’s facing do come back. Moreover, I wish that the show would’ve added a separate conversation between Miranda and her mom or at least show Jo talking to Miranda because I think including adults in this would add more seriousness to the situation. Again, this is a TV show that is targeted towards kids and young preteens. So, there’s bound to be some problems here and there. 

- As for the positives, I recall myself pointing out earlier in this review that Gordo should feel like he should be able to talk to Miranda about her issues. And so, I’m very glad that he was included in the scene by the school staircase with Miranda and Lizzie. If it were just the two girls, I would honestly be upset because Gordo is supposed to be Miranda’s best friend too and differences in gender shouldn’t dictate the conversations best friends should have with one another. So, that made me feel really glad.

[darkestwolfx]

Inferno - Re-Review #49

Is this it’s first TV appearance? Yes, it is. The episode that never aired (in the UK) - even in the Series 2 re-runs, due to the Grenfell Tower fire. Now, it is finally being given its long awaited slot- Oh, no, hold fire.

We still can’t (or it’s been decided not to) air ‘Inferno’ in the UK because of the case being in court, being held off by the current situation. I do completely understand that - I’m not unsympathetic in anyway, but - for us fans - this is a gem of an episode that is being swept under the carpet, which is why I’m reviewing it in this series anyway, because it really does deserve it’s place in the lineup in my opinion. (And I’m a little OCD and on’t want it out of order too much so I’m doing it now not later. If they air it after ‘The Long Reach’ I’ll be annoyed)!

Anyhow, this is the first of two reviews for today and we get to start with a lovely tall tower. Now, when has that ever been a good idea? This episode bears similarities to ‘Towering Inferno’ and ‘City of Fire’ (TOS).

This is another one of our ‘Joker’s’ Club - Current members;

Light-fingered Fred

Ms Baker

Langstrom Fischler

Francois Lemaire

Mr Yost

Professor Harold

Feel free to suggest others and I will add them to the Hall of Shame. (Ned is saved because he’s actually nice and he has the best intentions, he just can’t achieve them. I like Ned okay? He doesn’t deserve to be in this club).

Today anyhow, this show of stupidity is all in the interest of breaking a record - because one man can’t handle the fact that someone built a building taller than his. That would be Mr Yost - I think his place in the above hall is aptly given.

“This is the Crystal Spire! The World’s first StarScraper. I designed it to be the world’s tallest structure, then they built a bigger one in Dubai. Tonight, ’m going to raise the  entire building by seven record shattering metres. Trust me, the lifting process is 100% safe.”

Do you know what else they said that about? Moving The Empire State Building in TOS’ ‘Terror In New York City’. We all know how that one ended.

It did look pretty for a moment there, before you know, all the fires burst out and everything.

“Your job is to make sure those electrojacks hold. If they fail, fire will be the lest of our problems.”

Yeah... we’d have another Empire State incident on our hands and no one wants that. Big Ben’s probably going to fall into the Thames one day as it already is, we don’t need the ‘grand’ Crystal Spire joining it.

“Please, please, save my building!”

Idiot.

“I think you mean save those people!”

I like her already. She can stay.

Cue acting faces;

Put on your best shocked and worried expressions!

I think this lot nailed it.

Bravely going where no firefighters have gone before! Putting out fires to save lives, and accidentally getting trapped beneath about eight tonnes of rubble. Not so hooray..

I wonder if Conrad’s brother is one of these firefighters? That would have been a nice touch. Slough isn’t London, but isn’t too far away. It’s not outside the realms of possibility.

“We can’t do this alone. International Rescue, come in. It’s McCready. That offer still good?”

“Absolutely Chief. We’re on our way.”

Oh the annoying title cards are back interrupting the flow. Someone obviously ‘forgot’ to do an extra bit of animating... again.

Nice little throwback to ‘Move and You’re Dead’ here. Not that Alan’s won anything at this point.

“Make me look cool.”

“We haven’t got all day.”

“Oh, and really heroic.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And make sure you show how totally good looking I am.”

I feel like this is what Virgil does when he starts painting - he just half listen and answers quickly and shortly.

Alan is such a poser. Has he ever played Musical Statues do you think? The point is staying still. So I think not. In fairness though, he probably never had a normal styled birthday party.

“Erherm... International Rescue, we have a situation. Virgil, Alan, we need you both in Thunderbird Two.”

“Alan, you can move now!”

John honestly looks very confused and amused.

Cue everyone gasping over the arrival of Thunderbird Two. It is a pretty cool sigyht.

“That is one tall tower.”

“Crystal Spire. One thousand,one hundred and twenty five metres, ground to tip.It’s supposed to be some sort of architectural masterpiece.”

“It probably looks a lot better when it’s not on fire. Chief McCready, this International Rescue.”

“Meet me up on the 47th floor and be prepare for some heavy lifting.”

“I was made for heavy lifting.”

Boasting. He does kind of have rights though. He was made for heavy lifting.

“No way in. But as dad always said. If you can’t find a door...”

“...Make one!”

Cue badass leap to the other side.

Cue near dangerous, deadly fall to the possible other side.

This episode has it all and we’re halfway there!

“How’s it looking?”

“Remember that time you supercharged the barbecue?”

“Yeessh..”

“Bad?”

“My eyebrows have only just grown back.”

I should have guessed Virgil would have music on board, but really that sounded like something Gordon and Alan would listen to and it definitely made me life.

“Ooops, sorry, wrong playlist!”

Cue secondary fire exploding through the building.

“Thunderbird Two, you okay up there?”

“Yeah. (Nothing a respray won’t fix).”

Goodness Alan, you are never going to be allowed to pilot Two again.

Speaking of pilots, are you okay there, Virgil, you know, just holding that lift above your head to stop it crushing you?

“I’m sure Brains won’t mind too much.”

I think that means Brains is going to go crazy. Wait until he sees Thunderbird Two. Actually correction, wait until Virgil sees Thunderbird Two!

And here we have another of the best ever entrances to a rescue;

“We’re here to rescue you!”

“Uh, that’s usually my line.”

“Sorry.”

Still doesn’t top Scott and Ned though - in my opinion.

“What’s the evacuation plan?”

“Good question. Thunderbird Two, what’s the evacuation plan?”

“Well Thunderbird Two can’t get close enough. And we can’t really risk breaking the glass with so many people inside. Suppose a really big trampoline’s out the question?”

Yes, Alan, it is! Seriously, have you seen how much the prices have risen since Lockdown? I’m not forking out for one. I mean, I don’t really need or want one, I was just saying.

Look at that face. This episode was literally just like Expressions of Virgil central.

“Everyone’s looking at me, Alan.”

“I don’t know, we could always... take off the top?”

“Take off the top of the building?!”

“Brilliant idea! Let’s do it.”

“Ok Alan, we’ll give it a try.”

“Ditch the fire fighting module and come back for us.”

And show the camera how badly you’ve scratched up Virgil’s Thunderbird. Yeah, he’s gonna’ go bonkers.

“How’s the view?”

“Breathtaking.”

Quite literally if you aren’t careful, Virgil.

We know logically they’ll catch each other, but these shots still get me. They’re pretty cool.

“Thanks Tracy.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re a team remember?”

Now Virgil’s doing a Gordon, and doing a George of the Jungle impression!

“Ah! What did you do? What did you do to my Crystal Spire!”

Don’t you mean ‘what did you do?’ After all, it was Mr Yost who moved it, and lit it up, and set it on fire...

“Second tallest..?”

That man is obsessed. Let’s move on. He annoys me (although not as much as Fischler, it must be said).

“If you ever feel like a break from flying, there’s always a spot for you on my team.”

“Well, I do have some vacation time coming- Alan! What did you do to my ship?”

“Uh, it’s not as bad as it looks! All it needs is a spot of paint.”

”Paint: that reminds me... Come on, Alan, we’ve gotta get back and finish your portrait.”

“Just promise you won’t make me look too short! Or hairy! Or give me goofy teeth!”

You’re giving him ideas, Alan.

“Virgil? Virge? Oh man!”

Yeah, already said way too much, and Virgil ignoring you is probably not boding well.

And there’s just about time for the finished painting (as the Grand MAX left it) to end this Review.

P.S. Virgil definitely has more artistic talent than MAX, sorry MAX! Although in fairness to him, I’m not quite sure that’s the result he was aiming for.

[thecorteztwins]

These are all scenes from my longass ALT-MARAUDERS FIC PITCH and you don’t need to read the whole pitch because it’s huge and a fic in itself, but basically what’s going on is Xavier ordered Miss Sinister, Madelyne Pryor, Pyro, Haven, and the Shaws to work together as a crack team accomplishing bringing “home” mutants like the Marauders but probably also other stuff too. I don’t really care what their mission is though because it’s about their relationships. Also it looks like ALICE is now the adopted team baby, at least for Madelyne and Haven (maybe Pyro too, I like to think he looks out for her) sorry I don’t make the rules OH WAIT I DO AND I SAY SHE’S TEAM BABY honestly she really fits the theme/the team, given her history? So I’m down for it. Tagging @sammysdewysensitiveeyes since you showed interest in it and since it’s got YA BOY PYRO and @hexiva since you asked about it too, though no obligation to read it, or to read all of ‘em! I feel like you might like “Scientists” though, Hex. CONTENTS A Box Full of Darkness - Sebastian/Haven Canvas - Madelyne/Alice Scientists - Claudine/Haven Like An Old Married Couple -  Group Parties, Pleas, and Promises - Pyro/Shinobi Sea & Sky - Madelyne/Haven Awkward - Pyro/Sebastian Stories - Madelyne/Pyro Out of the Frying Pan - Sebastian/Shinobi Nightmare Dressed Like A Daydream - Pyro

*** A BOX FULL OF DARKNESS "Do you care at all for poetry, Mr. Shaw?” The ship had a small sitting room that also served as a library, shelves lining three of its walls. The wood, the carpet, the small chair, the atmosphere, all made one forget that one was at sea, and not in fact in the nook of some old college’s study. One had to wonder who had chosen the books. ”No, Ms. Dastoor, I can’t say it has ever appealed to me. Most of the arts do not, particularly the ones that are not visual in nature. I do not see the point of endless stanzas and pentameters to say in metaphor and allegory what could be said much more clearly and succinct in a single sentence of plain simple prose.” ”Then I hope you shall forgive me for sharing a bit---it reminded me of you, you see.” There was one in her hand. ”Ah, what was it? Something from the Decadent movement? Or perhaps some pretencious Bohemian lampooning the upper class from which he came himself? Dare I hope for Ozymandias, perhaps, and will it be Smith’s or Shelley’s?” He was smirking slightly. Perhaps he thought he was being funny. Or it might just be his face. ”You seem to know much about the subject despite a disinterest in it. I rather admire that you took the time to learn,” and she did sound genuinely approving, encouraging, “But, no---Mary Oliver, someone much more recent, and much more recently deceased. I am paraphrasing her here so that my meaning, my reason for seeing you in this, is not confused: Someone once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” He smiled wryly, “Is that how you see me, Ms. Dastoor, a box full of darkness?” “No,” she said, her gaze rising back up from the open pages to meet his, her large dark eyes unreadable as they drank him in, boxes of darkness in themselves, “And I do not agree that evil and suffering---if we must use ‘darkness’ to mean those things, which I also do not agree with, but is what I believe Ms. Oliver may have meant--is ever a gift, no matter what we may get out of it through our own power to come back from it...but I believe you see it this way, do you not?” There was no accusation in her tone, no disapproval. There seldom was. She was only asking, only observing. At least, Sebastian thought, that was what she wanted to seem like. He always suspected her motives were more, and that she was simply trying to disguise the fact she was trying to needle him, rather than making it pointedly obvious as, say, Emma, might. Coward---but then, he knew that of her. “Perhaps in less poetic terms, yes. I’m a practical man, Ms. Dastoor. I used to work in a steel mill. I saw how heat and pressure forged the worthless in the valuable, how the smelting process pulled the precious iron from the rest of the ore and shaped it through force into something useful. The same can be said of people---and I do indeed say it. You have heard me. Is that the darkness of which you speak?” ”The steel you speak of and the shapes it was forced into were valuable and useful...by the definitions of what the humans shaping it needed and wanted. But ore and iron and metal and stone, all these have no intrinsic value, or lack there of. There is no objective difference in the value between steel and granite, glass or diamond, gold or plastic. Thus, too, I believe that when it comes to people, you are deciding what is valuable according only to your standards. But is there objective worth to your perception of strength over your perception of weakness, beyond what is merely your perception?” And yet again, her voice was calm, not accusing, merely observing and asking. Sebastian returned, just as calm, if slightly smug, “Is there objective value in your perception of kindness and morality, Ms. Dastoor, beyond that it is merely your perception?” “I believe it has practical applications, but I have also never claimed an objective standpoint in our discussions, have I? Whereas you have, if I am recalling corrective,” Again, there was nothing aggressive in her tone. She was polite as could be. “I have and I do, but if I am to have it be put to a test of authenticity, I must require you to subject your own beliefs to the same scrutiny. It is not fair for the burden of proof to only fall on my shoulders.” Still also calm, still slightly smirking in his turning around on her. “That is quite true. I apologize,” she relented, ”But, to my original point---while I may disagree with Ms. Oliver’s sentiment, is it not one that appeals to you, one that you share?” Sebastian, too, relented with his smirk becoming a smile, “Yes.” The smile widened, knowing and amused,

