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adore-laur · 11 months ago

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BULLSEYE: PART TWO

— last part unfortunately due to lack of inspiration (ends on a cliffhanger btw)

| The Girl |

Port ships stationed on choppy waters blare their horns outside Shyla's apartment window. The pane is coated with dispersed rain droplets from the thunderstorm that just faded.

In the foyer, cardboard boxes stuffed to the brim collect dust as remaining possessions slowly trickle out of their previous positions and into them. The cupboard above the kitchen sink is now empty of hand-painted mugs and colorful bendy straws. Secondhand art pieces have been taken down from the plastered walls of her bedroom. Flowers once quenched in vases are now wilted and ready to be thrown away, the dying petals symbolizing the approaching absence of their caretaker.

There's nothing else to be said or done. The moving truck will arrive tomorrow, and Shyla will finally detach herself from her poisonous living situation. No more nights being woken up by someone drunkenly stumbling through the front door. No more petty arguments over whose turn it is to wash the dishes, resulting in her doing the chore anyway. No more staring at the ceiling while her friends engage in plans she wasn't invited to.

It's a fresh start. Onwards to greener grass.

Perched on the windowsill, Shyla overlooks the gloomy scenery of her hometown. Dull roads, dull buildings, and even duller personalities; it's all so uninspiring to her. The city may look like a seaside harbor of dreams to tourists, but she has lived in the façade her whole life. She knows everyone will eventually become sick of the monotony.

It seems like everyone has gotten sick of her. People are dwindling out of her life, and while most of the reasonings feel like her fault, she's still finding herself so lonely that she thinks she should've just kept her friends around to keep a tiny piece of her social life intact. Alas, she chose to distance herself from the only friends she had left. She doesn't feel too regretful since they never gave her the time of day. They probably aren't too affected by what happened.

Shyla was habituated to being walked over like a doormat and thrown around like a rag doll. Emotional bruises from the mental abuse tainted her soul, and it led her to believe that she was completely blindsided by their spiteful ways of showing what she thought was friendship. Now, moving forward, she knows better than to ignore the warning signs. It's as if a switch flipped the night she called them after they left her stranded in an unfamiliar place.

The flip switched because of Harry. When he told her to screw her friends when she wanted to say goodbye to them at the pub. When he told her he could clearly see how terribly they treated her. How unsettled he was when they left without her. How he tried to convince her to stay with him. It's worth wondering if things would be different if she hadn't said no.

It doesn't help that Shyla has been failing miserably at not thinking about him. His dimpled smile. His gentle hands. His leather jacket she took off just so she could feel his warm skin as they danced to Dolly. She was convinced she'd forget about him as soon as she woke up in her bed, but he was the first thought clouding her mind before her eyes fluttered open.

It's been over a week since she left Lurgashall. Her ex-friends are returning to Portsmouth tomorrow, and she'll only have to suffer one night with the girl she lives with before she officially moves out. Her belongings will be moved into a hotel room until she can find an affordable apartment. She would have stayed with her aunt, but she thinks she'd go insane being stuck in a house with a blood relative. It feels backwards to think that way, but her aunt isn't necessarily the most easygoing person.

Lost in her thoughts, Shyla waits for the hours to pass by. The grey Monday skies make time move slower than usual. She can't think of anything else to do since most of everything is already packed, the hotel reservation is booked, and her body is ready to get the hell out of the apartment.

A rhythmic knock on the front door halts her brooding. With a heavy sigh, she stands and walks over to the door, putting on a fake smile for the unexpected visitor. Briefly looking through the peephole, she's surprised to see the postman, Edgar, with a satchel full of mail slung over his shoulder. She unlocks the chain and cracks open the door, her mind scrambling at what could possibly be here for her, considering she already got her weekly mail from the lobby.

"Delivery from... Lurgashall, West Sussex," Edgar says slowly, reading from the envelope. "Not sure where that is. There's no name, and I was told it's fragile, so I didn't want to just drop it in your parcel locker."

Shyla feels her heart drop to her stomach. It can't be. But who else would write to her from a place she spent no more than a day in? Well, the three stooges are still there, but she knows for a fact that they would never go out of their way and send her something, especially a handwritten letter.

Her mouth opens and closes as she attempts to speak through her jumbled thoughts about what it could be. "I—um, thanks. Thank you. I think I know who it's from. Have a nice day, Edgar."

He waves goodbye and strolls down the hallway as Shyla closes the door and puts her back against it. The thick envelope feels like a metaphorical anchor in her hand, pulling her down until she slides to the floor.

What she's holding has been touched by Harry. He pushed the lead onto the paper, sealed it, and sent it to her address. He thought of her. Shyla releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding and bravely glances down. She assumes he got her address when she wrote her information on the waiver the day she went horseback riding. The front of the envelope is blank except for the return address with no name and a horseshoe stamp in the top right corner.

When she flips it over, she gasps and holds it against her chest as if she's in a period drama and just got a letter from her lover off at war. However, she feels her reaction is appropriate because a sketch is on the envelope's seal. It's a minimalistic style that resembles Harry's tattoo sketches of hands reaching out to touch one another. She doesn't know what it insinuates, but the mere fact that he had drawn it makes her shake with anticipation.

Shyla inhales deeply before carefully ripping the seal open. She immediately sees something wrapped in bubble wrap, the cause of such a chunky envelope; it must be why Edgar said it was fragile. She takes it out and begins unwrapping it.

What lies in her palm is a pink dart.

Shyla squeezes her eyes shut and leans her head against the door, the cold surface juxtaposing the blazing object between her fingers. Why must he pull her back in so easily with a simple gesture? How does he know how to make her feel things she hasn't even discovered yet?

She opens her eyes and takes out the neatly folded paper inside the envelope. Skimming over the words, she notices Harry's handwriting is messy but eligible nonetheless.

Shyla,

I haven't heard from you since you left, and I can't help but feel that I'm the reason why. I hope you're doing well. Did you make it back to Portsmouth safely? Have you found another place to stay yet?

Do you think of me like I've been thinking of you?

Your name plays like a record in my head, falling from my lips with constant yearning. Your touch is engraved on my skin, leaving a burning, physical ache. I want to swim in the melted honey of your eyes. I long for one more taste of your lips. I need to hear the softness in which you speak your persuasive words.

Please talk to me. Or if you never want to hear from me again, just tell me. Let me down gently, and I will try to move on. If not, you know where to find me. I will wait for you.

Also, I believe we have a game of darts to finish.

Yours regardless,

Harry

Shyla reads the words repeatedly until she can't make them out anymore due to tears blurring her vision. Why hasn't she called him? How could she think she could forget about a man with such a kind soul? She can't leave him hanging. He doesn't deserve that.

She runs her fingers over the graphite like she did in his cabin with his sketches. He's the only one who has scratched deeper than the surface of who she is. He's the only one who has cared enough about how people treat her. He's the only one to have spoken up about it and convinced her to break away from that toxic part of her life she's been holding on to for far too long.

She needs to see him again.

After folding the letter, she rushes to grab her car keys and wallet. A trip to the post office will surely pass the time and help ease the ache clawing at her heart.

——

| The Boy |

Another shift at the ranch moves by like molasses since no reservations are booked for the day. Warbler birds chirp incessantly under the afternoon sun as the dusty roads absorb the heat. The room is stale, with dust particles floating around in the natural light. The wood floors creak with any sudden movement, and the papers tacked onto the wall flutter when the wind picks up, the front door propped open like always.

Harry's father is in the outlying pasture next to the ranch, giving a customer an equestrian lesson. Harry was left to run the front desk by himself in case anyone comes by, but he doubts that will happen. It's Wednesday; he's sure everyone would rather be inside enjoying air conditioning on such a humid day.

Sitting behind the counter, he twirls a pen between his fingers and wishes time would pass faster. It's muggy out, causing his forehead to sweat as he looks out the window for any sign of life to bring him a distraction. He'll usually bring his sketchbook, but on days with his father around, he wants to avoid him walking in on him drawing tattoo ideas. He can't imagine how he'd react.

Harry is hungover. It's no surprise, though; he's been at the pub every night for the past week, always staying within the bar area in case the phone rings. He hasn't been playing darts, the memory of brown skin and soft whispers invading his mind to the point where even if he did play, he would be too distracted to do any good. A local always ends up having to drive him home. He then wakes up with a pounding headache and internally debates about not going to work so he doesn't snap at someone, especially his father.

The cycle slowly demolishes any relish for life he has left in him. He can't sleep. When he manages to get a couple of hours, his dreams aren't pleasant anymore. Some nights, he doesn't even dream at all.

When he's not at the pub or the ranch, he's in his cabin all alone. But he doesn't find solace in that loneliness anymore. Now, he just walks around aimlessly, trying to find something to numb his thoughts — drinking, sketching, reading. He'll read a sappy romance novel to try and feel anything, but the lovesick words on the pages only make him crave what he experienced with Shyla.

After another uneventful hour of twiddling his thumbs and ignoring the magnitude of his unhappiness, Harry hears the postal truck stop at the mailbox by the front porch. He sputters his lips and walks out the door. It's probably bills or business forms his father takes care of.

He opens the wooden flap and sees only one letter today. A small white envelope with pretty cursive written on the front stands out against the dark interior of the mailbox. He gently takes it out and brings it closer to his face. It has his name in the middle, and there's a sticker in the corner with an address from Portsmouth. Can it be…?

Harry has to kneel so he doesn't pass out from shock. She got his letter. She wrote back.

He glances over his shoulder to ensure his father isn't lurking around before he tears the seal open. He removes and unfolds the creased paper inside, his eyes immediately taking in her delicate and slanted handwriting. It makes sense for it to look like that.

The ink is bold against the white paper. Harry looks up at the sky and swallows harshly before reading the words that could either break his heart or make him the happiest man in Lurgashall.

Harry,

I got your letter and the dart. Stealing business property, are we?

That's not the point. The point is that I want to see you again. I'm an idiot to think I could just ignore you. I'm sorry if it came across that I never wanted to speak to you again. I've been stressed and busy.

To answer your question, I'm staying at a hotel until I find somewhere to live. As for your other question, I've also been thinking about you. I miss your hands. I miss how easy it is to talk to you. I miss dancing together.

I'm in the middle of moving right now, but I should be situated by next week. If you'll have me, I'd love to come back to Lurgashall and meet somewhere. Does next Monday work for you?

If so, get ready for me to kick your ass in darts.

Love,

Shyla

Harry grips the letter like it's his life source, reading the words I want to see you again over and over until his eyes hurt from the closeness in which he's viewing the paper. He slams the mailbox shut and strides back into the ranch, stumbling behind the counter to take out several cardboard boxes kept under it. The junk gets tossed onto the floor and makes a clatter. He finally finds the box that stores envelopes, and he's never moved faster to grab one.

Shyla,

Monday is perfect. Guess what? Karaoke night at the pub is on that day. It must be your psychology degree coming in handy. Wait... is that what psychology is? I left school at an early age, so go easy on me. Anyway, I'll wait for you at the pub at 9 PM.

I'm glad you're moving to a new place. It'll be good for you. I can't wait to see you again.

Don't forget to bring your lucky pink dart. Otherwise, I'm not sure there will be any ass-kicking involved on your end. Please drive safely.

Take care,

Harry

He sets the pen down and rests his forehead on the counter, breathing a disbelieving laugh. He shakes his head before standing straight and tucking the letter in the envelope. As he walks out the back door to the stables, he licks the seal and keeps his footsteps quiet. His father can't see him from where he is far out in the pasture, so Harry sneakily mounts his horse and rides to the village's post office to send the letter as soon as possible. No way is he waiting for the mail to come tomorrow.

As he passes the pond and the willow tree's drooping branches, his heart feels like it's been healed by her simple words on a crinkly piece of paper.

——

| The Girl |

It's the following Monday, and Shyla is five minutes away from Lurgashall. She drives through the night to get to the pub. She had written back and said she'd meet him at his suggested time.

Her suitcase and duffel bag are in the trunk, clunking against the interior as she drives on a bumpy stretch of road. The highways drastically transformed into vacant backroads surrounded by expansive fields. She doesn't know how long she'll be staying, so she packed a bunch of clothes and other essential items she might need. The boxes at her old apartment had been moved into a new complex in Portsmouth. She wasn't looking for anything fancy, just a simple one-bedroom place she could eventually make into her own.

Shyla turns down the volume of a Fleetwood Mac song playing through the car's speakers as she enters the pub's gravel parking lot. She gets hit with déjà vu when she remembers how excited she was to come last time, only to have the night end horribly. This time around, she's walking in by herself and will be around someone who listens and cares.

Tonight, it'll just be her and Harry.

He mentioned karaoke night in his letter, so she assumes it will be lively inside. Before opening the car door, she checks herself in the rear-view mirror to ensure she looks presentable. She's makeup-less just in case it's humid in the small room. She wears high-waisted jeans with a few rips and a grey crop top.

Shyla takes a deep breath and mentally prepares herself to see him again. It's been about two weeks, and she wonders if things will be awkward between them. It's easy to write letters and prepare what you want to say beforehand, but when it's face-to-face, there's a hypercritical pressure to say the right thing.

After fixing her hair, she finally gains the courage to leave her car. She locks it and begins walking to the wooden door as her shoes crunch the gravel beneath them, and it's what she focuses on instead of the nervousness twisting her stomach into knots. She can hear muffled chatter and music that only gets louder when she finally opens the final barrier between her and Harry.

Once she passes the threshold, she's instantly consumed with the same feeling she had the last time; overwhelmed but comfortably so. She has missed the ambiance of the pub even though she's only been to it once before. Everyone is too preoccupied with themselves to see her arrive, and she's thankful for the lack of perception the people here partake in. Her eyes dance around the room, searching for Harry, first looking at the dartboard in the corner to see if he's already playing a game. He's not there, so she looks behind the bar to see if he might be serving drinks tonight.

As she scans the preoccupied stools for his curly head of hair, it doesn't even register in her mind that the music playing is coming from the karaoke stage set up in the back. She eventually homes in on a beautiful voice singing along to an instrumental.

Shyla stands on her tiptoes to look over the crowd of people in front of her. That voice is calling to her. She politely excuses herself several times while navigating through the bodies until she's at the front. Her breath catches in her throat when she finally has a clear view of the makeshift stage.

Harry.

Her jaw drops in shock as she watches him. He sits on a stool, his legs spread casually, and holds a wired microphone in his hand while he sings along to the instrumental of "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers. He wears see-through yellow sunglasses, a yellow graphic tee, and velvet brown pants. His face is screwed up as he vocalizes on top of the violins and smooth beat of the song, his voice the perfect mixture of raspy yet smooth. The way the notes and vibratos flow from his throat seems effortless.

Shyla is awestruck. She can't stop looking at him. It's like they're the only two people in the room as everything else becomes static noise. A few pub patrons admire Harry along with her, while the rest discourse and drink elsewhere. She thinks she could listen to his voice for the rest of her life. She thinks Dolly Parton's voice is like honey, but Harry's is like a silky stream of liquid gold that melts and aligns in the crevices of her soul just right.

Shyla's hand raises to her chest, feeling her heart pound strongly. Harry's voice fades as the song ends, and claps and whistles are thrown his way. She joins in, still not able to process what she just witnessed. Harry's hands come together in a silent gesture of gratitude before he bows his head shyly. His eyes rove the room until they land on hers. His body is frozen in the motion of getting off the stool, but then he blinks once and smiles wider than Shyla has ever seen. He offers a small wave before handing the microphone to the person next in line. He jerks his head toward the back door, and Shyla snaps out of her reverie, beginning to follow him out while wiping her sweaty palms against her jeans.

Once outside, they stand facing each other under the red glow of the exit sign. No one is around except crickets chirping in the tall weeds growing around the pub. It's a little chilly, and Shyla shivers as she rubs her hands up and down her arms to create circulation. Harry holds up one finger as a signal to wait before returning inside.

Shyla slaps her face several times while she waits, trying to remain calm. She can't believe it's happening. She looks at the streetlamps that illuminate the fields behind the pub and hopes everything goes well tonight.

Moments later, Harry comes out holding his brown leather jacket. He hands it to her.

"Thank you. I didn't realize it would be this cold," Shyla says quietly as she engulfs her body in the garment. It smells like the cologne he wore when they played darts.

"Yeah, it gets nippy here at night." He sets his sunglasses on the top of his head and sighs happily. "Hi. You're really here."

Shyla giggles and admires his now clearly visible eyes. "I'm here. It's nice to see you again, Harry. You look really good."

"You're absolutely beautiful," he says, gazing across her face and body. "I didn't know if you'd actually come back."

"I know. I'm so sorry I didn't call or write—"

"Shy," he interrupts softly. "I understand, okay? I didn't know you were busy with moving, so I just stupidly assumed you were done with me. You were going through shit and needed some time for yourself. Don't worry about it."

"Well, I'm glad you wrote to me. Otherwise, I would've thought you were done with me too."