“And despite your claim of not sharing the poem’s sentiments, I believe you see me as your box of darkness---and you are excavating me in search of some gift.” He put one hand in his suit pocket and began to depart, though he turned once, the smirk returned, and said, “Do let me know if you find it.” *** CANVAS “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Alice, interrupting Madelyne’s angry rant, “I’m not real.” Madelyne Pryor had just explosively dragged the girl away from Claudine, insisting that the child shouldn’t have to see that...that...MONSTER...at any point on the voyage home. And if Haven hadn’t stopped her, she’d have ensured that Alice wouldn’t have a chance to, by KILLING the other woman, whom Madelyne now realized was aptly named “Miss Sinister” for fare more than her looks. She might still do it... But first--- “Don’t give me that!” Madelyne suddenly rounded on the girl she had just been comforting, been supporting, been swearing she’d never have to see her abuser---that was what it was to breed and clone someone just for the sake of their violation, abuse, beyond abuse!---again. But Alice had hit a nerve. And for the same reason Madelyne Pryor had so much empathy for her, she now had ire too. Madelyne’s snapping did, at least, stop Alice from crying. She’d been about to start, but the shock of Madelyne’s sudden change halted her in mid-tear. “You’re made of real flesh and blood, right?” Madelyne demanded rhetorically, “And you have thoughts and feelings right? Well you're real! The flesh being shared doesn't make it less real, just not unique. So you’re no less real than someone’s identical twin. And even they’re not really copies, because they have different personalities. So the only way you could be a copy---which you’re not---is if you had the first Alice’s same genes AND same thoughts and personality and everything! And you don’t, right” “Um,” Alice sniffled, a little afraid to correct the woman, who was so fierce whether she was defending Alice or berating her (or at least, it seemed like that was what she was doing...Alice wasn’t sure), “Actually...actually...I get all the memories of the previous Alices, so...so....I am a copy, actually...” “Oh,” Madelyne felt her argument just get ripped out from under like a trick rug someone had pulled. Her empathy came flooding back from the girl...and shame for shouting at her. Especially since she knew who she had REALLY been shouting at. “Well...” Shit, what did she do now? She’d just as good as told the girl she WAS a copy! How did she salvage this now? Come on Maddie, she told herself, What did you need somebody to say to you when you found out? “Listen, Alice,” she put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, firmly but gently. Her tone matched. “Yeah, you’re a copy. So am I. But we’re still real people, for all the reasons I said. No one gets to treat use like Claudine---or Colcord---treated you. No one should, anyway. It DOES matter. Being a clone, a copy, it doesn’t make you less alive. And so what if you’re a copy? You’re still YOU. You become more and more your own person with every moment you’re alive. Think of it like...like...” A Xerox. It was what she had compared herself to when she’d told Jean what she was. A Xerox that lost a lot in translation. What memories she’d had were either lies manufactured by Sinister...or worse, remnants from Jean that had bled into her mind when the Phoenix brought her to life. “Think of it like a Xerox machine, okay?” she said, more gentle than ever now, voice soft, and little tears of her own welling up, “When it first comes off the copy machine, yeah, it’s a duplicate...but then you can draw on it. You can write on it. You can crumple it up or throw it in the bin, or you can paint over it until it’s something new entirely on the paper. It’s up to you. It won’t stay a duplicate for long though. Either you can change it...or someone else will. But it’ll happen either way. And you know what?” Madelyne put a hand on Alice’s face, looking into her eyes, “I bet you can paint a real masterpiece.” *** SCIENTISTS “Are you alright, Claudine?” Madelyne had whisked Alice off. Haven had been going to do that originally, but since Madelyne had stepped in, Haven would leave it to her. She didn’t need to be the hero every time, and Madelyne...Madelyne had much in common with Alice. She might be better for Alice. And Alice might be good for her. But Haven’s next concern after Alice and Madelyne was Claudine. Claudine was the victimizer, yes. She had done awful things to Alice, to the Alices before her, to the other children. She had also been a victim too, and no one else here had pity for her now that they knew what she’d been besides that. No one else but Haven. “No moral outrage, Radha?” Claudine smirked slightly. She’d retreated to her lab, and it was hard to tell if she’d been expecting Haven to follow or not. “Of course,” said Haven calmly, “It horrifies and revolts me that those girls were bred only to be used as their hosts, their entire personalities, their souls, displaced for yours. Horrifies and disgusts me. Just as it horrifies and disgusts me, on just as deep a level, that the same was going to happen you if you did not escape in such a way.” “So because I was in danger of something terrible happening, you can excuse what I did?” Claudine sounded curious, mocking somehow, tapping one red-pink nail against a porcelain cheek. “Not excuses,” said Haven still calmly, “But I understand. And I still care if you were hurt just now.” “It’s more than that, isn’t it though?” said Claudine, still sounding amused, “You want to see if I’m wracked with guilt or not, if I hate myself. You want to see if I’m remorseful or tortured like you, like you want me to be maybe. Like you hope I am because it proves I must have some good in me, and you can comfort me and feel good about that. And if I’m not remorseful at all, you want to see why that is, if it’s because of Sinister or if it’s just me. And then if it’s just me...you want to figure me out too. Like you do with dear Sebastian.” Haven blinked, her sole sign of surprise, “That’s quite a lot of conjecture, Claudine. But...you are not incorrect, no. We do like to divide things neatly into victims who could do nothing, who had no power, and the victimizers who are wholly monsters...but that’s not wholly true, is it? Sometimes, the victims can do something. And sometimes, the only thing they can do is a monstrous thing. They’re caught in a Catch 22---either they don’t do the one thing they can, and thus will feel they are to blame for what happened. Or they do it, and they must live with the guilt. I can’t tell you if you were right or wrong Claudine, because---” “---sometimes there is no right or wrong, because the entire situation was wrong, and that’s not your fault.” Claudine finished, “I’ve heard how you talk with the kiddies, Haven. Like those little ones we pulled out of the fight pit. Or the one who pushed his friend forward at the flesh market so he’d get taken instead. You’re just oh so understanding, aren’t you? Seeing things from all sides.” “I would hope so. I certainly try to be. But, I admit, I’m not seeing something right now...why do you say that with what sounds, to me, as a mocking tone? Am I misinterpreting you, Claudine?” “A bit. I’m not mocking you, really I’m not---but I am teasing a little. It’s just so funny, you know?” Claudine’s index finger was next to her smiling mouth, “How you’re always thinking, always watching, and how I’m the only one who notices. What do you think the others would think, if they knew?” “I’m afraid I’m still not understanding you, Claudine. Would you mind helping me by putting it a bit plainer?” “Ever so polite. Come on now, Haven---as well as you know people, you must know they don’t like being put under a microscope. Everyone likes the IDEA of someone who “gets” them, who knows just what they’re feeling and what they need without them ever needing to open up all their vulnerable little insides like clams willfully tearing themselves out of their shells...but when it actually comes along, they don’t like it. Especially if it doesn’t feel earned, or specific to them. Because when they say they want that, they’re thinking of a partner, a lover, one single person who knows them that well because they’ve been with them that long, and love them, just them, that much. But telepaths like me, we get all that without having to see them as special at all. We don’t have to love them or spend time with them to KNOW them. We don’t have to open ourselves up in exchange. That’s why people don’t like us. And that’s---” She stepped close to Haven and bobbed her fingertip just above the other woman’s nose, “---why they wouldn’t like you. Oh yeah, you’re great when you’re sensitive and empathetic and all that, when you just know when someone needs a cup of tea or a shoulder to cry on...but it’s only to a point. Underneath all that soft silk and sweet words, you’re a lot like me---a scientist. We see the data. We gather it. We examine it. We analyze, we classify, we theorize. People call Xavier creepy these days but I think he’s just finally being honest.” She picked up Haven’s right hand, and raised it up, Haven allowing her. “So,” Claudine met her eyes, still smiling, “When are you going to be honest too?” Haven smiled back, with kind sincerity as always, “May I be honest now, Claudine?” “Of course.” Haven put her other hand on top of Claudine’s, sandwiching the unnaturally pale paw between her two soft brown ones, “Everything you say is accurate. But it’s also a deflection. You could have told me that you just did not wish to talk about Alice, you know. I would not have pried or pushed you. You know I never do.” Claudine laughed, and it was the laugh of someone who had just been proven completely correct. *** LIKE AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE “We’re going to need you to go undercover for this mission,” Xavier explained to the team, “It’s been decided that Sebastian and Haven will do best in this environment. Naturally, you will be outfitted with image inducers, and provided with all the false documentation required.” He slid a folder across the table to them, explaining, “You will be posing as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. King.” “King. I’m sure you thought that was very clever, Charles,” said Sebastian, picking the folder up and perusing it, “And I see our first names are...Abraham and Lakshmi. Is that a reference to something?” “Lakshmi is the goddess of which Radha is an aspect,” Xavier explained, “And Abraham...well, that just sounds slightly like Hiram, your middle name, or so I thought. I thought it might help the pair of you remember your identities, without being obvious to others.” “Well, thank you Charles. It’s good to know you put a man on the Quiet Council of whom your opinion is so low you think I can’t remember two names for a single night,” said Shaw, getting up and taking the folder with him, without excusing himself. The rest of the team follow suite, save Haven, who of course said the politest of goodbyes and thanked him for arranging the false identities. clever, and our first names “We’re leaving in the next five hours, so there’s hardly any time to prepare,” Sebastian said, plainly speaking to Haven even though he was looking ahead, not at her, “Ms. Dastoor, come with me so that we may discuss the details of our ruse.” Pyro watched the pair like a hawk as they went in a different direction from the rest of the crew. “Jealous, Pyro?” Claudine quipped, “I confess, I didn’t think Sebastian was your type...then again, he does have a certain resemblance to Dom I suppose...” Pyro was in no mood to play, however. “If he touches her I’m a-toast him from the inside out, see if his stinking GUTS are fireproof!” he proclaimed, a small jet of flame emanating from his wrist-shooter for emphasis. “Husband and wife...what’s Xavier thinking?! And she’ll be all alone with him and have to keep up the act if he does anything!” “Don’t sweat it,” Shinobi assured, “ I know my dad. She’s like ten years too old for him to be interested.” Pyro looked confused, “Isn’t she YOUNGER than him?” “Yeah,” said Shinobi. A look of disgust came over Pyro’s face. “Don’t look shocked,” Madelyne told him, “Don’t forget, he dated someone under ten once.” And that garnered...about the expressions you’d expect. Even from Claudine. “Me, you idiots! I was making a joke!” Madelyne clarified, seeing their shock and horror on their faces, “I’m technically like twelve years old max! God, you people...”  

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Haven’s conversation in the former’s ship office was not far off. “With all that covered...” Sebastian finished as the last of their act was hashed out, “I have to bring us to what will likely be the most difficult part of this for you. Ms. Dastoor, I am not sure what the norms are for married couples in public in your country, but at some point in the evening...I will most likely put my arm around your shoulders.” “I understand,” said Haven, with the solemn gravity required for such a thing. “There will hopefully be no need for anything else, but if dancing occurs, there is a chance that a hand on your waist will be required as well. Can you allow and “act natural” this without displaying any discomfort?” "This will be tolerable if need be, Mr. Shaw, though not preferable. Will your hand be on mine, outside of potential dancing?” Sebastian cracked a smile, amused, “Husbands and wives don’t hold hands, Ms. Dastoor. I’m shocked you’ve never noticed that. It’s far too intimate for a married couple.” “I’m afraid you lost me, Mr. Shaw. Too intimate for a married couple? Is this a Western peculiarity?” “Men don’t slap their wives bottoms, Ms. Dastoor, “Sebastian explained, “They slap the bottoms of waitresses and flight attendants when their wives aren’t there. Does that help illustrate it better? “Yes, I think I see, Mr. Shaw.” “We probably haven’t had sex in the last 25, 35 years. At least not with each other.” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” “ Our marriage bed is as dry as the Sah—” “Thank you, Mr Shaw.”           It was the first time that Sebastian had ever heard Haven cut him, or anyone, off. He would have taken offense from someone else, but he actually liked this, and smiled. He found it amusing he’d managed to get under her skin enough to prompt such a, for her, dramatic reaction. He’d have to make a note of this. *** PARTIES, PLEAS, AND PROMISES These Krakoa portals were truly a godsend. For many mutants, that was because the X-Men and other agents of Krakoa could now come to them easily and bring them to a safe place. For others it was because it enabled them to keep contact with their family and friends while also not having to leave what they felt was at last a place they could belong. But for Pyro and Shinobi...it meant bar-hopping from Manhattan to Moscow to Mexico! to Bulgaria to Bangkok to Taiwan to Timbuktu! In Manhattan, a cute guy with a nose piercing bought them beers and guided them through the city with his friends, boyfriends, and cousins til 5 AM when the guy’s cousin decided she really wanted spahgetti, so they all went to her house in the Harlem projects where she made them some and then they watched 90s hip hop music videos together. They stayed til 10 AM, then hopped a portal to Mexico, and went to a resort strip, where they got piss drunk again by doing shots with a guy covered in tattoos who might have also been involved with the cartels---Shinobi said he knew him from his dad’s black market business---and then Pyro got in a fight with the bouncer while Shinobi snorted molly in the bathroom stall. Got drunk again in Shanghai, fell off the bouncy dance floor, made friends with some Ukrainian tourists and went back to their hotel, walked in on an orgy, and when in Rome... Next thing they knew, they were in downtown Tokyko, drunk again, running on foot from the Japanese police, each of them holding a marijuana plant in a pot, laughing uncontrollably. Shinobi grabbed Pyro’s hand and they phased through a wall, only to fall down through thin air into an underground parking garage. Their potted pot plants shattered as they hit the concrete, and this just made them laugh more despite their own bruised tailbones as they lay there between a couple of cars. Eventually, when the giggles ran out, Shinobi slurred, “Man, I’m so glad...so glad our last night is awesome.” “Wha?” Pyro said, not sure he’d gotten that right. He was pretty boozy right now, after all, “What’d you mean, last night?

"Well, I, uh,” Shin said, obviously uncomfortable, “I decided...if I can’t hang out w’you anymore...gonna make the last time a good time.”

”Wh--” Pyro started, then his expression soured, “It’s yer dad, isn’t it?”

No answer.

”I knew it! He told you...tol’ you you couldn’t...be mates with me no more...that it?”

Shinobi mumbled.

”Listen Shin...forget him! You a grow...grown man! Y’don’t have to do what that old douchebag says! He’s just a...just a cunt, a right cunt, y’know? Fucking cunt...” Pyro wobbled back and forth, so vehement was he in his support.

”Well, we’re workin together now...” Shinobi said weakly.

”Yer workin WITH him though not for him! And why’re you even doing that? C’mon, he he wasn’t any good to you why should you do anything for him?”