"Why would you think that?" He steps closer and cradles Shyla's cheeks, tilting her head up. "You haven't left my mind. I've been feeling miserable about how we left things."

"Same here," she says. "Can we… maybe go to your cabin to talk more? Only if it's okay with you. It's just that it's cold, and someone could see us and—"

Harry's mouth is on hers instantly, stopping her nervous rambling. Shyla melts into him just as he pulls back too quickly for her liking, her bottom lip snapping back in place. Her gaze darts between his eyes as he rubs his thumb along her cheek.

"Sorry. I should've asked—"

Shyla cuts him off, this time with her lips against his. Harry hums lowly as his brows furrow, tilting her head more for better access. He kisses her deeply, and Shyla's hands crawl under his shirt to feel his warm, soft skin under her fingertips. They graze the trail of coarse hair under his belly button, causing his stomach to twitch and then relax. She switches to kissing his top lip and notices that there's not as much hair above it since the last time she saw him.

They finally run out of breath and part. Shyla removes her greedy hand from under his shirt, and Harry removes his hands from her cheeks.

"Let's go to my place," he whispers, his mouth glistening.

"Yes," she replies pleadingly. "I can drive us. I have my luggage in my car, and we can listen to music on the way. There's actually a song I wanted to introduce you to."

Harry smiles. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's hope you're better at steering a car than a horse."

Shyla playfully scrunches her nose at him before they both start walking around the pub to get to her car. The headlights flash as she presses the unlock button, and she gets in the driver's seat. Harry smoothly slides into the passenger side. She twists the key in the ignition, and her Bluetooth automatically connects and plays a song. They both jolt at the loud volume, and Shyla embarrassingly turns it down before grabbing her phone to scroll through her playlist. In her peripheral, she sees Harry reach over to buckle her seatbelt while she finds the song.

"So, I know you like Dolly Parton and Shania Twain. Country isn't my favorite genre, but for some reason, women artists just hit different, you know?"

Harry leans his elbow on the console and nods with an intrigued expression.

"There's this one song that I've loved since I was a kid," she continues. "Like, it's one of the first memories I can remember with my mom because she would always play it in the car. It's called "This Kiss" by Faith Hill, and it's one of the best songs ever created."

"The name rings a bell. Play it. Let's see if the lyrics come back to me."

Shyla excitedly shifts in her seat and presses play before reversing out of the parking lot. She turns the volume up and grooves her head to the beginning instrumental, smiling when Harry does the same. She begins singing as she drives along the empty roads.

When the euphoric chorus hits, she shouts the lyrics. Something about being around Harry brings out fortuitous bursts of confidence.

"This kiss, this kiss!" Harry joins in as they both point at each other. "Unstoppable!"

When the key change comes, they're at a stop sign with no one else on the streets. They lean their heads against the headrests and look at each other during the final chorus. Harry grabs Shyla's face, squishing her cheeks and mouthing the lyrics with his lips brushing against hers.

She doesn't want to keep driving; she wants to stay in this moment forever.

They continue singing all the way to his cabin. Harry gives her directions, and the song ends just as she slows down on his long driveway weaving through the woods. She parks under the balcony and shuts the car off, the absence of music creating a deafening silence. She turns to Harry and notices the rings on his fingers. His hands are incredibly attractive.

She shakes her head to eliminate the dangerous thought as Harry says, "I'll grab your stuff. You can go inside and get comfortable. The door is unlocked."

"Oh, thank you. Sorry if they're heavy. I didn't know how much to pack."

"Not to brag, but I can carry a sixty-pound saddle with one hand. I think I'll be able to handle it," Harry teases while stepping out of the car.

She scoffs lightheartedly and begins walking up the stairs to the balcony. She gets hit with a second wave of déjà vu when she passes the jacuzzi, her skin growing hot when she recalls what they did in it. She'll never look at one the same way again.

Making her way through the door and turning the light switch on, Shyla smiles at the immediate comfort she receives from his home. It makes her feel safe. Harry eventually comes in with her suitcase rolling behind him and her duffel bag slung on his shoulder.

"I'm so tired," Shyla says as she flops on his couch.

"Well, my bed is more comfortable," he replies, walking up the stairs to his loft. "Please shut the lights off before you come up."

She doesn't hesitate to slip her shoes off and set his leather jacket on the arm of the couch. Shyla hasn't been in his room yet, and Harry seems to be inviting her, so she smiles giddily and follows him.

The string lights wrapped around the railing make the room more visible as Shyla takes in his quilted blanket-covered bed. There's one window in the middle of the back wall and a wooden bathtub in the corner. She also notices that he has an intricately carved dresser with a retro record player and a stack of vinyl on it.

"I picked some out for us before you got here, but if you're too tired, we don't have to dance tonight," Harry says, folding the quilt back.

"I think it'd be good for us to get some sleep," Shyla replies while sitting on his bed.

"Agreed. Um, I can… take the couch," he mumbles as he begins searching through the drawers.

"Why?" Did she misread the situation? Or is he just being a gentleman?

"I-I just didn't know if you'd be comfortable sleeping together. It's been two weeks and—"

"Harry, I rode your thigh the night I met you," she says boldly. "I wouldn't come all this way just to be away from you."

His hands tighten around the shirt he picked out. "Really?"

She pats the bed and scoots over so she's closer to the wall. "Yes. Come over here."

"Okay," he murmurs while taking off his shoes. "I don't even wear a shirt to bed, so I don't know why I'm looking for one. I got nervous." He rubs his forehead and puts the garment back in the top drawer before shutting it.

"Don't be nervous. We've got time to reacquaint ourselves."

"Right." Harry shuts the lights off and climbs into bed, taking his shirt off. "Are you going to sleep in those clothes?"

"If I get up to change, I'll lose my tiredness."

"Wow. Sleeping in jeans is when you know you've hit rock bottom," he says as he slides under the covers. He takes his pants off before turning on his side to face her.

"If rock bottom is here, then I don't want to leave," she mumbles against his pillow.

It's silent for a brief moment before he whispers, "Please be here when I wake up."

Her eyes search for him in the dark. "I promise. Goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams."

He inches closer to place a blind kiss on her face. "Night, Shy."

——

| The Boy |

There's a heavy knocking on the door downstairs. Why is it so loud? What time is it? Is it part of a residual dream?

Harry grumbles and squints his eyes against the sunlight beaming through the window. He feels something resting against his chest, and when he looks down, he sees Shyla's cheek pressed against where his heart is. Slow breaths leave her parted lips as she sleeps peacefully.

A relieved sigh escapes him. Thank goodness she didn't leave.

She apparently can't hear the knocking, and since he doesn't want it to wake her up, he gently slides out from under her to confront whoever it is. He tucks her in, closes the curtains, and then puts on his pants from yesterday. Heading downstairs with soft footsteps, he yawns as he walks toward the persistent pounding.

When he opens the door, he comes face-to-face with his father. He looks angrier than usual. Maybe because— oh, fuck. He completely forgot he had work today.

"I expect a phenomenal excuse, boy," says his father. Harry instinctively shrinks into himself. "You were supposed to be at work an hour ago. It's seven already."

There's no way he can tell him about Shyla. He can't know she's here with him, sleeping in his bed. His father would go berserk.

"I got really drunk last night and passed out here. I forgot to set my alarm," he lies, scratching his head.

"That's the best you've got? I can easily count how many times you've come to work hungover. Why is today the day you don't feel up to it, huh? For heaven's sake, you—"

"Dad," he says with a groan. He really doesn't want to deal with his explosive nature this early. "It won't happen again. I'll come right now, okay? I'll work overtime today."

His father shakes his head disappointedly. "You're lucky there's no one waiting for a tour. Get a move on. Otherwise, you're not getting paid today."

Harry nods and rubs his tired eyes. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."

"You probably reek of whiskey. Take a shower and fix your piss-poor mood."

He has to bite his tongue so as not to talk back. He wants to tell him that if he just drove him to work, he'd be there faster. Alas, his father has never been a logical man.

Without another word, his father slams the door shut, shaking the picture frames on the walls. Harry chews on the inside of his cheek to stop the irritation from taking over his body. He kicks the door before making some coffee.

While it's brewing, he returns to the loft to check on Shyla. She's still lying down, but her eyes are now open. She must have heard everything.

"Shyla, I'm so sorry," he murmurs as he finds an outfit. "I forgot I have work this morning, and now my father's pissed."

She smiles and sits up against the headboard. "That's okay. Sorry for distracting you."

"It's not your fault at all." He glances back at her tired eyes as he jumps into a pair of blue jeans. He then throws on a plain white shirt and shoves his feet into his boots.

"Still. It's our first day together again, and you have to leave."

"That's on me. I should've had you come when I wasn't working, but it was karaoke night, and I wanted to see you as soon as possible. I feel terrible."

"Hey, don't worry about it." Shyla sits at the edge of the bed. "I can stay here, right?"

He sits beside her and admires how the morning sun strikes her skin. "Of course. You can make yourself something to eat. And, um, I've got books and records you can look through," he says meekly, hoping his cabin doesn't appear dull.

"I'm sure I'll find something. Just know I'll be here when you get back."

"Okay. I'll try to get out of working overtime. I'm sure it won't be too busy today.

She nods. "I'll walk you out."

He watches her stretch, her shirt riding up to show a sliver of smooth skin. Then they go downstairs, Harry grabbing his filled coffee mug before he opens the front door. They lean against the frame and face each other.

Harry clears his throat and says, "You should pick out some records for us to dance to tonight."

"I'd like that." Shyla runs a hand through her hair. "Have a good shift, okay? Don't let your father get in your head."

"I won't." He gives her a soft smile and moves closer. "Maybe we can go to the pub and finish that game of darts."

She wraps her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek sweetly. "That sounds perfect. I'll see you soon."

He blushes and looks at the ground. Should he kiss her? Maybe a hug would be safer? He's overthinking everything.

"Bye," he blurts.

"Bye, Harry."

He exhales and decides to just go for it. Slowly, he places his palm on her cheek just as Shyla looks up at him with those brown eyes that melt him. He kisses her. It's an innocent kiss, nothing more than a long caress of her bottom lip. After breaking away, he rests his forehead against hers, and they both smile like fools.

He leaves with one last kiss before heading out. Walking down the driveway, he feels elated, knowing he gets more time with her when he arrives home.

——

| The Boy & The Girl |

Shyla spends the next eight hours getting acquainted with Harry's cabin. She observes every nook and cranny, not in a nosy way, but just because she genuinely wants to see everything that makes him who he is. She still doesn't know much about him and plans to ask him questions tonight without distractions.

It's now four in the evening, and the sun still shines through the gaps of the tall pine trees outside. She made breakfast and lunch, looked through his book collection, and picked out some records. Now, she sits on his couch and waits for him. The sun will set soon, and she's looking forward to going to the pub later so they can finish their game of darts.

Just as she's about to skim another book, she hears what sounds like hooves walking on gravel outside the windows she opened earlier. She goes to the one by the front door and sees Harry riding a horse as he chews on a Twizzler—not just any horse, but the same one she rode when she went horseback riding.

Harry smirks at her confused expression. He also notices that she's changed out of her clothes from last night and into leggings and a white low-cut top with a string halter around her neck. He pulls back on the reigns and steadily dismounts Quake. He decided to bring the horse Shyla would be most comfortable with, not wanting to scare her by bringing his stallion.

Shyla walks over to them with uneasy steps, and he beckons her closer. "Uber's here," he says, grabbing Quake's purple bridle and guiding him toward her.

"I think Lurgashall should have a horse and carriage ride share company," Shyla says as she timidly pets Quake.

He laughs. "Let's ride to the pub."

Shyla quirks an eyebrow. "What do you mean ride?"

"On Quake. I mean, I did bring him all the way here. He told me he likes you."

She pretends to mull it over as Harry drapes his arms around her shoulders and brings her in for a hug. He whispers, "You can hold onto me the entire time. I won't let you get hurt. Let's go inside and get ready, yeah?"

Shyla nods and returns to the cabin as Harry ties Quake to a post. He then follows her to his loft, wiping sweat off his neck with his shirt. He sees Shyla place her suitcase on the bed, stuffed with many garments.

"Why don't you pick out an outfit for me to wear tonight?" he murmurs as he squeezes her upper arms.

"Are we dressing casually or formally for our incredibly serious dart competition?"

"Hmm... we should be fancy. Did you pack anything like that?"

"I might have brought a dress," she says, pressing her ass back against him. When she moves away, she hears his dissatisfied sigh. It's fun riling him up.

"Well, while you get ready, I'm going to give Quake a snack." Harry points to his dresser full of outfits, ranging from tattered sweatshirts to crisp button-ups. "Pick out anything you want. Make it good."

Shyla hums an affirmation as he heads down the stairs. She begins sifting through his drawers, going through shorts, boxers, and different shades of jeans. When she gets to the bottom drawer, she moves some frayed sweaters around and stumbles upon something unlike his other clothing: a black leather jacket and pants.

She touches the textured material, removes it from the drawer, and places it on his bed. She could never be confident enough to wear leather, but she has a feeling Harry could pull it off. Where could he have possibly worn this before? It almost looks unused.

When Harry returns, he stops when he sees what Shyla laid out for him. He clears his throat and slowly walks toward the bed.

"That's what you want me to wear?" he asks, picking up the pristine jacket.

"Yes," she says hesitantly. "Is it too much? I can find something else if—"

"Shyla." Her mouth snaps shut at his low tone. "You want me to wear this with no shirt on underneath and my tits out for everyone to see? Are you sure you can handle that?"

She swallows and nods her head. "You look really good in leather."

"Yeah? Leather it is, then."

He begins taking off his clothes, and Shyla distracts herself by looking through her bag to find the dress she packed. She pulls out her black suede heels and silver slip dress she brought in case they went anywhere fancy. The hem falls to her mid-thigh, and the scooped neckline is loose around her cleavage. Before she zips her bag, she remembers that she brought the pink dart with her. It's in the mesh pocket of her bag, and she slyly takes it without him seeing it and puts it in her bra. She then goes to the bathroom to change.

Once her dress and shoes are on, Shyla splashes her face with cold water and wanders toward his bookcase while she waits, her fingers running along the spines. She still needs to look through all of them. Based on the titles and covers, many of them seem to be in the romance genre, and it tugs at her heartstrings knowing that Harry reads such vulnerable stories in his cabin all alone.

While reading the back of a book titled Emma, she suddenly hears heavy footsteps descending the stairs, the heels clicking against the wood. When she turns around, she gasps at the sight before her.

Harry is in his full leather get-up, which fits him perfectly. He has on black heeled dress shoes to match. But most shocking to Shyla is his hair; it's been pushed back from his face, with no curls hanging over his forehead or a significant part down the middle.

"Ready?" he asks with a smile as he tugs the lapels of his jacket.

"Holy shit, you look hot," she says, ogling every inch of him.

He admires her outfit, his tongue running across his teeth. "You look breathtaking. Trying to get me off my A-game tonight?"

She shrugs playfully and grabs her phone as Harry leads them out the front door. He unties Quake and keeps the rope secure through his belt loops, then mounts him, careful not to rip or ruin his leather. He waves Shyla over. She ambles to Quake. He offers his hand so she can balance more easily, then watches her lift her leg over to sit behind him on the saddle.

Shyla's hands immediately circle around his waist under his jacket and rest on his exposed stomach. Harry turns his head to smile at her, leaning in for a quick kiss before gently kicking Quake to get him to start trekking down the driveway.

"This is actually really nice."

"Atta girl." Harry reaches his hand back to squeeze her thigh. "Wasn't so bad, huh?"

"As long as we don't start galloping. Don't even try to be funny," Shyla warns, grabbing his hand on her leg.

A comfortable silence persists throughout the journey. There's no need to talk when the nature around them is a beautiful point of interest. Shyla never feels like she has to fill in empty conversations with Harry since being in each other's presence is enough.

After about ten minutes, they arrive at the pub. Harry stops Quake around the back of the building and ties him to the fence post. He usually asks for a clean bucket to bring fresh water out for him during the night. He swings his leg over to dismount, then helps Shyla off with his hands on her waist.

"Ready to lose?" Harry teases in her ear as he interlocks their fingers and guides her through the back door.

"You have to go easy on me. Dumb down your skills so it's a fair game."

"What happened to being so confident about kicking my ass?"

"I wasn't serious," she mumbles with a small smile as they walk toward the familiar dart board in the corner. No one is playing, and only a few locals are in the room. Some eat appetizers at the bar, and others sit at tables, talking and enjoying the music.

"I may or may not have told everyone that I needed the dartboard for tonight," he tells her as he grabs chalk to write their names. It doesn't go unnoticed that he writes 'Shy' on the board.

Shyla comes behind him and whispers, "I brought the pink dart."

Harry tilts his head to look at her, glancing down at her lips. "Best get to using it," he says lowly, jerking his chin to the dart board.

Shyla smirks and reaches inside the cups of her bra. Harry's eyes trail downwards, and they watch her every move. He inhales sharply when her cleavage is exposed, and she walks behind the white line before he can say anything.