Shinobi looked shocked, then angry, demanding, “How d’you know that?!” "Pfft, I’m not as thick as your old man thinks, you know! I can pick up a hint or two! Especially when it’s you telling me.” Shinobi looked shocked again, and Pyro, still swaying in place, clapped him on the back and explained, “Ah, I don’t expect you to remember but you’ve said a few things when you were as full as the back of a plumber's ute.Don’t worry, weren’t nothing too personal, no specifics, so don’t look so scared alright?” Pyro knew how it was to want to keep some things private, things that hurt, and even drunk he was trying to be sensitive to that, sensitive as someone like him could be. He continued, “And anyway, would have still guessed. He’s such a right bastard to everyone, can’t imagine him being some warm old papa bear behind closed doors. “He’s---” Shinobi started, about to tell Pyro about just how horrible his father was, and then remembered how ‘sympathetic’ Warren had been, and instead went back on the defensive, “Well it’s none of your business!” Pyro shrugged, not deterred, “Sure it’s not but I’m a journalist, so what do I care? It’s been my job to go where I’m not wanted. And you can do what you want, Shinobi me mate, but you can’t expect ol’ St. John to just keep his trap shut on anything, you know that. Calls it likes I see it, me. Thought you liked that.” There was a sobering silence between the pair for a moment, sitting on their butts in the silent garage while the noise of the Tokyo nightlife sang beyond the concrete walls of what they were missing. “Don’t...don’t tell him I said anything,” Shinobi said at last. Pyro promised him he would not. For he heard the plea in his new pal’s voice. *** SEA AND SKY (Context: Happens just after THIS) “Haven?” Madelyne arrived to the rescue, praying she wasn’t too late. She’d thought she was when she saw the wreckage, but she also saw Haven within it. And she wasn’t lying there like a body, she was sitting up, kneeling over...something. “Haven, thank god! Are you injured? Stay right there, I’ll come over and help---oh dear lord.” As Madelyne had begun to move forward, she’d seen what Haven was kneeling over, its half-charred head in her lap. “Is he---” “Yes,” said Haven, calmly, sadly, distantly. Madelyne didn’t ask how; it was obvious, the explosion killed him. She’d thought his powers would protect him from that kind of thing; it must have been specialized to combat that. Freaking Pierce. She didn’t bother to question how Haven was alive, but if she had, she’d assume maybe it was something also designed only to kill humans and Haven had been in a safe place during the explosion and then found Sebastian’s remains after. Something like that. “Alright, come on,” she said gently but firmly, taking Haven by the arm, trying to pull her up, “There’s nothing you can do for him now. He’ll be reborn on Krakoa by the time we go back to pick him up anyway. Wait, what are you doing? Haven, put that down, that’s disgusting!” Haven was carrying the...torso. She was tenderly cradling the great hunk of lifeless meat, needlessly supporting the neck and head as one would for an infant. The sight out Madelyne in mind of a bizarre Pieta scene. Madonna of the Charnel House.             “Haven, he’s dead!” “I know, Madelyne, I know. But isn’t it...wrong to just leave a body here? I know he will have a new one on Krakoa, but it still feels obscene to leave the old one unburied, unconsecrated, uncared for.” “Haven...” Madelyne started, not sure what to say. And she thought of something she never had before. What had happened to her body? Her first one? The original? The one that died at the end of Inferno? She’d come back first as a being of pure psychic energy disguised in a human form, a very solid ghost, essentially. That was all she was for a long time, walking and talking and fucking, all while TECHNICALLY still being dead. It was only recently that she had really become flesh and blood again, Jean Grey’s DNA spliced by Arkea into the body of a woman named Ana Cortes, altering the physical appearance of the young Columbian into that of the redhead and allowing Madelyne Pryor’s consciousness to take up residence in it...meaning Madelyne was still, as ever, occupying a body that wasn’t really her own. And her first hadn’t been her own either, just a copy of Jean’s, but she wondered now, what had been done with it? Knowing the X-men, they gave her a perfectly proper funeral. Maybe they even cried. But she wished, perverse as it seemed, that they had thrown her out with the garbage, had the HONESTY to treat her in death as they ultimately had in life, than PRETEND that they really saw her as a loss. She knew they didn’t. Even the ones who knew her FIRST, Rogue and Psylocke and Longshot, who had met her BEFORE they met Jean, even they had wanted that witch instead of her at the end.... “Yeah, okay, just...just put it somewhere it won’t...rot,” she said uneasily, “And we’ll call Sebastian when he...when he wakes up. See what he wants to do with it.” It should be, Madelyne felt, his choice, and Haven agreed. When he did get the call, his reply was firstly being rather disgusted they had kept it, and then, without any emotion, said they should just thrown the “damn thing” overboard. “Funeral at sea then,” said Madelyne as she turned off the phone, “You want to do the honors, Haven? Since it was your idea.” Not like anyone else wanted to be a part of it. Well, except Shinobi, who had suggested launching it like a cannonball and then having Pyro set it aflame in the sky.  They thought they were funny. “Would you mind helping me terribly, Madelyne?” Have asked, “I’d rather lower it down gently, and if your telekinesis could that, I would appreciate it...but I also understand if you don’t wish to touch something so gruesome, even psychically.” “I’m not squeamish,” Madelyne smirked. As she performed the task, she noticed Haven was silent. “You’re not gonna...say a few words, or anything?” “Mr. Shaw has told he isn’t religious, so I don’t think he would want it. And he isn’t...well, he isn’t dead. So what does one say, really?” “Hell if I know,” said Madelyne, “It’s funny---I’ve been dead a lot, you’d think I would be an expert on it.” As she began levitating the chunk of meat that once house Sebastian Shaw’s mind and soul, if he had the latter, she continued, “I never even thought about what should be done with my body...which isn’t really even mine now actually, don’t ask...I guess cremation is most appropriate. Fire, you know. It’s kind of my thing, whether I like it or not.” “I’ve always wanted a sky burial, myself,” said Haven. “I’ve never heard of that,” Madelyne sounded very interested. The word ‘sky’ had piqued her interest as a former pilot. “It’s a practice among my mother’s people, the Zoroastrians, as well as many other people, such as Tibetans. The body is placed on a mountaintop to be decomposed naturally by the elements and the animals. In Ancient Zoroastrianism specifically, it was placed on the Dakhma, the Tower of Silence, to be desiccated by the sun and consumed by birds of prey. I realize this sounds ghastly to a Western point of view, but--” “No, no, I get it. You’re just...going back to nature, becoming a part of everything else again, right? That sounds like your kind of thing.” Haven smiled at her, “It is.” Below, the body gently broke the surface of the waves, and Madelyne released her hold, allowing it to sink. “I guess that’s sort of what we’re doing here. Just with fishes instead of birds. Me though...that’s not for me. I don’t want to be a part of everything. Not when I’ve fought so hard...to just be ME.” *** AWKWARD “Hey! You got a problem with me, fuck knuckle?!” Calmly, Sebastian turned his head in the direction of the insult just hollered at him from the the far end of the deck, “Why, several, Mr. Allerdyce. Though most of them stem from the back you quite clearly have a problem with ME.” The Australian was drunk, but Sebastian knew from experience that the scrawny little bastard didn’t need THAT to be rude and belligerent, in particuliar rude and belligerent to Sebastian. Sebastian could ALMOST appreciate the balls on him, if only he could back them up. But without his fire to intimidate---and it could not intimate Sebastian---he really was just like one of those irritating little rat dogs peeking from ladies’ purses to bark challenges at true canines. “You’re damn right I do!” Pyro returned, “For starters, you’re---” And then continued with a really rather impressive listing of all his opinions on just what made Sebastian Hiram Shaw, Black King of the Hellfire Club---er, Trading Company---just such unbearable company. Sebastian listened in a detached, blaise manner, quite unruffled by the display of uncouth unruliness, and ready to simply throw the fool overboard should he come close enough to grab. “And on top o’ all that, yer a homophobe to boot!” What. Sebastian blinked. Nothing else had surprised him in the entire rambling rant, but this? This he had not seen coming. “Come again, young man?” “You heard me! Don’t think I don’t know why you’re always tryin’ t’get between me and your son! You don’t want him catchin’ the gay any worse than he’s got, eh?” Sebastian stared at him for another moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he turned away, and put his fist up to his lips, as though stifling a cough, “Excuse me.” Did that fucker just laugh?! Pyro wondered. “Excuse my boot up yer arse, you old dicknob! Listen, it’s 2020, and you can’t get away with---” He is laughing! He was indeed. Pyro had not been prepared for this. “Hey...hey what’s so damn funny, huh?!” “Nothing, nothing,” Sebastian waved a hand, but it was clear from his voice he was still trying VERY hard not to laugh again, “Please, do go on about my bigotry. After all, I’m very conservative when it comes to sexual practices, as I’m sure you know.” Something begin to click in Pyro’s intoxicated mind. Something that suggested...he might have made a mistake here. And an admittedly pretty hilarious one. “Oh god yer in the fucking Hellfire Club, “ he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “Of course you don’t care about that...” “Well, it was funny though,” Sebastian said, and the bastard was actually SMILING, “Thank you, Mr. Allerdyce, I haven’t been that tickled all week. But, no, I know about my son’s egalitarian predilections with regards to sex and gender----he inherited them from me, after all.” Oh. Oh god. Of all the things Pyro HAD NEVER WANTED TO KNOW OR IMAGINE. A moment ago, Sebastian had been planning to throw Pyro overboard. But now? Now Pyro was considering just doing it to HIMSELF. *** STORIES       “And then I got to Cambodia and let me tell you---food is great. People say don’t ask what’s in it but me, I got to ask---it’s my job, see---and yeah, they eat things ‘Mericans never would, or most Aussies, but I say, why’re we judging? We eat pigs and those’re way more intelligent than spiders or half-hatched duck eggs, seems we’re the savages for that, y’know? Not that I’m givin’ up pork any time soon but you know what I’m saying?” Pyro and Madelyne were sitting on the ship’s edge, watching the sun go down over the water, sharing a few beers, talking about what they’d done before all this. “You don’t look like you ever ate pork in your life, string bean,” replied Madelyne, “ But yeah. You say Cambodia? What part?” “ Senmonorom, capital of Mondulkiri Province.” “No kidding! I dropped cargo off there once!” Madelyne exclaimed, “When I was a pilot! Spent the whole rest of the day there since I had the time. Couldn’t understand a word but I loved the---oh no, hahaha, I loved the food!” “Ha! I’m sure it was just noodles you got, love.” “Mmm...pretty crunchy noodles, then...” She paused, and looked pensieve, more serious, “It’s crazy. I can really remember the texture. Not the taste though. He must not have known what it tasted like.” “He?” Pyro asked. Madelyne was suddenly sober in more ways than one, as she explained, looking away, “I never went to Cambodia. I never flew that plane. That cargo never existed, and neither did whatever I ate.” “Well, y’don’t need to lie to me get me to like you, Madelyne.” “No, you don’t understand---they’re not lies. I mean, they are, but---they’re not to me, I---but they are---I hate them, but I forget that they’re not---” She was clutching her hair now, and  looked distressed. “Whoa, whoa, hey there mate, what’s the matter?” Pyro placed a hand on her back, trying his best to calm her down, something he wasn’t great at even for himself, “Listen, Maddie...I been through some crazy shit. And I heard crazier on Krakoa from people. We mutants...or, people who are, I dunno, mutant-adjacent like you...we live weird lives. You don’t GOTTA tell me but I’ll believe you.” Madelyne took a  deep inhale, “It’s not that. I know you’ll believe me. It’s just...I never really talked to anyone about it, you know?” Pyro was uncomfortable now. He braced himself. He didn’t like going deep, he wanted everything to just be fun and casual. But he wasn’t going to run away or brush it off either. He owed his friends better than that; when he’d been on his last legs with the Legacy Virus, his friend Avalanche had been everything. He knew their value. Madelyne, too, needed to amp herself up for this. “So you know I’m a clone, right? Of Jean Grey?” “It’s come up, yeah.” “I was grown to full adulthood in a...in a vat, basically. But Sinister---the man who did it---didn’t want me to KNOW what I was. Would spoil the plans he had for me and...for me and Scott. So he gave me some false memories. Mostly I had “amnesia” but I could remember being a pilot. To explain the memories of flight and fire that I got from Jean----what memories don’t come from him, are from her. Well, the Phoenix actually...it’s complicated.” “Yeah, I’m getting that. That’s rough, buddy,” oh god he sounded like an idiot, “ But in my book, you still went to Cambodia.” He was answered with an eyebrow quirk from his friend, and so he elaborated, “Look, I’m a journalist, and I’m a writer, and I...I write stories. Even when it was something true, I’m still making a story about it. And when I make it up entirely, it’s as real a story as when I wrote the one about the real event. Ah fuck, I can’t talk, can write a damn novel but I fuck up all the words when I try to SAY it...look, Maddie, what I’m saying is,” He put a hand on her shoulder, “When I met you, it wasn’t who you are now, or who you were when you came out of that vat. It was some human bird running with the X-Men in Dallas. Yeah, I noticed you looked a hell of a lot like Jean and I thought that was who you were the whole time. Then I saw the broadcast they made, where you talked to your husband---shit, wait, he married you and Jean, what the fuck---telling him to find your baby---oh fuck I’m just realizing why you’re so mad at him, holy hell--before you gave up your life to save the world. That’s who I remember. And your memories, real or fake, well they’re a part of you, they’re your stories. Stories...they make us who we are. And even if they were made up, who you are, what you did, isn’t. You’re a story, yeah. So are we all. Fuck I’m really mangling this but you know what I--- oh.” Madelyne was hugging him. Holy shit. Well, he must have done something right, then. Damned if he knew what, though, he thought he’d fucked it up royally with that Trump-level rambling. And when she released him, she looked up at his shocked face, and said, “St. John?” “Y-yeah?” “Eat some damn pork. You really ARE a string bean.” *** OUT OF THE FRYING PAN Sebastian Shaw was indeed generally immune to explosions. And also to fire. He simply absorbed the thermal energy, rendering it harmless to him, if annoying. Afact that a certain Australian had exploited mercilessly. But Pyro was not here now, and so he could not stop the blaze that Shinobi was trapped in, that Sebastian had escaped but Shinobi had not yet. He’s not out yet, Sebastian thought nervously as he watched the blaze, waiting, Must be unconscious, must have hit his head, the fool, idiot boy, told him to stay in super dense form, stupid stupid stupid child He’d burn to death, if smoke inhalation didn’t get him first. He would die, and be reborn on Krakoa. It would be fine. And the suffering, the death, would serve him right, for being so foolish as not to listen to his father, to do the sensible thing and stay dense, why had he let himself get caught there? If you were weak enough to die, you deserved it, deserved it for KEEPS. Sebastian could say that, and admit it applied to him too. He would not DENY the second chance given to him by Krakoa, but nor would he pretend that Emma didn’t earn his death by virtue of being ABLE to do it. If you could do it, if you did do it, then it was within your rights to do it, was how Shaw saw things. Right of power was the only right that mattered, and you did no favors by RESCUING someone, you only prolonged their weakness. Any moment now, he thought, Any moment...if he’s going to make it out, it will have to be soon. There was a horrible cracking as a wood beam crashed down into the flames. The building was coming down. And Sebastian Shaw’s feet were suddenly moving. But was it by his deliberate decision? Or his own accord? He didn’t know. He sprinted into the structure, careful not to let his body bash through what supports remained---it might not hurt him but it would crush Shinobi if the boy was still alive---heedless of the fire, though the smoke stung his eyes, and he knew he was not immune to the effects of breathing it. If he was going to do this foolish, stupid, NEEDLESS thing, he had best do it fast. He scanned the room through the gray haze, and caught a glimpse of purple obscured by some rubble. He tossed it aside, digging through it like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit, until he found his boy, unmoving but still breathing, and hauled him from the wreckage. His body hair sizzling against his heat-proof skin, the sweat turning to steam the moment it left his brow, he gathered the limp form of his son into his arms, and ran from the flames, this time not caring about the beams he knocked aside, ran right through as though they were as intangible as Shinobi could be. When they were out, and a safe distance away from the blaze, Sebastian laid his son down, and waited for him to wake up. As soon as Shinobi did, as soon as his eyes opened, and he began to speak, and to realize what had happened, to start to express his shock at the fact his father had just saved his life at risk to his own... Sebastian’s fist landed against the boy’s ashy face. And again. And again. Until Shinobi was dead. He left the battered corpse where it was, and begin making his way to find the other Marauders, and tell them they needed to head back to Krakoa when most convinient, that Shinobi had died and would be waiting there. And when they arrived and picked him up, Sebastian knew he would have the good sense to say nothing to anyone. And he’d have a talk with him about the importance of handling oneself in such future situations. He really did try with the boy, dammit, but there was just no teacher like experience, he supposed. And painful experience worked best. *** NIGHTMARE DRESSED AS A DAYDREAM

"Look it’s the Marauder!” everyone cried out in awe and admiration as Pyro entered the party. His grim, stoic expression, his majestic stride, were in contrast to the lascivious frivolity around him of the swimsuit-clad crowd, but this difference only made the girls come swarming to him faster. He accepted their fawning adulation, but only cooly, as it was just his due. He was, after all, the handsomest, most power, Supreme Mutant, and this was all normal and natural. It was only when he began passionately lip-locking with Jean Grey on the hood with Jean Grey that-- Wait, what? This was wrong. This was so wrong. It had to be a dream, but even then it was WRONG. He’d never had a dream of this kind about a woman in his life, let alone Jean Grey. And if he was going to, why would it be JEAN? That felt extra wrong, given that he was pals with Madelyne now, was this some kind of weird-- “GET OFF ME!” cried a man’s voice, and Pyro broke away from the embrace, looking up. Some several dozen feet away, Fabian Cortez struggling with an amorous Avalanche, who seemed to have been engaged with the same activity with the redheaded ‘Supreme Mutant’ as Pyro just had with Marvel Girl...and Dom was wearing the same outfit Jean was. “Oy, what in the--” Pyro started to demand, when suddenly a huge head ---Mr. Sinister’s head, specifically-- erupted from the ground. It was bedecked by yet more scantily clad girls, with a throne on top it in which sat Claudine, being accosted by them, and she looked as confused as Pyro and Fabian were, confused and horrified. Then the rain began, endless rain, and Pyro was all alone, all alone in the mud as the rain came down, rain and pain, so much pain, coming from parts of his body he’d never had in his life, his womb, his-- “All right, that’s quite enough of that!” the voice of Emma Frost echoed throughout all of existence, and the lights came back on in the world again as Pyro woke up. “Freakin’ kids,” he muttered, as he realized what had happened. There was a baby telepath in the latest batch of rescues, and the little bugger had gotten their dreams all mish-mashed together. Happened more than once before. Grunting, he turned over, and went back to sleep...though a little uneasy this time. He wondered, who had that last part come from?