"Are we playing 305 again?"

"Yes. Wait, no. Huh? You mean 301?"

"What? I swear it was 305." Shyla confusedly shakes her head as she tries to replicate the professional stance Harry showed her last time. "Maybe I was thinking of Pitbull. You know, Mr. 305."

"Right. Mr. Worldwide and all that," he says from his place next to the dartboard. He then smiles mischievously. "Elbow bent, dale."

She furrows her eyebrows and tries not to laugh. "What did you just say?"

"Isn't that what Pitbull says? It means darling, right?"

Did he fuck that up? Why is she laughing? He was just trying to be romantic.

Shyla snorts. "No, it doesn't. It means give it or go ahead, Harry. Querida means darling." She bends her elbow and brings the dart up to her line of sight. "Also, please move. I don't want to accidentally hit you."

"I trust you, darling." He smoothly recovers from the embarrassment as he fully leans against the board and crosses his ankles, making Shyla more worried that she might hit him.

"You have a death wish speaking to me like that when I'm trying to focus." Shyla places weight on her front foot and snaps her wrist forward to throw the dart. It hits the six on the right side of the board, and she pouts at the low number. Harry shakes his head in faux disappointment as he writes her score down.

"You distracted me! You can't just stand next to the board looking like that and expect me to do well."

"Switch." Harry dismisses the compliment and gestures for them to trade places. Shyla stands next to the board as he places himself behind the line. While he stances up, she decides to delve into some teasing.

When Harry glances at her, she slightly lifts the hem of her dress, exposing bare brown skin that he can't get enough of. He clears his throat and looks back at the board, focusing on the bullseye. He closes one eye and throws the dart.

He scoffs when it lands on the seventeen. She's going to pay for that.

"Aw, that's too bad," Shyla says sarcastically. She sways her hips as she walks over to the digital jukebox against the opposite wall and types in a song she wants to play.

"My Kind of Lady" by Supertramp starts, and Shyla shimmies her way back to Harry. They both forget about their ongoing game and join each other to dance. She can't get over how he looks in his outfit, his stomach muscles flexing with each sway and his tattoos looking more tempting than usual.

Harry dips her when the saxophone solo plays and kisses her neck before smoothly bringing her back up to his chest. They dance in their little corner of the pub, not caring who's watching. It's just like Shyla felt yesterday when Harry was singing karaoke: in their bubble, feeling like the only ones in the world.

They eventually got back to finishing the game. Harry won by a mile. Shyla told him that she didn't want to drink tonight when he offered to buy shots, and he agreed because he thought back to when she left and how he drowned himself in whiskey every night until he passed out. He's sick of alcohol, and he also doesn't want to have Shyla be a part of riding a horse drunk.

A little after seven, the pub got crowded, and they decided to leave. Harry told Shyla on the way back that they didn't need to bring Quake back to the stables because he has his own area around the back of his cabin for the nights, and he's too drunk to go to the ranch. Shyla and Harry walk inside after he's tied up and given water and hay. Harry flicks the light switch on, illuminating the safe space he can now share with Shyla.

"Did you pick out something for us to listen to?" he asks as they head up to his loft.

"I did," she replies while taking her heels off. "Can we dance some more? I'm not tired yet."

He nods and smiles, walking to the small record player on his dresser. He sees that she's picked out two of his vinyls when he was at work. He looks through them, finding Super Trouper by ABBA and Eat to the Beat by Blondie.

"What should we start with?" He glances back and admires how much shorter she is without her heels.

"Something slow. After that, I want to play you a song I listened to when I was younger."

"Of course." He steps out of the way so she can play a record. "Show me all the music you like. It's one of the best ways to get to know someone."

Shyla's face heats as she takes the ABBA record out and places it on the turntable. "Um, I don't know how to make it play a specific song."

He stands beside her. "This one is ancient, so you have to do it manually. What song did you want?"

"Track four, please," she says shyly.

Harry kneels and gently sets the needle against the specific groove. It scratches before a slow, sultry electric guitar crepitates through. He stands and smiles when he recognizes the song: "Andante, Andante."

Shyla closes the distance between them and repeats the intimate action she did when they first danced. She takes off his black leather jacket and leaves his inked upper half exposed, then wraps her arms around his waist as Harry cradles her head into his chest with both hands. He thinks he could hold her forever in his loft, skin igniting like a never-ending flame. He has never felt this content, her soft breathing synchronizing with his own, their bodies swaying.

"Do you work tomorrow?" Shyla asks against his collarbone, feeling his heart beat melodically.

He moves one of his hands to run his knuckles up and down her spine. "I have the next two days off. Did you have something you wanted to do?"

"I don't know. You'll have to show me around Lurgashall."

"I'd be happy to, Shy. We'll think of something." He clears his throat before asking the question he's wanted to know the answer to since she arrived: "How long are you going to stay?" How long are you willing to stay?

Shyla's breath hitches as she looks at him. "I'm honestly not sure. I just wanted to see you. Do you need me gone by a certain time?"

"No, you can stay however long you'd like," he says with a kiss on her forehead. "I just don't know if you'd want to stay for a while. I know you have a new apartment and everything, but... shit, I don't know what I'm saying. I want you around."

"I want to be around you too. We can talk about it tomorrow, though. Let's just dance for now."

They continue slow dancing. Harry hopes she'll stay longer than a day, but he fears she'll become bored of the place—or worse, bored of him.

When the song fades, Shyla pulls away to put the other record on to show Harry the song she mentioned. She removes the sleeve and black vinyl, takes the needle off the record, and puts it back where it belongs.

"Let me teach you how to play something," Harry says.

"Okay. Track four." She laughs softly and sets the record on the turntable. "Again."

"They're the best, in my opinion. Track four on Fleetwood Mac's self-titled album is "Rhiannon." It's such a good fuckin' song."

"We should dance to that album tomorrow."

"Absolutely," he says without hesitation. Anyway, what we'll do is raise the cue lever so we can move the arm." He grabs Shyla's hand and moves it to where it's needed. She raises the lever, and the arm picks up, hovering in the air. "Skipping tracks on vinyl can cause them to be scratched, but I'll let it slide for you."

He pinches her hip, then maneuvers her hand to where he assumes the fourth track is. There's a loud crackle before the beginning of Blondie's instrumental "Shayla" starts.

Shyla smiles at the nostalgia that suddenly hits her. "You know how I love Blondie? When I was younger, I pretended my name was Shayla to act like this song was about me."

Harry rolls his lips inward to hold his laughter but eventually sputters a breathy chuckle at her confession.

"Stop laughing!" she says, playfully hitting his arm.

He captures her hand and pulls her back into his chest. "No, it's cute. It can't be worse than pretending songs I don't even relate to are about me. I used to dream about being Rosanna or Fernando. How incredible would it be to leave such an impact on someone that they write an entire song about missing you."

Shyla laughs as they twirl around his loft. "I can't believe you can sing and didn't tell me."

He shrugs, wanting to avoid further flattery. "Mediocre at best."

"I think you're fantastic at it. You could be a star one day."

"I don't know if singing in front of twenty people in a rundown pub would get me anywhere."

"You won't get anywhere with that pessimistic attitude."

Harry just shakes his head with a grin and leans in for a kiss. Shyla hums into his mouth, feeling his warm lips envelop her own. His kisses, she's come to realize, are always led with purpose. They're never too often and surprise her when she least expects it. So delicate and addictive, leaving her wanting more.

He leans back just enough so their lips brush against one another. He stares into her eyes, drowning in her brown irises that lighten every time she smiles.

"Let me paint your nails," Shyla whispers.

His eyebrows furrow at the sudden topic change. "What?"

"I brought some nail polish. We can listen to more music, and I can paint your nails."

"My father would kill me."

"We can take it off before you go to work. Screw your dad. Do something for yourself."

Harry tosses the idea around in his head. He can't say no when she looks at him with such promise. Her eyes could persuade him to do anything. "Okay," he says eventually. "Just make sure it'll come off easily."

"Have you ever painted your nails before?"

"No." Is he missing out? Should he have painted his nails before? He's never seen anyone in town partake in it.

Shyla pats the bed and leans over the edge to unzip her duffel bag. "Then I'm glad to be your first. Come sit by me."

She digs until she finds the six bottles of nail polish she packed in a small makeup pouch. Harry sits beside her and nervously wipes his sweaty palms against the sheets. He wants to slap himself to get the image of his father's face out of his head. He needs to stop worrying about doing things that he wouldn't like. He has over a hundred tattoos; polish on his nails is nothing.