[eddieeatsass]

bloody mary - yram ydoolb

Summary: Richie thinks knives can be fun, and Eddie is willing to play along, that is until things get a little more intense than he'd been expecting. Pairing: Reddie  Rating: E Warnings: Smut, explicit language, graphic violence

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(A few important notes: PLEASE heed the warnings. If you are triggered by topics relating to self harm or violence, or very mild dub-con, this may not be the fic for you.

Secondly, do not take this fic as an example of healthy BDSM. The key rules of BDSM are to keep it Safe, Sane, and Consensual. This fic does not adhere to those rules because this takes place in a dark verse.

The practices conducted here are not to be reproduced in real life.If you’re interested in bondage, knife play, blood play, or any other type of edge play, PLEASE do your own research. Do not engage in these kinks (or any) until both you and your partner are thoroughly versed on how to stay safe, and the necessary aftercare involved.)

“Dinner is on me tonight!” Richie burst through the door, projecting into his apartment to a very startled Eddie.

A small ‘fuck!’ could be heard from the kitchen, where Richie travelled after kicking off his boots, carrying two heavy bags of Chinese food.

He found Eddie huddled over their sink, abandoned vegetables to the right of him alongside a bloody knife.

“You made me cut myself, you dickhead!” Eddie shouted over his shoulder, brandishing his bleeding hand before putting it back under the cold water. He tried to get the blood to clear long enough to see how deep the cut was, but it was pooling up at a rate too quick for the water to wash away. With another mumbled curse he opened a drawer, pulling out a roll of gauze (of which they kept many in every room of the house) and began wrapping it around his hand.

“Don’t blame me for your shoddy knifesmanship.” Richie shrugged, placing his bags on the counter and beginning to unpack them.

“I thought tonight was my night for dinner. Did you really make me go through all of this for nothing?” Eddie asked exasperatedly.

“It was, but on the subway home I was sitting next to a man who was carrying the most delicious smelling food, which he so generously agreed to give me after some convincing.” Richie reached behind himself, pulling a gun out from his pants and letting it clatter to the counter as evidence.

“Richieee.” Eddie groaned, stomping towards the counter and snatching the gun up. “I told you not to take my gun anymore. You’ve got shitty aim.”

“I do not; I mean to miss when I’m shooting at you.”

“Mhm.” Eddie agrees sarcastically, unconvinced. He looks down at his injured hand, the gauze having already turned red in the short time since he applied it.

“I’m gonna have to re-wrap this before we eat.” Eddie complained.

“Let me do it.” Richie offered, to which Eddie eyed him suspiciously.

“…Why?” Eddie asked carefully, narrowing his eyes.

“Can’t a guy just want to help his boyfriend?” Richie batted his lashes innocently.

“A guy, yeah. You? No.”

“But you squirm so deliciously when I use the disinfectant.” Richie admitted, going from innocent to sultry in a moment flat.

Eddie glared at him before relenting, turning around without another word and starting down the hallway.

“Well? Come on then.” He shouted over his shoulder, hearing the excited footsteps pattering behind him.

After Richie had had his fun, and Eddie was re-bandaged, the two made their way back out to the kitchen and grabbed their food, flopping in front of the TV before laying things out on the coffee table.

“Gross, there’s shrimp in this.” Eddie complained, as he opened one of the mystery containers.

“I’m sorry Eds, I’ll be sure to ask the guy what he ordered next time before I rob him.” Richie drawled sarcastically.

Eddie chucked a piece of shrimp at him before continuing to open the rest of the containers.

They both took turns dumping contents on to their plates, choosing what appealed most to them and occasionally forcing each other to try the things the other didn’t want to try. By the end of it, Richie had loaded Eddie’s plate with shrimp, and Eddie had shoved enough tofu on to Richie’s to blanket the rest of his meal.

They ate in silence while they watched the news, chuckling at the criminals who’d been caught and discussing how they’d have pulled off the crime without ending up on national television. At one point, however, someone they recognized popped up on the screen, causing Eddie to choke on a noodle.

Richie leaned forward in his seat as Eddie coughed beside him.

“Well fuck, Denbrough…” Richie murmured, staring at the mugshot of their best friend.

“When did this happen?” Eddie asked through a hoarse throat once he’d recovered.

“If you’d shut up, I could find out.” Richie grabbed the remote control, turning up the volume until it drowned out all else.

“Earlier today police arrested long term suspect related to a series of murders, Bill Denbrough. Denbrough can be traced back to a murder as early as 2013 but had managed to stay off police suspects lists until earlier this year when he was linked to the murder of Tom Rogan. Detectives were able to connect him to six other un-solved murders after that. His suspected motivation for the crimes is his presumably unrequited love for one Beverly Marsh, as the victims having all been connected to her in one way or another. The most recent victim was Ms. Marsh’s ex-husband who had several charges himself: domestic violence, assault and battery, aggravated assault, and probation violation. Bill Denbrough has been put into custody and is awaiting a trial date.”

“Tomorrow we’ll start brainstorm how to break him out. I’ll text the rest of the losers and let them know.” Richie stated, muting the TV and setting the remote down.

“Fucking Bill, always getting us into this shit; he makes a mess and we’ve gotta clean it up.”

“Well it’s better than letting him rot in prison with Henry Bowers as a guard, right?”

Eddie winced at the mention of their lifelong enemy; a corrupt cop who stayed above the law because he worked for it. He could get away with anything, and had on several occasions.

“Fine, but I’m not holding back from laying into him once we’ve got him back.” Eddie grumbled.

“As if you ever hold back.” Richie snorted, sending off a quick text to their group chat and re-pocketing his phone. He looked over to Eddie who was just finishing up his meal, only to notice a trickle of blood dancing down the skin of his forearm.

Richie reached forward, collecting the blood on his index finger and smearing it. Eddie glanced down at Richie’s hand, a frustrated curse following the sight of his (once again) sullied bandage.

“God damn it, Richie get the suture kit.” Eddie ground out through clenched teeth, anger bubbling up at the knowledge that he’d have to sew himself up with his non-dominant hand. That would certainly make for an interesting scar.

“Get it yourself, I’m not your maid.” Richie said snarkily as he stood from the couch and began carrying his plate to the kitchen.

“Ugh fine, then can we at least get drunk first?” Eddie called out, eyeing the messy coffee table and choosing to leave cleaning up until later.

Richie reappeared at the end of the couch, looking down at Eddie with a wicked grin and his hands behind his back.

“I’m really hoping you’ve got a bottle of whiskey behind your back.” Eddie wished hopefully, knowing too well that probably wasn’t the case.

“I have a better idea.” Richie announced confidently, pulling his hands out from behind his back and brandishing a glistening knife. “More cutting.”

“And how does that solve my problem?” Eddie deadpanned.

“It doesn’t, but it solves mine.” Richie pointed to the tent in his jeans that Eddie hadn’t noticed until now. He should have expected this; Richie always got excited when Eddie bled.

Eddie sighed, pushing himself up from the couch and walking up to Richie until they were merely a breath away.

“If we’re doing this, you better make it worth my while.” Eddie punctuated his threat by running his index finger across the blade, pulling it back to inspect the bead of blood. Content with the sharpness of the knife, Eddie brought his finger up to Richie’s lips, smearing the blood across them like a lipstick.

Eddie sauntered towards their bedroom, leaving Richie to trail after him excitedly.

It took a few minutes for Richie to set Eddie up how he wanted him, but in the end, it left Eddie handcuffed to a chain hanging from their ceiling, kneeling above their bed with his knees barely reaching the mattress.

Eddie’s arms tensed with the strain of practically hanging by his wrists, and they looked so delicious Richie couldn’t help but get ahead of himself, leaving a little slice along Eddie’s bicep before they had even begun.

Richie unclothed himself, taking a few steps around the bed and assessing Eddie like an animal stalking its prey. When he was behind Eddie and fully out of sight he hopped up on the mattress, the sudden movement causing Eddie to startle. Richie chuckled darkly, tracing the knife along the back of Eddie’s neck.

“Are you going to get on with it or am I just going to hang here until the circulation in my wrists gets cut off?” Eddie asked tiredly.

“If you start to lose circulation, I’ll cut you down.” Richie said.

“You can’t cut through chains, idiot.”

“That’s not what I meant. But don’t worry, you’d still look pretty without hands.” Richie whispered into Eddie’s ear, grinning as he shivered in response.

In one quick succession, Richie slipped the blade around to the front of Eddie’s neck and under the collar of his shirt, flicking it away and pulling down as it cut through the fabric with terrifying ease. Eddie’s tan skin was flushed pink, the colors intermingling under his flesh and shining out like a light. It was an unblemished canvas for Richie to paint on, his knife a brush and Eddie’s blood his paint.

Before he could create his masterpiece though, he needed to rid Eddie of the rest of his clothes. It only took Richie a few flicks of his wrist to expertly cut away all of Eddie’s garments, leaving them in a pile of scraps surrounding them. Richie rounded Eddie, kneeling in front of him and gazing down the length of his body appreciatingly.

Eddie’s cock was already straining, curving slightly to the left as if seeking out Richie’s attention. Richie used the flat edge of his knife to hold it up, smirking as a pearl of pre-cum bubbled to the surface and on to the polished metal.

Richie made eye contact with Eddie as he brought the knife up to his face and made a show of licking the cum off it.

“Richie-” Eddie whined, tugging on his chains impatiently. He’d never been one to wait for good things, always wanting them done fast so he could reap the benefits sooner. Richie acceded, bringing the knife to Eddie’s chest, just under his peck, and leaving a thin red line it its wake.

Eddie hissed, more out of pleasure than pain. The knife was sharp enough that it didn’t really hurt, just stung slightly in the aftermath. Eddie let his head hang, examining Richie’s work, and was disappointed to see only a few droplets of blood had come to the surface.

He couldn’t help but compare it to his hand, which had been unbandaged and left to bleed freely down his arm, exacerbated by the pressure from the handcuffs. He wanted more like that; more intensity, more depth, more blood.

“Why the long face? Not good enough for my little slut?” Richie asked condescendingly, tipping Eddie’s chin up with the knife so he was forced to look him in the eyes.

“Not enough…” Eddie echoed bashfully.

“What was that?” Richie goaded, pressing against Eddie’s chin a little harder, the edge of the knife threatening to break skin.

“I said it’s not enough.” Eddie ground out, fighting the blush on his cheeks.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you just say so?” Richie responded cheerfully, a flicker of madness fliting across his eyes before he skilfully swiped his arm out, grazing Eddie’s flesh with the knife and leaving a slash across his stomach.

The shock made Eddie’s jaw drop. When he peered down at his skin he saw rivulets streaming down his abs towards his groin, which twitched with excitement at the view.

After that Richie didn’t hold back. He marred up Eddie’s torso, front and back, with varying sizes and depths of cuts. Eddie’s entire body stung, vibrating with the pulse he could feel in every vein that had been sliced open. His skin was puffed up and irritated, a mixture of smeared and fresh blood coating warm beige skin.

Richie had just finished a clean cut along Eddie’s hip bone when the man in question shuttered above him. Richie looked up, a nasty, knowing smirk on his face.

“You getting close, you little whore? Just from this?” Richie mocked.

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head back and forth but not trusting his voice to cooperate.

Richie laughed, turning his attention to Eddie’s cock, which was coated in blood and pre-cum. It was a beautiful sight, but not quite worthy of attention yet.

“One last finishing touch before I take care of you. Think you can hold out?” Richie sneered.

Eddie glared through his lashes, wanting nothing more than to spit in Richie’s condescending face. But he knew that wouldn’t bode well for him when he was chained up like this. So instead, he gritted his teeth and nodded minutely.

Richie leaned forward, bringing his knife to the top of Eddie’s peck, which he’d kept untouched with this exact intention in mind. With more grace than one should ever have with a knife, he carved out five little lines, pulling back to admire his work as it wept red.

“Now you’ll never forget who you belong to.” Richie stated, wiping a finger over the fresh cuts to smear the blood out of the way. Left behind were the letters “R” and “T”, only hesitating long enough to let Richie read them aloud before they were overflowing once again.

Eddie’s cock responded to the possessiveness, twitching out another thread of pre-cum. As much as Eddie would fight it, argue against it, would rather die before admitting it, at the end of the day he took comfort in the fact that he was Richie’s.

Satisfied with his work, Richie shuffled off the bed and towards their walk-in closet.

They had refurbished the walk-in to act as a vault of sorts, holding all their most important possessions. It’s where they kept their money, their weapons, and some of their more intricate or high-end sex toys.

Richie disappeared for a moment before returning with a cocky grin and a pair of silver gloves on his hands. He slapped his palms together, a muffled metallic sound ringing through the room.

They’d only made use of those gloves on one other occasion. They were cut-resistant gloves made from stainless-steel mesh, designed so the wearer couldn’t injure themselves when using sharp blades.

Eddie’s brain tried to connect the dots, figure out what Richie’s plan was, but his head was swimming from arousal and blood loss.

“Richie, what are you…” Eddie trailed off when Richie recollected the knife from where he’d left it on the bed, this time grasping it by its blade. He seemed to be inspecting the handle, devious thoughts flitting across his eyes that Eddie couldn’t discern.

It all clicked once Richie leaned over their bedside table, grabbing their bottle of lube and uncapping it.

“Richie, no.” Eddie tried to sound stern, his heartbeat suddenly hammering in his chest. He tried to wiggle around, a frivolous attempt at getting free. He knew it wouldn’t work, he was the one who rigged up the chains after all, and he did a damn good job at making sure whoever was hooked up wouldn’t be able to get down.

Richie ignored his objections completely, moving closer to Eddie on the bed and staring him down.

“I swear to fucking god, I will slit your throat where you sleep if you go anywhere near my ass with that.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Richie purred lowly.

Once they were only a breath away, Richie poured some lube out over the handle of the knife, holding it in front of Eddie’s face so he was forced to watch.

Eddie’s eyes kept darting between the knife and Richie’s face, struggling to decide whether swallowing his pride and pleading was worth it. On the one hand, he wasn’t a little bitch. But on the other… he didn’t need one slip of the hand connecting his asshole to his urethra.

As Richie’s hand disappeared behind Eddie’s back, the decision was made for him.

“Richie no- don’t you dare- I’ll fucking-” He was promptly cut off as the blunt curve was pressed up against his hole. The lube made it cold and uninviting, and Eddie clenched unintentionally in response.

“The more you fight it the more it’s going to hurt.” Richie tutted.

Eddie eyed the distance between himself and Richie, trying to calculate if he could make the lunge for Richie’s throat without his restraints pulling him back. It was too late though; any sudden movement now could result in a deep slice where he didn’t want one.

“Fine.” Eddie growled. “Just get on with it then.”

Richie didn’t hesitate to follow Eddie’s words, pressing the handle up within him with little warning.

It wasn’t particularly large, probably about the size of some of their smaller dildos, but with zero prep it still stung.

“Agh fuck!” Eddie hissed, arching his back away from the sensation. The sudden jerk made his limbs burn, bringing movement to his body which had been straining in a stationary position for 20 minutes. It sent new waves of agony to the slices in his skin, and bile threatened to rise at the combination of so much pain so suddenly.

Eddie forced himself to close his eyes, focusing on his breathing. Steady inhale, hold… 2… 3… 4… exhale. The key to getting through these situations was keeping his cool. The second he began to panic, or focused too much on the pain, his senses became overwhelmed and tried to shut down.

As Eddie focused on calming down and re-centering himself, he could feel Richie’s breath against his neck. He was mumbling things into Eddie’s skin that he didn’t pay much attention to, but the steady sound of Richie’s voice helped to calm his nerves.

The stimulation in his ass was starting to feel good. The handle of the knife was long enough to reach his prostate whenever Richie hit the right angle, causing a slow build of pleasure that was beginning to overshadow the pain. Without meaning to, Eddie let a little moan slip.

"Is someone finally beginning to enjoy themselves?” Richie teased. “Look how much precum you're leaking now that your slut hole finally has something to clench around.”

Eddie looked down to see that Richie was right, his cock was dripping wet and red at its head, twitching in excitement every time Eddie felt a new sting of pain. His brain and his body were in a warn for dominance over his pain tolerance.

Richie repositioned himself so he was lower, his face level with Eddie’s chest. Through hooded lids, Richie looked up at Eddie, locking on to eye contact before leaning in and taking a nipple into his mouth.

Eddie moaned immediately; the sensation too good to hold it in. His nipples had always been one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, and Richie so often forgot to pay attention to them, too wrapped up in his own pleasure. But in that moment, Richie was making up for every single time he’d neglected them.

He pinched the pink nub between his teeth, pulling back until Eddie’s skin was stretched as far as it’d go. It was so intense it felt like Eddie was hooked up to nipple clamps, but he had the added bonus of Richie’s warm, soft tongue teasing his peak. Richie let go, watching as Eddie’s skin snapped back against itself, mottled and wet.

He moved on to Eddie’s other nipple as he increased the pace of the knife, thrusting it deeper into Eddie’s hole. Eddie’s breath was becoming shaky, along with his legs.

Richie began lapping along the slices he’d made, biting at the flesh and teasing out more blood from the cuts that had dried up. He caught the dribbles on his tongue, savoring the bitter taste of iron. When he lifted his head back up to regard Eddie with a smirk, he had blood smeared around his mouth.

Eddie wanted to snort, absently thinking it looked like a badly done last minute Halloween makeup job, but his lungs couldn’t manage a laugh, his breath already shallow and weak.

He knew he was going to cum soon. Richie had been consistently hitting his prostate for a few minutes, the pressure and tempo solid and steady enough to make Eddie’s toes curl.

“Richie, I- I’m-” Eddie tried to stutter out a warning, his throat dry and a haze beginning to surround his vision.

“What, are you gonna cum? Already?” Richie patronized.

Eddie’s anger mixed with his desperation, watering it down enough to let him sacrifice his ego.

“Yes, yes please- I need to- please Richie-”

“So pathetic.” Richie scoffed. But despite his words, he still relented, bringing his free hand to Eddie’s cock and stroking a few times.

Eddie came with a shrill cry, the sound cracking and fizzling out at the end. He felt the pulse in his cock and the throb in his ass, and then everything went black.

Eddie’s not sure how long he was out, but when he awoke, he was resting against his pillow. He looked down at the sheets, still stained red with his blood and wet to the touch, so he couldn’t have black out for long. The next thing he registered was Richie laying beside him, his finger lazily tracing along Eddie’s stomach, where there was a small pool of blood tinted semen.

“Ew, Richie!”

Richie seemed to have been unaware of Eddie’s regained consciousness until then, startling momentarily as he looked up at him like a kid who’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Richie crooned, removing his hand from the mess on Eddie’s belly and wiping it on the sheets.

“How long was I out for?” Eddie asked, noticing his voice was coarse and attempting to clear it.

“About two minutes, give or take.”

“And you thought instead of trying to wake me up, you’d finish on me instead?” Eddie cocked an eyebrow, pointing at the cum that covered his stomach.

“Well, I took you down first.” Richie rolled his eyes, as if Eddie was missing the bigger picture.

“Thanks for not letting me hang lifelessly from our ceiling, I guess?” Eddie responded sarcastically.

“You are so welcome.” Richie sent Eddie an annoyingly charming wink before bouncing off the bed, disappearing into their hallway.

Eddie closed his eyes, noticing the way his head was pounding and his body ached. He wiggled his wrists experimentally, wincing immediately at the feeling. He peeked one eye open, hesitantly bringing an arm into view and gasping when he saw the bruising that was leftover from the handcuffs. It was atrocious, but also… mesmerizing. Eddie was tracing the galaxies under his skin when Richie walked back into the room.

“Drink this.” Richie gave little warning before he chucked a water bottle at Eddie, which he surprisingly caught with little effort.

Eddie blinked at it like he’d never seen water in his life. Really, what he’d never seen in his life was Richie taking care of him. It’s true that things didn’t usually get as intense as they had that day, but Eddie was used to always doing the aftercare himself.

“What, are you allergic to water suddenly?” Richie asked as he climbed back into bed.

“Is it drugged?” Eddie asked skeptically.

“Oh my god, you fucking baby.” Richie grabbed the water bottle from Eddie, cracking open the sealed cap and taking a swig before offering it back to him.

“Now drink. I don’t need you passing out on me again.”

Eddie eyed Richie, his chest feeling uncomfortably aflutter; a sensation he was only used to associating with a new kill or a shiny weapon.

He took the bottle wordlessly and chugged it, ignoring the tiny streams of water that escaped out the corners of his mouth and trickled down his chin. He pulled away from the lip of the bottle with a gratified sigh, not having realized how much he’d needed that.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled.

“Don’t go soft on me, Eddie boy.” Richie warned, a lilt of tenderness in his voice.

They held eye contact for a moment before Richie cleared his throat, rolling on to his back and propping his arms up behind his head.

“So, who’s turn is it to do laundry?” He asked, nodding towards the bedsheets.

“Well, technically yours since it was my night for dinner.” Eddie drawled.

“But since I brought home food…” Richie let the end of his sentence trail off, the insinuation evident.

“Fuck off, asshole. Look at the state you left me in.” Eddie gestured to his body, his weakened arm protesting the movement.

“I can’t. If I look at you any longer, I’ll have to jump you for round two.”

“Richie, no-”

“How do you feel about spoons?”

“We’re not doing this-”

“Forks? Or maybe a ladle is more your style? A spatula-”

“I fucking hate you.”

“So it’s a decided, spork it is!”

[the-canary]

Sunburst - S.R (10/10)

Summary: After years of solitude, you sought out the color of life – you just didn’t think it would end up like this. (Enhanced!Reader/Steve Rogers). 

Prompt: “I think I just asked out on a date.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Masterlist

A/N: This is for @captain-ariel-barnes writing challenge. i didn’t really know what was the best way to end all this because it was just a series that was focused on steve, but all of the avengers in some way. i try to close that gap here and hopefully you will enjoy the ending. thank you for reading! 

Feedback is always appreciated.

It seems that the mutual feelings between you and Steve...resonate in some way. You can feel his a bit deeper than most others because you willing reached out for him when your powers began to change. It might also help that--

--That you guys keep making googly eyes at each other.

That revelation comes a few days after your first “date” with Steve and it was a little worrisome in the beginning because  you didn’t want to intrude into his personal feelings or catch him off guard with your powers. Thus leading you into an awkward talk about feelings and what were the next steps going to be between the two of you. Since you were going to be staying with the Avengers in an official civilian basis from now on -- there was still too much that was unclear about your powers and more “research” was needed, though you knew it wouldn’t be like your time with Killbrew.

However, the conversation with Steve seemed scarier than all that.  

“So, the gloves don’t come off unless you want them to,” you nod awkwardly, as Steve laughs -his blue just a little bit whiter and misty than usual-- at how you use the phrase at the moment. You shrug, feeling a little bit of his potential happiness into your very being, as you can’t help but smile.

“I definitely agree to that,” he states, before going into his side of the issues -- the potential of being with Captain America.

However, though you might have been a bit sheltered due to your self-exile, you knew the mythos that surrounded Captain America as a symbol, which you weren’t used to. You were used to seeing a Steve Rogers that took runs in the morning and whenever he came back from a mission, sometimes spending hours in the gym. He spent his time catching up with the history that he had missed with a particular like towards Hemingway, though he seemed to enjoy the Beatniks as well --- much to your surprise. Steve Rogers could be moody and temperamental, but he had a good heart.

It made your apprehension a bit easier to control, telling yourself that you could deal with anything that came your way when the time was right. It was time for you to stop running away from things that life threw at you and this was a major curveball that you wanted to handle with care.  

“If we take it nice and slow,” you start of as blue ebbs and flows for a moment in anticipation, “I’m sure it will be alright.”

 It’s in between that decision and Steve going on another mission that you finally move through completing your last major Avengers artwork in the Tower. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go back to the Compound --you really missed your drawing room-- but rather your pieces in regards to a certain man were just too big to be moved back to the Compound, especially since you were close to being done and others were easier to move into the city where the opening party was being held.

“This looks pretty nice,” you hear from your place on the floor and look up to see Natasha staring at second smaller painting with a small smile,”You can really tell.”

“Tell what?” you can’t help but ask, as she lets out a light laugh. Clint is behind her and he gives you a small nod before going back to sitting on the chair and eating his late lunch, both of them looking like they had just arrived from a mission.

“Nothing, nothing,” she states with a teasing nudge before taking a seat next to you, “Though I have to say I really liked my art piece.”

“You already saw it,” you exclaim, not angry but horrified at what she might think of the spider webs, nylon, and tuff. You had gone sort of crazy with the whole thing when she left you.

“Art might not my field of expertise,” Nat cocks her head slightly like looking at Steve’s still unfinished piece, “But thank you.”

You aren’t sure what she means, but you can’t help the huge smile that grows on your face over your first good review from the Avengers.

 It’s strange seeing so many huddled around your work, as people walk back and forth within the large Manhattan gallery to look at all the art pieces you had created for based of the Avengers -- all proceeds from the gala tickets would go for an arts program and the center that the September Foundation was opening up in Queens. And after tonight, all these pieces would be moved down there to be open for the the public to see.

Mr. Stark made an opening speech that made people laugh, but when asked who artist was and if they were going to be at the gala tonight -- he simply said  no and you couldn’t have been more grateful -- it allowed you to walk around like any another guest and for once in a very long time to gauge how people saw your artwork. It’s a little scary, but you are more excited than anything else.

However before you can move forward with anything else, you stop when you see a bright orange light in the corner of your eye. She is dressed in her finest clothes and there is a huge smile on her face, though she doesn’t make any commotion. She simply whispers:

“You did a really great job,” she puffs her chest like a proud mother before giving you a wink and leaving you to your own devices.

As you look around and can’t help that her words are a little true, as pink pops a bit more than before from the corner of your eyes, then you start making the gallery rounds.  

 Bruce is the first one you find starting at his art piece -- a dark green background with all the words you could think of etched in gold alongside equations that you knew that he worked on, though not just the one turned made him the Hulk. He is mumbling the numbers to himself when he finally sees you.

He gives you an awkward but proud smile before going on his way and you hoped with all your heart that he enjoyed the piece in some way.

 Thor’s is the third largest piece and placed in an area with soft lightning. It’s an array of color, all the ones you could get your hands on to replicate the Bifrost and while he isn’t essentially in the picture -- all the people and legends that are connected to him are, combining the old Norse myths with people he knew today. There is soft but huge grin on his face, as you see him walk through it once and then twice.

“My friend,” he starts off, knowing that you are standing there to the side, “She would be very proud of how you have depicted her in battle...and Loki--”

You end up standing there for a good while, as people move to and fro, listening to the God of Thunder’s story once more. Though this time, they are happier in the reminiscence as you are blinded by all the colors of the rainbow.    

 You can’t see Wanda’s face from where you are standing though her side is mostly empty --there is still sentiment that lingers over the things she has done and her powers--, but it is clear that her back is hunched over just a bit as Vision draws her into his body. Their art pieces are together because in essence, they both became part of the Avengers through the same event, from losses that aren’t easy to forget. The Wanda’s magenta is darker than usual, but the center --ever present blue-- is circling around and spinning, almost joyful for finally being noticed.

In her current state, you would rather not bother Wanda, but as one of the first that welcomed you into the Avengers -- you hope you brought a piece  of home back to her.

 You see Tony and Pepper staring at his piece for a good while. The way the center lights up from light to dark gray makes you hopefully that everything is functioning correctly. You pause for a moment before coughing, the couple turning to stare at you with awe as their colors seem to move in the same beat of curiosity. Mr. Stark seems speechless for a moment staring at how the red and orange you first saw him as blend into purple and dark schemes with pops of gold to signify stars and endless possibilities -- the colors you are sure someone might not usually associate him with.

“I’m hoping that speechlessness means you like it,” you add in and Pepper comes in to give you a hug and congratulations, as Tony continues to stay silent.  

“It’s beautiful,” Pepper states and in her bright, calming orange you know she’s telling you the truth, as you nod and smile, “This is really everything we hoped for and more.”

“I am glad that you think so,” you start off, “But, I really should be thank you two. I’ve learned and experienced a lot of things that I wouldn’t have if you two hadn’t knocked on my door. So, thank you!”

Both of you stare at you in shock for a moment before laughing. Tony finally managing to add in: “Didn’t I tell you that you were going to have a masterpiece because of this, kiddo.”

“Yes, you did, Mr. Stark,” you state with genuine happiness as he gives you a grin and a wink before going back to walking around with Ms. Potts, as she is completely unaware that she has a surprise waiting for her  back in their high-tower apartment.

 You know that there is a possibility that Steve is in the gala event when you see Sam mingling with people in front of people of his own painting -- yellow shining like the sun as he draws all of them in with whatever story he is telling, an old story connected to the small Redwing at the upper left corner of the painting that he had grown fond of recalling one too many time with you . He stops you once through the crowd, but says nothing that might make anyone curious of who you are.

Sam shines too brightly and fiercely that you have to look away, but you have a feeling that it’s right where he belongs.

 It isn’t until the end of the night that you finally see him -- Steve Rogers in a three piece suit with his hair gelled back as people welcome him, while trying to grab his attention for a moment. However, his eyes were on something else -- the three pieces near the back of the gallery that were dedicated not just to one aspect of Captain America but to Steven Grant Rogers as well -- as stated in the decal of the center picture. You stay a ways back as you watch him look around since there are fewer people due to it is the end but still going around and trying to ask him questions.

It recalled different stages of his life in each piece, but the dark blue sunburst motif could be seen clearly in all of them. Bits and pieces from Brooklyn and WWII that you tried recreating and bringing back to life as best you could. The middle one centered around his early years, the right centered around Captain America both before and after the war, and the left a bit murky -- as if holding out to a future that still hasn’t completely been written yet where maybe Steve could finally put those dream into something solid or go for something completely different.

However, it isn’t until much later when you are sitting across from him, in the Avengers Tower after the after-after party had ended, that you finally get the chance to ask him what he really thought about the whole thing.

“It was something else,” he states with a smile, “I can really see you put a lot of dedication and time into every piece.”

You smile and nod before taking another bite out from your tub of ice cream as he stares at you for a second before moving forward with his next question -- the nervousness palpable in the air, even without you touching him, the sudden darkness of his blue told you well enough.  

“So, what are your plans after this?”

“I don’t know,” you state with a shrug he keeps staring at you,  “Martha says I should look into making art book catalogue. I also have some commissions from Mr. Stark. I’ve got a lot of time on my hands for now, maybe even catch up on what I’ve been missing.”

“You know,” he adds with a grin, as if he’s proud of his sudden idea, “I could help with that...the whole catching up thing, sort of been doing it for awhile.”

“I would like that a lot actually,” you state without missing a heartbeat, as you place your hand in front of him. He stares at you seriously for a moment, understanding that you weren’t going to try to read him.

He places his hands on top of your and that’s when he feels it -- all the happiness, hope, and apprehension bubbling up inside you like a soda can at everything you are looking forward to. He might not see it, but you know that your shade of pink is brightening into a light red and his blue is sinking into something you have never seen before --  maybe, it’s what the bright blue summer sky looked over the Brooklyn Bridge, like all his stories you have grown fond of. He smiles before letting out a soft laugh, as you wonder if this is what everyone feels like when they might be falling in love.

You weren’t sure where all this and everything with Steve was going to lead, but for the first time in your life -- you were more than willing to find out.