"What color do you want?" Shyla asks, splaying the bottles across her palms.

"Um, I don't know what would look good on me." He's been so used to wearing neutral colors that he doesn't know where to start.

"How about smiley faces. Kind of like that yellow shirt you were wearing earlier."

He shrugs, knowing she can make anything look good on him if the outfit she picked out is any indication. "Sure. Whatever you want."

Shyla starts shaking the yellow and black bottles to stir the polish, then motions for Harry's hand. She takes his right one when he slowly extends it. She can tell he's hesitant because of his father, but she would never force him to do anything he's uncomfortable with.

"Are you sure this is okay?" She rubs her thumb along his knuckles to soothe his noticeable anxiety. "You don't have to. I won't be upset."

"It's fine. My father never really sees me outside of work." Harry awkwardly clears his throat.

She just nods and begins applying the first coat on his thumb. His nails are surprisingly clean, considering he works at a ranch. "I'm sorry for saying this, but your father's a dick," she tells him, moving to paint his pointer finger.

Harry laughs through his nose. "You hit the bullseye with that assumption. Shame you couldn't hit an actual one at the pub."

She scoffs and sits crosslegged next to him for a more accessible angle. "Excuse me? Where did that come from? I insult your father, and then you insult me?"

"I'm joking, Shy. You're right; he's a total dick. I don't know how my mother dealt with him for all those years."

When she finishes another nail, Harry mimics her position so they face each other. They both fall into silence when his mother is mentioned. Shyla doesn't want to pry.

However, Harry feels the need to jump over that hurdle since he's falling for Shyla and knows that if he doesn't open up soon, she'll slip right through his fingers.

"She passed away from a stroke," he says, keeping his eyes focused on the strokes of the tiny brush. "It happened out of nowhere. One day, she was completely fine, and the next, she was on a stretcher. She was already gone when they got to the hospital." He swallows roughly and rubs at his throat with his free hand to stop the pain from crawling up his throat.

"She chewed tobacco and smoked cigarettes," he continues in a thick voice. "She started when I was probably around seven or eight. It was every day, too. Just an awful addiction that eventually caught up to her, you know? I should've expected it to happen, but the thing with death is that you never see it coming. Anyway, it flipped my world upside down. One day, I woke up and didn't have a mother anymore."

Shyla stops and stares at him with sorrowful eyes. Unfortunately, she can relate, but she keeps quiet and lets him proceed.

"I still talk to her. When I get lonely, I sit in bed or in the bathtub and talk to her about everything. Mostly about how my own father acts like he despises me."

"Do you really feel like he hates you, or is he just projecting his repressed emotions onto you?"

Harry lets out a humorless laugh. "God, I can't even tell anymore. He's always been strict and closed off since I was young, but ever since my mother passed, he's been unbearable to be around. It's like he sucks the life out of everyone."

"He wasn't very friendly when I met him," Shyla confesses. When we went to the stables, he told us if you were cranky, we should let him know so he could talk to you."

Harry's eyebrows raise. "Sounds about right. He thinks I've got anger issues. I don't, at least not anymore. I was barely hanging on the first couple of years without my mother. I didn't want to see anybody or go anywhere. I was eighteen and had just moved into this cabin because I couldn't handle living with my father during all of that. It may sound cruel to just leave him to grieve by himself, but he's stubborn and would probably tell me to fuck off if I had tried to comfort him."

Shyla nods understandingly as she puts the last coat of polish on his delicate pinky. She then screws the cap on and brings Harry's hands up to her mouth so she can blow on his fingernails.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. That's never easy, especially when you're eighteen and still trying to figure out life and expect to rely on your parents. I hope you're okay now. It's normal to still have those days where you want to cry over something that happened long ago. I still do."

"I'm doing well," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. What about you?"

Shyla opens the black nail polish to apply smiley faces over the yellow. Focusing on the tiny details, she exhales, thinking about where to start.

"I haven't told anyone this since I went to therapy ages ago. I still cry over my parents. It's funny because I can't even remember how I felt as a kid when they died. I think I blocked it all out. I mean, I couldn't even tie my own shoes yet. I had no grasp on emotions or death. I was four when my grandma picked me up from daycare and told me that they had been in an accident. All I know is that it wasn't fun growing up and not having my parents there to teach me things."

She sighs and pinches her eyes shut for a second. "For some reason, at the time, it didn't really affect me until I got older. Like, twelve or thirteen was when I started getting really angsty, for lack of better words. Everything caught up to me, and it crushed me that I didn't have a mom or dad to watch me grow up."

"Did you have any other family?"

"I stayed with my grandma for about five years before she passed away. Then, I moved in with my aunt until I was about nineteen. Almost ten years of living with her was a journey, to say the least. She's not bad, just stagnant. Never really let me go out of the house to do things. She was trying to keep me safe, but it got old. Then, I finally went to university and found what I wanted to do there. I realized I loved psychology, and I'm hoping to get my degree within the next year.

Harry watches Shyla finish the last smiley face on his thumb before setting the polish back in her bag.

"Come here." He pulls her into his lap, careful not to smudge the polish, wrapping his arms around her body. "I can't even begin to fathom what that was like. I'm so sorry you had to grow up like that. I'm always here to listen, okay?"

"I know." She hugs him back. "I'll always listen to you too. It's so easy with you. I would have never imagined I'd be talking about this after so long of keeping it inside."

"I never had anyone to talk to until you came here." Harry's voice wavers before he swallows. There's something about you that makes me want to live differently, not be afraid of being vulnerable."

Shyla melts at his confession. "Tell me something else."

"Like what?"

"Like... your tattoos. You have so many. There has to be stories behind each one."

"Pick one out, and I'll tell you."

Shyla smiles as her eyes rove over his exposed skin, trying to find one that intrigues her the most. They're all so specific; she has no idea what they could symbolize.

"The one behind your ear. I just noticed it. Your hair is usually covering it."

Harry tilts his head to the side so she can see it better. "It's an orchid. My mom and I would pick them by the creek during summer. I have a lot of little tattoos that remind me of her."

Shyla admires the minimalistic black ink of the flower along the curve of his ear. "Did you sketch it yourself?"

He nods. "I went out to the creek one day and brought my sketchbook. I did all sorts of flower styles, big and small. I decided on it behind my ear because she would always kiss me there before I went to bed."

She feels tears build in her waterline as her fingers trace the lines of the tattoo. "It's so beautiful."

"Thank you," he says, tilting his head back toward her. "I tattooed it myself in the bathroom mirror."

"Is it difficult to tattoo yourself?" Shyla can't imagine the skill needed to permanently ink something on your skin.

"It gets easier with practice. I have a few on my arm that are rubbish from when I first started."

"Did they hurt?"

Harry tenses and clears his throat. "Depends. The ones above my knees hurt a bit."

"Oh. I don't have any, so I wouldn't know. I'm too scared of the pain."

"It's not a bad pain," he mumbles, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

"What?"

"It's... not a bad pain," he admits sheepishly. "Sometimes it feels really good."

"Seriously?" she asks with shock. "How? It's literally a needle going through your skin!"

"Pain kink, Shyla." He doesn't want to awkwardly beat around the bush anymore. He might as well just get it out of the way.

She gapes at him, absorbing the simple yet complex words he just spoke. "Pain kink. Cool. Hey, listen, that's your thing. I don't find feeling like I'm being stabbed to be pleasurable, but I won't judge you for it. You can do whatever—"

"Tattoo me," he interrupts.

"Excuse me? Are the fumes from the polish going to your head? Harry, don't you need a literal license to do that?"

"How many more times do I have to say I trust you, Shy? C'mon, I'll teach you. You can do a small one."

Shyla mulls over everything that could go wrong. Her hands would shake, and she could do a disastrous job. She's not particularly proficient at art, so anything she'd draw would no doubt end up looking like a shitty elementary school art project. She also doesn't want to hurt him, but that's obviously been punted out of the equation, given what he just admitted.

She sighs, realizing she has to live a little more. There's nothing wrong with doing something out of her comfort zone, especially with Harry. "Okay. You trust me, and I trust you. But don't be upset when it looks like the scum of the earth."

Harry fondly kisses her cheek and then pats her hip to remove her from his lap. "Thank you. Follow me. I've got my own makeshift studio around back."

He picks her up bridal style, not wanting her bare feet to step on anything that could be a hazard in the grass outside. He carefully goes downstairs and kicks the back door open with the toe of his boot. Out there, which is an area Shyla has yet to explore, is a lovely, open lawn with a wooden picnic table and a couple of chairs in front of a fire pit. However, what catches her eye is a covered wagon she's seen on Western TV shows before, just like the ones oxen or cattle pull.