[melleonis]

Wifelink Zendikar

i don’t know for a fact that the Wizards of the Coast creative team were collectively going through an eighties glam metal phase back in 2015, but it sure fucking seems like it. i don’t know if they were getting laid enough either, but i’m going to guess...no.

Weapons Trainer (art by Greg Opalinski)

You’ve gotta imagine that up until the very second the Eldrazi showed up again, this woman was wearing pantsuits with massive shoulder pads and doing apocalyptic quantities of cocaine in vampire nightclubs.

Drana’s Emissary (art by Karl Kopinski)

Vampire nightclubs aren’t really mentioned in Zendikar’s lore but given that all vampire art this block is at least this horny - in both senses of the word - I am forced to conclude both that vampire nightclubs exist, and that they fucking own.

Bloodbond Vampire (art by Anna Steinbauer)

The only reason this woman isn’t the gayest thing Ms. Steinbauer has ever painted is that Grand Warlord Radha is the gayest thing it is possible to paint. Still, with a ludicrous pose, an oddly-sweet high-cheekboned face, and a whole lot of loving attention being paid to her hips and cleavage - which her body paint will helpfully point out, in case you missed it - this is pretty close to total self-indulgence. And you know what? Good. Good for you, Ms. Steinbauer. Keep living your best life.

Malakir Soothsayer (art by Greg Opalinski)

Hey, uh, Greg, real quick - you ever, like, seen someone ride a horse? Did they maybe, like, brace their feet in the stirrups and bend their knees and sit on their ass like a person? No? They just did the splits and sat straight pussy-down on the dang saddle? You sure about that, Greg? Doesn’t that seem like it’d be really uncomfortable? Oh, sorry, my mistake, I see you’ve subtly indicated in your painting here that this young vampiress has in fact reinforced her clothing with a substantial layer of crotch padding, right there below the underbust corset. So that’s alright, then. Carry on!

(This image is a fucking synaesthetic masterpiece, by the way. I can’t look at it without being overwhelmed by the phantom aroma of vaginal juices.)

(I don’t know what the deal is, either. Greg doesn’t do this in any of his other MtG paintings. I think it’s just that Zendikar vampire art is required to be as horny as fucking possible.)

(Also, sorry I said ‘vaginal juices’. I promise that was at least as unpleasant for me as it was for you.)

Drana’s Chosen (art by Deruchenko Alexander)

As Horny As Fucking Possible, Now With Chains!

Kalitas, Traitor of Ghet (art by Todd Lockwood)

This might be a Technically Bisexual Interlude? I break out in a sweat every time I look at this picture, so that might be arousal. Or revulsion. Or fear.

Hey, those vampires were A Lot, huh? Let’s palate-cleanse for a moment.

Murasa Ranger (art by Eric Deschamps)

“What an absolutely adorable cutie,” she said about a hardened wilderness survivalist with no fewer than five visible weapons, “what a gosh dang sweetie-pie!”

Coralhelm Guide (art by Victor Titov)

Oh, yeah, the merfolk art in this block is just about as horny as the vampire art. Also, a lot of them wear fishnets, which seems unnecessarily macabre for a water-dweller. Like if I made some half-assed attempt to cover my tits with barbed wire, that’s about the effect we’re looking at here.

Jori En, Ruin Diver (art by Igor Kieryluk)

Good thing thighs don’t need armor!

Akoum Stonewaker (art by Victor Adame Minguez)

This woman has personally attended every Bon Jovi concert.

Zulaport Chainmage (art by Chris Rallis)

This woman lost her virginity in the backseat of her girlfriend’s Camaro to “Thunder Kiss ‘65″.

Topan Freeblade (art by Johannes Voss)

I’m reasonably certain this woman was in a Dio-era Black Sabbath music video.

Kor Sky Climber (art by Victor Adame Minguez)

Oh, I fucking love this piece. You get a real sense of weight and momentum, and unf, that taut upper-body musculature.

Kor Bladewhirl (art by Steven Belledin)

Now, it’s true that Kor Bladewhirl is less caught up in the ecstasy of flight than her sky-climbing sister above. It’s true that she’s less ethereally-lit, less kinetic, and less pretty. However, counterpoint: she’s buff as hell, has a rope with a heavy piece of metal on the end, and is Supremely Unimpressed.

Giant Mantis (art by Lake Hurwitz)

You bet your ass I would on account of I know what the fuck I like and I am not a fucking coward.

[seriouslycromulent]

MCU’s Captain Marvel - Thoughts, review & more

I’m off to see DC’s latest superhero reincarnation Shazam later today, but I wanted to make sure I captured my thoughts on the MCU’s last superhero outing, Captain Marvel, so I don’t get my feedback crossed. 

I know I’ve said in the past that I’ve been a bit burned out when it comes to comic book movie (CBM) adaptations, but there are a few here and there that still catch my eye, and essentially I’ve boiled it down to: “Does this genuinely pique my interest?” 

Now, I wasn’t too interested in Captain Marvel based on the trailers and didn’t plan to see it, but I struck a deal with my Mom. (Backstory: She and my stepfather go to see all the superhero movies because, hello!, they’re the nerds that nurtured this Big Nerd. Seriously, I started reading comic books because of them, and my geekery just grew and grew. I rely on them often to fact check the fandom details most comic book nerds on Tumblr claim to be authorities on. And yes, their 40+ years of comic book knowledge and expertise puts most of you to shame.)

With that said, she wasn’t very interested in Shazam. She said it looks like they’re aiming for a kids-only audience, and that made it kind of m’eh to her. But I said I would go see it because I’m a Zachary Levi fan. Billy Batson’s OK, but for me, it’s the casting of Zach that piqued my interest. So the deal was that she would see Captain Marvel and tell me if she thought I’d like it. And I’d see Shazam and do the same for her. Based on her commentary, I went to see CM, and now I’m returning the favor.

That was the intro. 

Now, here’s the set-up.

If you’ve read anything related to the CBM-world here on my Tumblr, you know that I am a supporter of the DCEU, X-Men and the MCU, but I go hardest for the DC universe. You’ll also know if you stop by often that my point-of-view rarely matches up with the popular perspective within the fandom world, in general, or in the fandom communities, specifically.

But unlike some (dare I say, many), I never want to harsh anyone’s squee! If you loved something that I didn’t. Bless you. Live in that love, and pay me no mind. I have no desire to rain on anyone’s parade simply because I don’t land on the same conclusion regarding comic book characters or their feature film adaptations. I don’t think less of you, hate you, or even care if you don’t agree with me. If you do, that’s cool. If not, that’s cool too. 

But before I jump into my mini-review of Captain Marvel, allow me to prepare you for how I roll. Here are some examples of where I landed after watching many, but not all, of the films from the MCU, DCEU, X-Men, Deadpool, and Spiderman franchises. I repeat, I rarely share the popular perspective or take on a CBM as the masses. You have been warned.

I enjoyed Ant Man and the sequel. If they made a third film, I’d see it.

Logan is a brilliant masterpiece, and I would change absolutely nothing about it.

Although I’ve never been a big fan of origin stories because they’re typically written like the audience is simple and can’t appreciate anything beyond the most cookie-cutter of plots and a paint-by-numbers of good and evil characters, I enjoyed Sam Raimi’s first film of the Spiderman franchise the most when it comes to comic book adaptation origin stories. So far, he’s still the person to beat in this category.

I enjoy most of the X-Men films, but often find the changes they make to the characters unnecessary and poorly executed. I also want Bryan Singer to leave the Summers boys alone. 

I found the Wonder Woman film completely underwhelming. Why? See my #3 regarding origin stories.

I enjoyed Black Panther, but was not really wowed by it.

I enjoyed both Deadpool films, but I still think his character is highly overrated by male fans. I like the movies for what they are. They don’t really say anything. You’re just meant to “Ooh!” and “Aah!” and LOL! Then go home. I can respect that.

I thought Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice was brilliant, and easily one of the best comic book-based films of the last 20 years. That film is a work of art, and I’m saddened that Zach Snyder’s vision wasn’t appreciated and respected by the studio. Even if the mainstream public thinks that comic book movies should be light and fluffy with virtually no connection to any messages of substance or strong characterization, the studio should have respected his vision and let him complete it with Justice League.

I liked The Avengers and I thought Age of Ultron was pretty decent, but I felt that Civil War was a mess of poor characterization, weak execution, absurd conclusions, unresolved tension, and a dispensable villain unworthy of the audience’s time. Literally everything the mainstream public and MCU fanboys (and fangirls) complained about Batman v Superman applies to Civil War, not to BvS. Civil War was the film that was rushed, and it shows.

I have virtually no interest at all in the main storyline of the MCU anymore. I don’t care about Thanos. I didn’t see Infinity War, and I don’t really plan to see Endgame. Yes, I’m aware of certain events happening regarding specific characters. Still don’t care. The run-up to this final showdown with Thanos was so poorly done and underwhelming that I have no emotional investment in this fight anymore. 

Now, if you’re still reading, I want to say thank you for sticking around and ... welcome to my brain. Since this post is already long, let’s dive into Captain Marvel.

I saw the film twice. So that right there should tell you I enjoyed it. Yet, the weekend it came out, apparently, a bunch of fanboys and a handful of critics took to their keyboards and YouTube channels to review it and cry disappointment. Ultimately, I didn’t care too much because, again, it didn’t really pique my interest. 

Then my Mom told me what she thought about the film and how it was the antithesis of what the fanboys and reviewers were claiming, and this ... is what actually piqued my interest. I love a good mystery, and I felt as if I needed to see the film for myself to not only see what the hubbub was about, but to also determine who was wrong/right. 

So I saw it the following Tuesday after its opening weekend. And I walked out feeling as if the MCU had finally grown up.

What I liked

The 1990s nostalgia without the 1990s “nostalgia.” That is, the language, the clothes, the tech, the venues, etc. were all great throwbacks to this oddly romanticized decade without any of the romanticizing. As someone who was a teen throughout the ‘90s, and remembers it somewhat differently than others, I appreciate that. Respect.

Maria Rambeau. She is a best friend who gets to shine and enjoy the spotlight in her own way. She also has dark skin and short hair. (Yes, it matters.) But more importantly, Maria Rambeau isn’t a sidekick. Instead, she is the best friend everyone dreams of. Not only is she smart, fearless, and a badass behind the controls of a space-worthy fighter jet, but she’s also not judgmental. I don’t know many people who wouldn’t have some residual anger over being made to believe their ace boon was dead for 6 years, then one day just knocks on your door and say “What’s up? I’m not sure who I am.”

The villain-turned-not-so-bad-after-all Talos, played to perfection by Ben Mendelssohn, has the best one-liners and reaction shots in the film. Also, we get aliens with a variety of accents, character depth, and families. 

Despite the fact that the passengers on the light rail/subway car saw the “old lady” could handle herself in a fight, the surrounding passengers did get involved to try and pull Danvers off of the old lady because, from a common sense perspective, this young woman should not have been trying to beat the hell out of an old woman. Kudos to them for trying to do the right thing.

I’m scared of Ms. Monica and her guilting her Mom to fly with Danvers, Fury and Talos on a life-endangering mission. When she said, “Just think about what kind of example you are setting for your daughter if you don’t go?” I was like, “No, she did not!”

The perfect subversion of the “prove to me you can beat me without weapons” gag at the end. Not only because it means that Yon-Rogg (Jude Law’s character) might show up in later films, but because that trope is sooooooo annoying. Plus, we all know she’s stronger, so why bother?

There’s some subtle commentary about the treatment of refugees as terrorists or enemies of the people by the same people who made them refugees in the first place. I would like to think that commentary is intentional, but that may be asking for too much.

What I didn’t care for

The CGI on Phil Coulson’s face. Um, yeah. That was not good. It would seem they spent more time on getting Samuel L. Jackson’s face just right so he could look believably younger, but then they ran out of time to do the same for Clark Gregg.

The CGI they used on Annette Bening’s face is ... not great in some scenes. Not all. Just some.

Why does Danvers sitting down with Fury in the bar for a Q&A about their past provide proof that they’re not Skrull? If the Skrull can’t adsorb distant memories, then this Q&A would only fill you with confidence to trust the other person if you actually know the other person. Danvers didn’t know Fury before that day, and he didn’t know her. Sitting there and answering questions only lays the groundwork to determine if they’re not Skrull later, but it shouldn’t provide proof that they can trust that the other isn’t a Skrull at that very moment. Also, how does Fury know that the Skrull can’t shoot blasts from their hands? He’s just going to take her word for it? Although given he was told by his “boss” to stay close to her and find out what she knows, I could see this as him simply playing along for the sake of his mission.

I’m not really buying this imaginary world where a black woman in the military is taking the time to keep her hair straightened while flying jets and working on special aircraft missions. However, I will suspend disbelief this time due to the fact that Rambeau was working on a top secret project and therefore was not necessarily hindered by the typical schedule of the average fighter pilot. ... This time.

I wished we could have seen more of Gemma Chan. Yeah, Minn-Erva’s a bad guy, but ... it’s Gemma Chan. I already had fanfiction theories playing in my head about her relationship with Yon-Rogg before I left the theater.

What I loved

We go on a journey with this character. We learn about her as she learns about herself, which is what keeps us invested beyond the “she’s going to be Captain Marvel by the end of the movie, obvs.” idea. This is an origin story done in a far more interesting and captivating way than anything presented in the Marvel cinematic universe since Iron Man. We get flashbacks to the most unassuming events of her life that later turn out to be the most important ones. Where others complained about this approach to an origin story, I wholeheartedly applaud it. Nothing in CA: The First Avenger, Thor or Ant Man was as clever or interesting as this angle when it comes to introducing a superhero’s origin.

I don’t want a flurkin. But at the same time, I want a flurkin.

Having a villain who turns out not to be a villain, and a mentor who turns out to be our actual villain, was to me another sign that the MCU has finally realized that complexity isn’t a bad thing and not every story must have a one-note single-purpose villain. Yes, we get a little bit of that in Ronan (Lee Pace’s character), but to lead the audience down this road where not all the information you receive can be immediately trusted suits me just fine. It’s realistic and engaging. Danvers’ confusion mimics our confusion, but not so much that we can’t enjoy the story. We don’t have it all figured out and determined who has the moral high-ground until she does. I love that. And as a writer myself, I respect that. 

I love, love, loved the 1990s songs in this movie. Not only because the songs reminded me of my adolescence and you can never go wrong with Garbage’s “Only Happy When It Rains,” but because No Doubt’s “I’m Just A Girl” is THE perfect song for the big showdown between Danvers and her former Kree brethren. I almost jumped out of my seat in excitement when I heard that music intro. Kudos to whomever made this soundtrack! 

There is no love story. Unless you count the love between 2 best friends/family being reunited, there’s no love story. Thank you.

When I first started watching the film, I had to scratch my head. I thought, “Since when are the Kree good guys?” After watching every season of Agents of Shield and knowing how it’s the Kree who leave mankind dangling on by a thread, manipulating them, torturing them, and turning them into their own little ant farm, my brain had to pause and question this version of the Marvel universe where Danvers is a Kree. But as the story continues, of course, we’re led on this journey where we learn 1) I was right not to trust the Kree as good guys, 2) there are some Kree who are good and Dr. Mar-vell is one of them, and 3) the MCU is capable of writing stories where character development isn’t sacrificed just for laughs and boss fights. See what I mean about growing up?

I think that’s it for now. This review is already long enough, and I’m sure I could discuss more details about the film if I had more time. Yes, I am aware of the mainstream critic and fandom backlash against the film. I’ve heard some of the complaints, and frankly, I struggle to find the justification for them anywhere in the film.

I read one critic complained saying that because the audience doesn’t know who Danvers is from the beginning, she’s hard to root for or identify with. I disagree. The audience learns as Danvers learns. And by the end of the film, it’s clear that what matters most about her is not her name or where she’s from, but what she does with her power. Personally, that’s a great message to everyone when you think about it. 

I’m also aware that a lot of the fandom backlash has been ... how do you say ... male-driven. I think that’s unfortunate given that Captain Marvel is the MCU’s first female-led superhero movie and it’s long overdue. I don’t know if CM is flawless (I doubt it), but I know I enjoyed it as much as (and in a lot cases, more than) the other superhero origin MCU films. The message was great and the character relatable. 

No, I’m not saying everyone can relate to a human-turned-all-powerful-superhero by a blast that should have killed her, but we can all relate to understanding that it doesn’t matter how many times we are knocked down, what matters is how many times we stand back up. 

I’m not usually one for the hokey, after-school special messaging that a lot of MCU films (and DCtv shows) push, but that message about what makes her a hero (the standing up after getting knocked down) seems just as powerful as the message behind what makes Steve Rogers a hero (it’s not the special serum, but the fact he was willing to die for his countrymen in battle). I’m not sure how Danvers’ story is less worthwhile than Rogers’ story.

As for fanboys saying the studio should have just made a film about Natasha/Black Widow, it’s statements like that that make others wonder if your dissatisfaction with Captain Marvel isn’t rooted in misogyny. You would rather watch an origin film about a female team member on an already predominantly-male team where she plays a role, but is in no way as strong or as powerful enough to go toe-to-toe with most of the team members. Hmmm? 

Hear how that sounds? There’s nothing wrong with liking Natasha. She’s the bomb. But again, making a film about Black Widow instead of Danvers, leaves the Avengers with one less female character, and one less character who can kick ass and take names with the big boys. The fanboys -- whether intentional or not -- have painted themselves as afraid of Captain Marvel’s strength and the power she has to be actually considered an equal to the other members of the team.

Perhaps if they said the MCU should’ve made a standalone or origin film about the Scarlet Witch, the misogyny wouldn’t be as glaring.

I don’t know. I’ll leave that argument for others for now. I’m heading out to movies now. Shazam here I come!

[markusstrayya-blog]

Once In A Freak (Part 1)

Support Me? | MASTERLIST | Who Do I Write For?

Pairing: Loki x Reader (eventual), Logan Howlett x Reader (Father figure), Avengers x Reader, X-Men x Reader

Word Count: 2670

Summary: Being a mutant has more downsides than upsides. How will your peers feel when you catch feelings for a certain trickster god. WIll your friends and family support you, or have they done enough already? I mean, you are a mutant, how much harder could life be?

Warning(s): Fluff, HYDRA mentioned, Infinity War Steve (God he looked delicious with that beard!), Language. I’ll probably add things as I go along.

Authors Note: So, this was originally posted on my other account, as all these repeated fics were, but Tumblr sucks. Anyway, I didn’t edit this one, as I already loved it, but I’ll be rewriting the entire series. I’ve got the writing bug! Anyway, I’m planning on posting this story to Wattpad, but I’ll probably wait until I have the first few chapters ready to go.

All I did for this one was combine the two parts I’d already written because I felt that it wasn’t going to read well if I didn't, so here we are.

Anywhoozy, requests are open, and so’s the taglist, so enjoy!

PROLOGUE

If anyone had told you all those years ago that you would work for the X-Men, S.H.I.E.L.D. and more recently, the Avengers, you would have called them insane. But alas, here you are, in your own spacious room at the Avengers compound, curtesy of Tony Stark, with your back pressed against a painted wall, viewing your handy work on the other 3 walls. Your (H/C) hair had been tied into a messy bun that had been slowly falling out over the past few hours, evident by the thick strands that had made it their job to block your view. Your white t-shirt and old denim overalls were blotched with a rainbow of colour. Your skin didn’t fare any better.

Your aching legs assisted in lifting your small frame from the ground, as your feet carried you into your ensuite bathroom, which, you had also painted last week. Peeling off your clothes and undoing the tangled mess upon your head to reach the tie, you sigh. That’s the last coat. Once your hair has been released from its elastic restraint and begins to flow over your shoulders and down your back, you enter the shower and begin cleaning yourself from the day’s activities.

The comforting feeling that the steamy water brings will always be something that you cherish, as it gets to work on cleansing your multi-coloured skin, the coloured water pooling atop the tiles surface around your feet. Running the soapy loofah over your wet skin, the hardened paint flakes off, leaving your skin to return to its natural colour. Now for my hair. Grasping the shampoo bottle in your right hand, you squeeze the liquid contents into your left palm before closing the lid. You moan as your hands begin to massage your scalp, making sure that all the paint is removed from your hair. Once your hair is rinsed, and the shower head returned into its slumber, you step onto the bath mat and thoroughly dry your hair with your hairdryer, combing it every so often.

Moving into your walk-in closet, you pick out your favourite pair of skinny jeans, and your Deadpool-themed tank top, curtesy of Wade (of course), both of which will fit nicely over your matching black undergarments. You slip your feet into your black converse before taking one last look at your masterpiece of a room. You’d had to paint all the walls white, as they were previously cream, whilst covering one wall, the one that your bed rests against, you’d painted lightning striking a darkened landscape, and in the center, a blue orb with a figure, watching the storm overhead. You smiled at the memory and headed out into the kitchen.

Spotting the cupboard, you race forward, opening it with such force that it almost swings off its hinges, reaching your hand in and grabbing a packet of (F/F) chips before slamming it closed. You tare open the packet and shove the largest chips you could grab into you salivating, hungry mouth, closing your eyes in ecstasy. BUZZ. BUZZ. Ugh, what now? Checking the caller ID, you hastily answer your phone. “What’s up Wolvie?” You could hear him groan before taking a swig of what was most likely whiskey.

“I told ya to call me Logan, but that’s besides the point. I wanted to know how you are settling in?” You snort, before eating another chip.

“Well,” you begin, “I think it’s going very well. I’ve just finished painting my room and I’m already on to (F/F) chips.” You knew he would be shaking his head, smirking at your antics. “Hey, don’t laugh at me! I’ll have you know I’ve been here a week and I’ve settled in just well.” He laughed at that.

“That’s good Bub, that’s really good. Y’know if they annoy ya too much, I’ll kick their asses for ya.” Giggling, you begin to reply before you are interrupted by a certain AI. “Ms. (L/N), Mr. Stark says that you’re needed in meeting room 8 as soon as possible.”

“Thanks F.R.I.D.A.Y. Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.” You shook your head. “What did you really call me for Gramps?”

He gasped in feigned horror. “Well, I was asked by the Professor himself to tell you that we’re gunna have a party o’er next week. You’re welcome to come, but after that insult I don’t think-“

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry, I’ll come!” Humming he ended the call wishing me luck and promising to text me the details. Speed walking over to meeting room 8, you munch on a few more chips. What does he need me for? Surely it can’t be a mission! Mentally throwing those thoughts away, you opened the door, before stepping in, making sure to close the door behind you, moving to stand next to Cap. He has told you many times to call him Steve, but you like to mess with him, calling him Captain or Cap most of the time. Your eyes meet, and you smile up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. His blue t-shirt does nothing but to hide his broad shoulders and the protrusion of his large muscles. Even his jeans look too tight. How does he fit such a fine ass in those? He smiles back, before clearing his throat, gaining the attention of those present in the room.

As soon as Tony’s eyes see me, his face instantly lightens. His expensive suit does nothing but help him prove his importance and influence he has on the team. He’s loaded – with cash, that is. “(Y/N), you made it!”

You looked at him and around the room, confused. “Uhm of cour-“

“Now,” he interrupted, “I need to introduce you to an old friend…and a…seemingly new one?” You looked at him then, sensing his uneasiness. Logan had taught you how to read moods after he took you in as his own when he found you in the woods. You also noticed how he seemed to be trying to convince himself that this new person was a friend. Strange. He pulled you further into the room, stopping in front of two men. Men? Snap out of it (Y/N), this is Thor and Loki. They’re Gods! “No wonder…” you muttered.

Thor leant down to your level, his long blonde hair replaced with short hair. It suited him. “Pardon, Lady (Y/N)?” Shit. He heard me! You look up at him, taking in his missing eye, covered with a golden eye patch and his attire. Asgardian armour, or a king’s attire?  He was smiling at you. “Nothing. Sorry, I’ve just been busy.” You smile back, hoping he accepts the lie. “There is no need to apologise Lady (Y/N)! I assume you know who I am?”

Smirking at him you nod and hold out your hand. His hand, that is much larger than your own, pretty much engulfs yours, as he greets you. You turn and face his brother, clad in green, gold and black attire, who’s looking down at his feet. “And you’re Loki?” You could’ve sworn his head would have flung off his neck due to the speed in which his gaze raised to yours. “That’s me, Lady (Y/N).” Taking your hand in his, he slowly lifts it to his lips, placing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, before lowering your hand back down. Even though he was much taller than you, he wasn’t as big and muscly as his brother. His hand was much smaller, making yours fit into it nicer. “Just (Y/N) will be fine.” You extend the chip packet towards him, his face, framed by that luscious raven hair, contorts into a look of confusion. “Chip?”

Glancing over at his brother, as though he’s seeking permission, he extends his own arm out, his slender hand reaching into the packet, before emerging with a good-sized chip. Still looking uncertain, you take your own chip and elegantly place it into your mouth. You can feel the stares of your teammates boring into the back of your head, they, themselves unsure about what’s happening. Thor, though, just smiles at the both of you and gestures for a chip himself. Loki looks up at his brother in what you assume is disgust before placing the chip into his mouth, taking in the mix of flavours that would be dancing around the inside of his mouth. “Thank you.”

--

After the whole chip fiasco, in the meeting room, you decided to leave and make your way back into the spacious kitchen. Placing your large phone on the counter, you turn, and tear open the fridge door, reaching your arm through, until you grasp the large bottle, pulling it toward yourself. Plopping the bottle of Coke down, you begin your search for a large glass, and once found, you begin to fill it to the brim with the dark liquid, returning the bottle back to its place in the fridge.

“Ahem.” Looking up, you spot Tony staring at you from the doorway. Rolling your eyes, you grab your glass, gulping down its contents. The familiar fizz that enters your mouth brings tears to your eyes, but you pay no mind. Staring over at Tony, you continue to chug the entire glass.

Placing the empty glass down on the counter, your hand lifts to your mouth, wiping the stray liquid on the back of your hand, before placing both hands on the marble top. “Yes, mister Stark?” It wasn’t that you don’t like him, it’s just you’ve begun to get a weird feeling about him, like something’s not right. Eyes still on Tony, he steps into the room, stopping a metre away. “What’s up, Tony?” You place your right hand on your hip.

“Why did you do that?” You looked over at him, quizzically.

“Do what?”

Rolling his eyes, he replied, “With the chips. Why’d you offer him some?”

“Look, Tony, I was just being friendly. You’re always telling me to make friends, so here I am, trying to do just that, and yet you’re here, saying I shouldn’t?” You couldn’t believe this guy. First he tells me I need more friends, and now he tells me not to make any. Make up your damn mind! Your inner thoughts cease as two new presences slowly enter the room. You’re not sure if Tony notices the two Gods, tiptoeing behind him, as they try not to disturb us.

“He’s dangerous, (Y/N). He’s killed before, and he will probably kill again. Just keep your distance, okay?” You scoff at his poor attempt to sway your opinion.

“What, and I’m not?” That makes the brothers stop. “Tony, I don’t think you realise this, but he’s not the only one in this building with a bad history. Just look at what happened to me, I mean, I’m still here, aren’t I?” It’s only when you stop talking do you notice Loki’s eyes on you, as they stop flickering back and forth – from you to Tony, and back again. “You see, where I come from, everyone had to fight for where they are now, for their place in society. I don’t think you realise how much people can change, Mr. Stark,” picking up your phone from the kitchen counter, you begin to walk towards the hallway, leading to your room, “Look me up, I’ll probably be in one of those old S.H.I.E.L.D. files!”

You storm into your room, lightly slamming the door behind you, before you slide onto the carpeted floor. What’s so wrong about making friends. We’ve all done things we regret. UGH! Allowing your fingerprint to unlock your phone, you take notice of a new text from Logan. Good ol’ Wolvie.

 Wolvie

 Wolvie: Tuesday at 6. Bring a plus 1, or whoever ya want if you’re up for it! 😉

Wolvie: At the Mansion. I’ll be expecting ya bub.

 Lips tilting up into a smile, you typed in your response.

 (Y/N): Not sure about the plus one old man, but I will be going! I can’t wait to see everyone again!😊

 Placing your phone back on sleep mode, you can feel the familiar tingling sensation as it runs up your spine, stopping, only for a moment, when it reaches your head before the feeling explodes all around you. You close your eyes, relishing in its addictiveness before you open them once more. Your body, covered in a purple and blue mix of electricity, zaps and pops around you, calming you down. It’s in this bubble, of sorts, that you can use your abilities without affecting the world around you.

“Miss (Y/N), Loki wishes to enter, shall I let him in?” Taking a deep breath, the bubble dissipates, the stored electricity evaporating into thin air. You nod at the AI. “Of course, let him in.” The soft thud of leather boots fills your room, as the god enters your room, quietly closing the door after him, before turning to you. He’s still wearing his Asgardian clothing.

“I heard what Stark said out there, (Y/N), and I-“ You interrupted him.

“Nope. Not hearing it. He told me to meet new people, and that’s what I was doing. He can shove it, if he thinks, even for one second, that you don’t deserve to have at least one friend.” He looks at you in complete shock, almost as if he wasn’t expecting that. “Let me guess,” you walked closer to him, “the silver-tongued God of Mischief didn’t see that one coming?”

Shaking his head with a small smile, he replied, “I am unable to be your friend, Lady (Y/N), although I thank you for standing up for me.” You give him a questioning look.

“What do you mean I’m “unable to be your frie-“

“I am a dangerous villain who does not deserve such kindness.” He turns, heading back towards the door, his arm outstretched reaching for the metallic handle. You grab his arm, spinning him back towards you.

“Now listen here Mr. Mischief,” he swallows hard, “yes, you may be dangerous, but that does not mean that you can’t receive kindness. Trust me, I may not be as old as you, a literal God, but I have been down that road before, and trust me, it gets you nowhere.” You take a shuddered breath, before continuing. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, but I swear to you I will not let you travel down that path of no return, the path where you believe you don’t deserve anything. The past does not define you. I learned the hard way.”

You can feel tears prick at your eyes, threatening to break free. You are aware the god in front of you knows. He’s been studying you throughout your entire outburst. “What…” He begins, “What do you mean you had to learn the hard way? What happened?” You bow your head, shaking it, as your eyes close tightly to stop the tears from shedding.

 Loki’s POV

 I’ve only known this mortal for at least an hour, and yet she stands before me, a God who will not hesitate to end her life, after standing up for me and proclaiming herself to be my much-needed friend. “What…what do you mean you had to learn the hard way? What happened?” I knew she was already close to tears before I asked but I couldn’t help myself. This fierce little mortal had stood up for me, and now was breaking down because of what others had done to her.

I wasn’t much of a hugger, let alone someone familiar with comfort. I was never the favoured child, always coming second, but this mortal had awoken something in me. The urge to comfort her was overpowering. Never, in my many, many years had this urge come over me. The only thing I could say it was like how I felt towards my moth-Frigga. Hesitantly, my arms wrapped around her small form, as I pulled her towards me, rubbing her back. How could something so foreign to me feel so natural?

What was happening to me?

Once In A Freak Tags:

@bluegirlusa1 @stupidlysarcastic @mirtaqueen @marvelest-marvel@wishrains @nhievyenne @excuse-you-dickwad @blackcat995 @missaphrodite23 @li-ssu @gay-hufflepuff16

Loki Tags:

@baoxiii

Forever Tags:

@theonegirlunderyourbed @jemjem-chan @reading-in-moonlight

Apologies if tags don’t work!