The canvas material lights up when Harry flicks a hidden switch. He strides toward the three steps that lead up the open doorway, setting Shyla down in the process.

When she walks inside first, her eyes don't know where to land. There's a wooden table at the back with scattered tattoo supplies—ink containers, cotton balls, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a pair of black surgical gloves. She immediately takes note of the daunting tattoo gun, the metal shining under the low light and intimidating her greatly.

"It's nothing fancy, but it's just for me," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "And now you. No one else knows about this."

"I hope you'll invite me in here again after the terrible job I'm about to do," she says self-consciously under her breath.

"Oh, shut it," he murmurs in a fun-loving tone. He brushes past her and organizes the space a little before taking a new pair of surgical gloves and dangling them tauntingly in front of her. A wicked smirk grows on his face.

The pit of Shyla's stomach churns at the thought of inking Harry's skin with no experience whatsoever. She blows out a nervous breath and takes the thin gloves from him, stalling by putting them on very slowly. Harry opens a black ink bottle and removes new, sterilized needles from a package.

Shyla sits in one of two rolling chairs and watches him assemble the tattoo gun with ease. Then he takes a piece of gum from a stray packet on the table, setting it on his tongue as he loads the canister with ink. His jaw flexes with each chew, and she's transfixed by his expertise.

"Start thinking of something to ink on me," he says, plopping down in the chair beside her.

Shyla tilts her head and brainstorms what she could permanently tattoo on Harry's beautiful skin. Everything she's coming up with seems too embarrassing to say aloud; a horse that would most likely look like an entirely different animal, a lyric that would definitely be illegible, a dart that would... hold on a second. A dart! That couldn't be too hard, right?

"Um, a dart? Maybe? You probably already have that somewhere on you."

"I don't, actually. That's perfect. A tiny, simple one that you can do freehand."

Shyla's eyes widen. Freehand? She doesn't even think she could do it if Harry guided her hand the entire time.

"Where do you want it?" she asks apprehensively, rolling her chair closer to him.

Harry shrugs. "Wherever. I don't care."

"Okay, how about somewhere on your wrist?" She points to his left one, observing the other tattoos there — an anchor, a clover, and a lock. "I can do something tiny near your other ones."

"Wherever you want, Shy," he reiterates softly.

Readily setting his left wrist on the table, he opens the rubbing alcohol and splashes a couple of drops onto a cotton ball. He then sterilizes his entire wrist so whatever patch of skin she picks is safe to prick with a needle.

"All right. It'll be so tiny. Microscopic, even. And simplistic." Shyla swallows thickly, her hands sweating under the tight gloves. "That's what I'm comfortable with."

Harry offers her a hopeful smile, then turns the tattoo gun on, its loud buzzing instantly filling the confined space. "Hold your hand around the canister," he instructs, grabbing her hand and maneuvering it to the correct position. "Rest it diagonally against my skin and push down so the needle goes through. Not too deep, but still, make sure it's in there. My skin should resist when you pull it out. Only go a few centimeters before taking it out and continuing."

Shyla exhales slowly and focuses on an empty patch of skin where she can tattoo the dart.

"Hey," he says over the buzzing. "It'll be fine. I'll help wipe any excess ink off. If you need me to step in, just let me know, okay?"

She nods and leans forward to shift the gun closer to his wrist. She stretches his skin until it's taut, delicately tracing a short line with the needle. She pulls back quickly and looks at Harry with anxiousness wavering in her gaze.

He laughs and wipes the liquid ink off, then squeezes her knee. "Keep going," he says hoarsely, feeling the pain rush through his bloodstream. "Stick the needle in for a bit longer. It feels good to me, I promise."

Shyla shifts in her seat and clenches her thighs together. Harry's eyes flutter shut as he comfortably leans back. She goes back at it, then realizes she has no clue how to draw a dart by memory. She wings it, pressing the needle down once again and creating an amateur triangle above the line she drew to represent the tip of a dart.

When she lingers just a little too long, Harry can't subdue the groan of pleasure that crawls its way up his throat. He blinks up at the wagon covering, his pupils dilating from the addictive pain.

Shyla thinks his groan is caused by her hurting him, so she removes the needle and blurts, "Sorry! I'm almost—"

"Keep going," he says, patting her thigh in encouragement. "Please, baby."

Baby. He's too worked up to notice what he just uttered, but Shyla notices, and she wants to get this goddamn tattoo done so they can head back to his cabin and fuck the tension away. She finishes it by adding two minuscule lines coming out of the straight line. It looks like a toddler did it, but she doesn't care. Harry is so tense, jaw tightened as he chews his gum, and her heart is pounding.

Harry exhales when she manages to shut the gun off by herself. He lazily wipes the excess ink off, then swiftly pulls her into his lap. He grabs the aftercare ointment and rips the cap off with his teeth before applying a layer over his new tattoo. He then tears some plastic wrap off and hurriedly covers the area, finishing it with gauze.

He'll clean up later. Right now, he needs Shyla.

She straddles his legs and takes the gloves off, feeling his cock already hard underneath the leather. He groans again, this time from the pressure of her core against him. The dress she's wearing bunches up around her hips, her underwear entirely exposed. She begins rocking against him as his bandaged wrist pushes on her lower back to guide her, and any movement from his wrist causes a burst of pleasurable pain to shoot throughout his arm.

"Cabin," he commands gruffly as he lifts her and walks out of the wagon. He blindly shuts the light off, then makes a beeline through the back door and straight up to his loft.

He gently tosses her on the bed and crawls between her legs, his forearms beside her. "Is this okay?" he asks, his mouth resting against her spread legs.

"Yes," she whines, sitting up to take her dress off.

Harry helps lift it over her head, then tosses it over the edge of the bed. Her strapless bra and underwear remain, and he takes his time, leaving kisses up her thighs. He presses his nose into the damp spot forming on her underwear, placing an open-mouthed kiss over it. He moans at the taste of her arousal through the thin fabric before gripping his hands around her upper thighs as Shyla arches her back on the bed.

"Be a good girl and stay still," he says while looking up. He sees her eyebrows furrowed, silently begging for him to give her what she wants.

"Rip them off. I don't care, just please," she says, grabbing a fistful of his hair. She pulls it, hoping that his love for pain isn't just with tattoos.

His reaction to her eagerness and the pulling has him biting marks into her thigh. He then kneels to remove her underwear down her legs. She's already dripping down her entrance, so Harry reaches into the nightstand drawer to grab one of the condoms that he stored up when he found out she was going to visit. He felt some shame about it, especially when the cashier gave him a knowing look as if to say: It's about time.

Harry gets off the bed to pull his leather pants and boxers down, then takes his shoes off. He opens the package and rolls the condom over his length, moving to crawl over her body. He notices that Shyla has taken her bra off as he lines up with her entrance and swallows his nerves down.

"Before you ask, I want to do this. I trust you, H."

The nickname makes him whimper, and his cock throbs. He takes his right hand down to it and guides it up and down Shyla's wetness, getting her used to the feeling. He looks at her one more time to ensure she's ready, and when she nods in a frenzied way, he pushes his tip in. He opens his mouth at the tightness, morning at how well she fits. Like she was made for him. He pushes in slowly until he's all the way in. Shyla gasps at the way he fills her, clenching around him as he thrusts in steady, long movements. His left hand holds onto the top of the headboard, and his other slips under her waist.

"You feel amazing," he mumbles in the crook of her neck. The bed creaks with each thrust, Shyla's first moan leaving her mouth when he hits deep.

"I can feel you... right here," she says, touching her lower stomach. She can quite literally see and feel his cock nudging the skin there from how deep he's going.

"Yeah?" He spurs her on, continuing to thrust in extensive motions through her tight walls.

He doesn't think he'll last long, not having been intimate with someone in so long, but he wants to make it worth it for her. Shyla lifts her hips to meet his, placing her arms around his neck. She whispers breathy moans in his ear, and Harry is getting close to his climax just from her sounds alone.

"I'm close," he says through kisses on her neck.

"Let me be on top." He doesn't dispute this, simply flipping over so that he's on his back. Kiss me. I'm almost there."

Harry kisses her, quieting her moans as she unravels. She grinds on top of him, holding his shoulders tightly. Harry comes when she clenches around him, his hips stuttering as he rides it out with quick thrusts. He spills into the condom, and his face grows red at how quickly he lets go. Shyla orgasms with him, lifting her hips off him when she gets sensitive. They're both breathing heavily as he rolls the condom off and disposes of it. His hand rests on his stomach, and Shyla flops next to him.