[knightwingyj]

Little Do You Know ch 2

Jericho Anonymous was unlike every other art gallery he had ever been to. Where most of them had plain white walls, Jericho’s walls were painted with warm, earthy tones that some how accented the paintings on display. The lighting was bright and playful. True Colors played quietly over the speakers pulling a chuckle from him at the word play. It was so much better than classical. Jericho Anonymous was unconventional and unorthodox and utterly extraordinary. Conner loved it.

               “Look at this one,” Conner moved away from the abstract painting he had been admiring to join Chloe at the next one. The painting was a well-worn face in warm shades of yellow, honey, and sunshine. It was a familiar face.

               “That’s Carl Manfred, a famous painter native to Detroit. He’s most known for his abstract and modernistic pieces. This seems to be a self-portrait.”

               “There’s a lot of detail in this.” She leaned in close. “Either he was trying to be as accurate as possible or he was really full of himself.”

               “Well, he would say it was the later, but he was never fond of painting self-portraits.” The couple turned toward the new voice that just joined their conversation and Conner’s heart sped up at the interruption.

               “Markus,” he greeted with a small smile.

               It was easily returned. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Conner.”

               Markus looked a lot more relax than he had the first time and Conner suspected that was due to the fact that he wore a soft grey cotton shirt with long sleeves pushed up to his elbows and worn light-wash jeans. The top two buttons of his shirt were open enough to expose the tips of his clavicles which Conner did his best to ignore. It took Conner’s brain longer than it should have for him to remember his manners.

               “Uh, Chloe, this is Markus Manfred. We met at the engagement party. Markus, this is Chloe Kamski, my…fiancée.” He was proud he only froze slightly on the word for a millisecond. The two new acquaintances shook hands.

               “It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. Kamski. No relation to the Cyberlife Kamskis?”

               Chloe smiled pleasantly. “Father and brother actually.”

               “You must have some interesting dinner conversations.”

               “If you consider the nature of artificial intelligence an interesting topic of conversation, then yes.” She said with a bit of a giggle.

               “I find it very interesting, but, unfortunately, I am merely a lowly painter and could not possibly understand the complexities of such topics.” Markus teased, and Chloe laughed.

               “It’s alright, neither does my father. Elijah and I like to discuss it just to see the bemused expression on his face. It’s quite funny.” Chloe admitted. “Now, you said your last name was Manfred. Any relation to the famous painter?” She gestured to the portrait.

               “Father actually,” He replied mimicking Chloe’s earlier phrase. “This was one of the first paintings I ever attempted.”

               Realization struck Conner like an incoming freight train. “Wait, Markus Manfred?” Said man just raised an eyebrow at him with an amused smirk. “Painter of the Humanity Series?” Conner was starting to get excited, bouncing slightly on his toes.

               “That would be me.”

               Conner’s whole face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Wow! It’s an honor, truly!” He exclaimed, ignoring the way both Chloe and Markus were laughing at his enthusiasm. “You were named the greatest rising artist of our time!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I never made the connection before now. That’s not usually like me.”

               “I’m sure you had other things on your mind.” Markus commented with a knowing look.

               “Conner’s a bit of a fanboy.” Chloe said patting him on the arm with a teasing smile and he blushed. “He’s got your pieces adorning his bedroom.”

               The eyebrow rose again and Conner’s flush deepened. “Just a few.”

               “Which ones?” Markus asked genuinely curious.

               “Some of the Humanity Series pieces. Sadness, pain, despair… oh, and prisoner.”

               Markus’ brow furrowed. He was sensing a troubling pattern here. A sharp ring interrupted them, and Chloe cursed quietly. “Shoot, sorry,” she dug through her purse, looking of the offending object. “It’s my mom. I’ll be right back. Keep looking, sweetie.” She leaned up and placed a quick kiss on Conner’s cheek before rushing out the door to answer the nagging cell phone.

               “She seems like a pleasant individual.” Markus commented casually.

               “Yes, she is.” Conner replied, but something in his voice was hesitant and Markus thought back to the paintings.

               He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to his right foot. “So, any particular reason why you chose those paintings?”

               Conner shrugged. “They just spoke to me, I guess. The way you were able to capture the emotion behind each image is just so profound! I could never do anything like that.”

               “I’m sure you have your own talents, Conner.”

               The brunet just shook his head but kept his smile. “Are all of these paintings yours?”

               “No,” Markus replied as they began to casually make their way to the next painting. “A few of them are, but most of them are done by local artists. Many of them don’t have the opportunity to get their works recognized by the professional world and the studio gives them that chance. We get some serious buyers here.”

               “Was that your plan for the studio to begin with? An open door for the struggling artist?”

               “As a matter a fact, yes. I was lucky enough to have Carl when I started, and I wanted to give that same opportunity to others. Everyone needs a little help ever now and then.”

               “Do you scout them out or do they come to you?”

               “A bit of both. When the studio first started, I had to go out and find some promising prospects, but as the reputation of the studio increased, they started coming to me. Though, I do enjoy scouting every so often.” He turned a grin on Conner. “You know, you should help me scout sometime. You obviously know a masterpiece when you see one.”

               Conner chuckled. “If I happen to run into a promising street artist, I’ll be sure to send them your way.”

               A pleasant silence past between them as they took in the next painting together. The distance between them had all but disappeared during their move and Conner could feel the brush of Markus’ arm against his as he breathed. “Hey,” Conner turned to look at him. “My friends and I are getting together later this evening for a few drinks. You should come with us.”

               “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

               “Why not?”

               Conner glanced toward the door. “I just…Chloe might need me to help with some of the wedding planning and I just don’t want let leave her to do that by herself.”

               Markus shifted to face him. “I’m sure she has plenty of help with that. It’s just a few drinks with some friends. It’s not like we’re kidnapping you.”

               I almost wish you would, Conner thought silently to himself. It would certainly get him out of the wedding completely. “But, Chloe…”

               “What about me?” asked said girl with a curious glance between the two men.

               “I was trying to convince Conner here to join my friends and I for a drink, but he’s worried you might need him tonight.” Markus relayed.

               “Of course not,” Chloe turned to her fiancé. “You should go. It’ll get you out of the house and with people for a change.”

               Conner crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you calling me a shut-in?”

               “Yes,” Chloe deadpanned, and Markus snorted. Conner glared at him. “You need friends and I don’t mean Hank and Sumo.”

               “Hey, they happen to be great friends.”

               “Yes, they also happen to be a middle-aged ex-police lieutenant and his dog. You need to meet people your own age.” She shoved him toward Markus as her betrothed sputtered. She addressed Markus, who looked like he was trying to hide his amused grin. “Take him and do not bring him back until he has had proper social interaction.”

               “Yes ma’am.” Markus wrapped an arm around Conner’s shoulders and stirred him to the doors. “Come on, you hermit. Let’s go make some new friends.”

               “We are not friends.” Conner huffed playfully.

               “Of course, we are, we shook on it.”

               Conner had to resist the urge to stick his tongue out at Markus as that would be childish and completely undignified.

               The beat from the club thrummed through Conner’s bones as he gazed around the room. There were bodies at nearly every table in the place as well as filling the dance floor, looking like a swaying sea of skimpy clothes and sweat. There was a lot of people here. Markus had a hand pressed between his shoulder blades and Conner focused on its warmth instead of the heat from the bodies around them. “Come on, the Jericrew are already here.” Markus stated loudly in his ear as Conner was pushed forward.

               He looked puzzled at Markus. “Jericrew?” Conner nearly had to shout over the noise.

               “That’s what we call ourselves. My friends helped me establish Jericho Anonymous. The name is something from our childhood.” Markus paused in his explanation as they arrive at a round table with three individuals already seated. There were two males and one female, all dressed for a night out on the town with dark colors and tight clothing. Markus looked fantastic in just his day clothes, but Conner felt a little weird in his white button up and suit jacket and slacks.

               “Hey, guys. This is Conner.” Markus introduced pulling him closer. He resisted only a little. “From right to left we have Simon, Josh, and North.” They each nodded to him in greeting.

               Simon smiled pleasantly at him, blond hair glowing under the strobing lights of the club. He had on a dark t-shirt and jeans with a jacket slung over the back of his chair. “Welcome, Conner.”

               “He looks like a rich boy.” It was North that spoke as she leaned back in her chair, sizing him up. Conner knew an alpha female when he saw one and she was practically oozing contempt. A rope of hair hung over the bare shoulder left exposed by the cut of her shirt. She had a face of such beauty that men would kill to look at, but her expression was that of a woman aware of her beauty and not afraid to use it to her advantage.

               “North,” Markus admonished as he took a seat beside her, leaving the one between him and Simon free. “Be nice.”

               North didn’t even glance at him. “What? I am being nice,” she said innocently. “I just want to see what rich boy is made of.” A shot glass filled with an amber liquid was pushed towards him. Some of the contents sloshed over the side before settling in front of him. He gazed at it for a moment before returning his gaze back to his challenger. She just smirked, daring him. The others were quiet, waiting to see what he would do.

               Without breaking eye contact, Conner picked up the tiny glass and threw it back. It burned as it went down, but he didn’t react. It was a familiar burn. One that reminded him of long nights with Hank on his couch or sitting at Jimmy’s Bar.

               The shot glass was placed upside down on the table and Conner raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘that all you got?’. The side of North’s mouth twitched, mildly impressed. “Rye whiskey. Journeyman, most likely. Not bad.” He commented finally sitting in his chair.

               It was North’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

               “The taste, like a spicy bourbon.”

               “You can tell the brand of the bourbon just by tasting it?” Josh asked skeptically, arms resting on the table.

               “Most of the time. Drinks with similar ingredients are difficult, but yes. I can.”

               “Alright smart ass,” North plucked Markus’ glass out of his hand, ignoring his indignant ‘hey’, and handed it to Conner. “What’s Markus drinking?”

               Conner glanced at the artist. Markus gave him an exasperated wave to ‘go for it’ and he took a small sip. “Macallan Scotch. Neat.” Their fingers brushed when he handed it back.

               “Impressive,” Markus said smiling.

               “Oh, me next!” Simon said excitedly, and Conner couldn’t help but chuckle as he sipped.

               “Vodka tonic.”

               Simon took his drink back. “That’s really cool.”

               “Sure, it is, but how about a real test?” North challenged as she stood up.

               “North, no.” Markus said before cursing as she marched to the bar. She came back quickly carrying a tray of shot glasses, each filled with a different drink. “For each one you get right, Markus will give you a kiss.”

               The man next to her choked on his drink as Conner flushed a deep red. “North! He’s engaged!”

               “So? I don’t hear him protesting.” Conner took note the Markus protested about him being engaged and not about kissing another guy. Interesting.

               “No North.”

               North sighed dramatically. “Fine, you killjoy. We’ll figure out the reward later. Have at it.”

               Conner shook his head good-humoredly as his blush faded. He had a feeling that this group of friends was going to get him into a lot of trouble. It was kind of exciting. He dove right in to the first shot, giving each one as much dedication as one of his cases at work.

               He’s kind of cute when he’s focused, Markus thought before subtly shaking the thought away. Conner was engaged, and he shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. He was in almost awe as Conner named each drink correctly. “You’ve got a talented tongue there, Conner.” And North was determined to make him think about kissing him. His friends were the worst.

               “Thanks,” Conner replied hesitantly not sure if that was meant to be an innuendo. He was only slightly buzzed from the shots. Hank had trained him well.

               The conversation drifted from topic to topic freely. He discovered the North was crass and spoke her mind without regard of what other’s thought of her. Josh was her polar opposite, calm and polite and always arguing with her on nearly everything. The current subject of debate was movies.

               “I hate that movie!” North stated passionately before gulping down another bourbon.

               Simon looked affronted at her declaration and jumped to defend the film. “How could you say that?! The Princess Bride is a classic!”

               “I don’t care. It’s just another stupid romance movie that depicts the female as helpless and needing a man to save her. It’s insulting. She could have easily gotten away from those two idiots if she had just gotten a little creative with her fists.”

               “One of them was a giant!”

               “So? Any man will go down if you just hit them in the right spot. Right Conner?” She asked with a vicious grin.

               Conner shrugged apologetically at the blond. “She’s got a point.”

               Simon looked so utterly betrayed that Conner couldn’t hold back a smile. “Why Conner? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

               “Besides,” North continued, “the whole arranged marriage thing is a joke. People should have the right to marry whomever they want.”

               A heavy rock dropped into Conner’s stomach and he looked down at the scotch swirling around in his glass. His grip on it tightened.

               “That practice went out of style ages ago.” Josh commented.

               Conner scoffed. “I wish.”

               They turned to look at him. Josh’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, it did. The practice was used mostly for things like financial gain and social standing.”

               “Or keeping their families in a position of power.” Conner muttered.

               North gestured in Conner’s direction. “Yeah, see, shit like that’s stupid. Who in their right mind would agree to something like that?”

               “Me.”

               The group froze, staring at him like he had just said the obscenest thing they had ever heard. Self-conscious and bitter, Conner avoided looking at any of them and curled in on himself slightly. “It wasn’t much of a choice really. It was more of a ‘you’re required to do this’.” He should really stop talking now. “Just forget I said anything,” and he downed the rest of his scotch.

               A hand landed on his arm, trying to comfort him. “Conner, I had no idea…” Markus started before North cut him off.

               “Why didn’t you just say no?”

               Conner laughed humorlessly. “If only it was that easy.”

               “Of course, it is.”

               “You’ve never met my mother.”

               North opened her mouth to continue but Markus leveled her with a look that had her shutting it with a click.

               The atmosphere was suddenly heavy, and Conner could feel the beginnings of guilt building in his chest. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry for bringing down the mood guys.”

               “Don’t be,” Simon insisted. “You obviously needed to tell someone and who better than your drinking buddies?” He spread his arms out to include everyone and they each gave him a supportive smile.

               He couldn’t resist returning it. “Thanks.”

               “Don’t mention it, Buttercup.” North said before clapping a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Come on, professor. I’m just drunk enough to dance, and you lost a bet.”

               Josh grumbled at the unfairness of said bet, but he stood anyway. “I need another drink.” Simon said before heading toward the bar, leaving Markus and Conner alone at the table.

               Conner kept his eyes on his now empty glass, trying to keep them from straying to the annoyingly hot guy currently burning a hole in the side of his head. “Conner, I’m sorry.”

               He let out a resigned sigh. “Life’s not fair. I just have to live with that.”

               “You don’t have to, you know.”

               “And I really don’t want to talk about this.” He said sharply, eyes snapping to meet green and blue. The fire in them quickly died at seeing the sympathy and understanding in his. “Sorry.”

               “It’s alright. I’m here though, if you ever do want to talk.” Conner held his gaze for a moment, searching for…something. He didn’t know what. He nodded and turned to seek out Josh and North on the dance floor. Markus had shifted closer to him at some point during their conversation and he found that he didn’t mind. There was a nudge at his elbow and he looked back.

               “Give me your phone.”

               Confused, Conner tilted his head. “What?”

               “Let me see your phone.” Markus held out his hand.

               Still not quite understanding what Markus wanted, Conner reached into back pocket and pulled out his phone. Markus took it and began to type before handing it back. “There, now if you ever want to talk, you’ve got my number.”

               The digits quickly imprinted themselves on Conner’s brain. He smiled at Markus. “Thanks, but you might come to regret it.”

               Markus shook his head, grinning. “No, I don’t think I will.”

               Markus was certainly a strange individual. This night wasn’t turning out anything like he had planned, but, hey, at least he got a hot guy’s number out of it.