Eventually, Harry sits up and opens the window to allow the summer breeze in.

Just as he gets comfortable in his bed again, a sudden and startling noise comes from downstairs. He and Shyla freeze and stare at each other with confused expressions. He holds his pointer finger up, mutely telling Shyla to stay put, then quickly slips into his boxers and a random pair of jeans before slowly walking down the stairs. Shyla covers herself with his sheets and watches from afar, her heart hammering from the unexpected interruption.

Harry cautiously stops on the middle step when the noise becomes clearer. There's raucous knocking on the front door, and it sounds like the person on the other side is furious.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #harry styles #adore-laur #bullseye

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hamakochan375kj · 2 years ago

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I think I love Alice Angel even more than before lol

Ok guys so, some of ya’ll don’t know this others do, but Alice is my whole time fav character of the saga since her reveal back in september of 2017, she was the first ever fictional character that I had a crush on when I was only 14 years old, I even cosplayed as her in 2018, but, back in chapter 2 when Alice was revealed in her poster “Sent from Above” I wasn’t really interested in her character at all, I was meh with her, but OH BOY WAS I REALLY WRONG, when I saw her in chapter 3, I was instantly interested in her, and I fell for her, for me she was really cool, pretty (yes for she’s pretty so shut up XD), and hot ngl lol, I wish I had a photo of me cosplaying her, but unfortunately I don’t have it on the computer :’(, but, just so you guys know, there’s a photo of my 14 year old self dressed up as Alice lol. I love her so much, but now that BATDR came out two weeks ago, wow the game’s two weeks old already dang, it made me love her EVEN MORE than before :D. LONG LIVE ALICE! Also the letter that Allison wrote for her, is really wholesome, speceally when she writes “We’re like sisters” :’). Allison loved her and saw good in Alice after everything she did in BATIM...but the DAMM cycle had to continue and well, Alice suffered the same fate she suffered in BATIM...but if there’s a third Bendy game (it would be really cool honestly, but the post credit scene, in BATDR, hints that we’re gonna have a third game ;) ] I want Alice to come back, but I want her to have a happy ending and maybe have a redemption arc, imagine having Alice as an ally, an enemy shows up and BANG! She shoots it with her Tommy Gun >:D, pls, tell me that this wouldn’t be cool as hell to see? Cause I think that it would be ^u^. Anyways this is the end of my post, and of my rant about Alice Angel, thanks for reading, and see you all, in another post :3

#batim #batdr #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #alice angel #twisted alice #susie campbell #confession post

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realm-sweet-realm · 3 years ago

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HAI so ur thing says ask u about headcanons i will do JUST that tell me about ur SAMMY HEADCANONS if u haVE ANY

I have a lot of Sammy headcanons! A lot of them are very generic, though (he's downright prodigal at music, appearance-wise he's your standard pointy, slender, handsome Sammy with long blond hair, he's autistic and relies on Jack for social stuff to an extent, etc.), so I'll keep it to ones that are fairly unique to me.

-He's the only character I have multiple "canon" ships for. He and Jack met years before they were hired to Joey Drew studios and were great friends. They dated for several years and you can read more about that here. Overall, it was great for both of them. It got Jack to discover his love of performing and kind of taught Sammy How To Be In A Relationship, and they remained close friends right until Jack's death. He also dated Susie for a few years, and supported her after her transformation. Their relationship ended when Malice took over Susie’s body and she had to be locked up.

-Sammy is envied, feared, or lusted after by much of the music department. Many members of it will rely messages to him through Jack, especially people who are incompetent or especially nervous.

-Sammy has a soft spot for cats. His apartment is usually spotless except for the cat hair and toys, and he typically owns 1-3 of them at any given time.

-Sammy is ambitious. As a young man, he wanted to make it as a musical performer. After he gave up on that and joined the studio, he felt as though he was wasting his talent. Part of what attracted Sammy to Susie was that she was also ambitious, but she thought that Joey Drew Studios could make her dreams come true.

-Unfortunately, ambition is also part of what got him to join Joey in his Satanic ventures. He wanted to explore untold possibilities and do things no one else could do. Joey made Satanism seem harmless enough at first, and then slowly turned up the immorality of their ventures and Sammy's involvement in them until Sammy was complicit and too scared to leave. He helped sacrifice Susie in the name of helping her dreams come true, and several people afterwards because he didn’t feel he had a choice. Ultimately, all it got Sammy was a giant pile of guilt over helping Joey cause untold death and suffering...

-Between the guilt, the deaths of Jack and Susie, and the stress of working at Joey Drew Studios while it was doing terribly financially, Sammy was much more emotionally volatile and unkept by the end of the studio. It was not a good time for him...

-When you're ink-infected, the ink talks to you, and its goal is to persuade you to accept your fate instead of fighting it. What it tells you, however, is specific to the individual. The ink told Sammy that everything he'd done and everything he'd been through was leading to something, and that he was destined for something special. He came to believe that the ink would allow him to "ascend," and began worshipping Bendy. He was desperate to believe the ink, and still is desperate to believe in Bendy. Otherwise, he simply couldn't accept all he's done and all that's happened.

-While all lost ones are losing their minds and memories to an extent, Sammy is keeping his better than most, partially because he has faith that they'll go free one day. As the prophet, he's more irritable than ever, and as an introvert he doesn’t exactly enjoy his leadership role, but he does his best to look after his flock in spite of that. He also still visits Jack in the sewers when he needs to get away.

If you have any follow-up questions, let me know!

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #sammy lawrence #jack fain #susie campbell #joey drew #headcanons #thanks for the ask #j4sp3cr0w

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rosies-batim-blog · 3 years ago

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So. It’s been a While.

Hey all, it’s been a while since I’ve actually posted anything to this blog, but Bendy has been on the brain for the past 24 hours and I’ve had a minor realization.

I never said what my intended ending for my Vampire Henry AU was. I’ve had a loose... Outline? Idea? Of what I wanted for the ending for this story, but I just never got around to writing it out. I figured that, since I’ve let this AU hang for so long, I may as well tell yall what would have been in store for everyone.

So Here’s How the Vampire Henry AU was gonna Go/End

Basically, Henry would gather all the remaining employees and the toons and try to figure out how to get everyone out.

Except, everyone is very insistent that they can’t leave. That Joey did something to them/to the machine that keeps them from being able to escape. But they’ve all come to the united decision that they need to at least get Henry out. That he can still leave, and he should leave. Before Joey gets the chance to trap him too.

Henry decides the only only way to get out, the only way to end all of this, is to finally confront Joey himself. (Much to everyone else’s worry/horror.) They try to talk him out of it, but he doesn’t listen/let them.

They don’t deserve what Joey’s done to them. They shouldn’t have to suffer for whatever it is that Joey wanted to cause all this.

So he descends into the deepest parts of the studio (since that’s where he’s been told Joey is) with everyone he’s gathered following worriedly behind him.

(He’s also probably mentioned that he hasn’t eaten/fed since he came to Studio, and is honestly feeling pretty sick by now from how hungry he is.)

At first, Henry tries talking to Joey when he finds him. (Hoping that his old friend might still be there, somewhere.) Joey goes into a long, dramatic speech trying to get Henry to join/help him, even admitting to making a deal with a demon to do everything he’s done with the studio. As he goes, the vampire realizes something.

Henry comes to a simple (and very sad) realization while talking to the person who’s been at the root of all of this.

That’s not Joey.

It’s his face, it’s his voice, but the person in front of him isn’t Joey. And it probably hasn’t been Joey for a very long time, and he says as much to the man.

He also says that he wants no part in this. In any of this.

He’s not joining Joey’s mad scheme, not siding with any demons, not being part of this. All he wants is for this to end. To go home and live his life.

Joey isn’t happy to hear that.

A fight breaks out, (one befitting the whole “deal with a demon” thing), and that’s the first Joey learns that Henry is a vampire.

This is actually a really big problem for him.

Joey’s deal was basically him trading the souls of the people in the studio for his and Henry’s creations to come to life.

Originally, when Joey was still himself, Joey was completely willing to trade his own soul to bring the toons to life. But the demon he summoned said they couldn’t take/use his soul for that. Saying he valued everyone else over himself, making his soul less valuable for the Deal.

The demon said he would still make the Deal, but it would come with some conditions.

Joey would need to the souls of all the founding/important humans of the studio to bring the toons to life (and glory to the studio as well.)

Unfortunately, the one “founder” he was missing was Henry. So he called Henry there to try and finally finish the Deal to “fix” everything. Which was best accomplished by killing Henry and taking his soul. (Which is why everything is so twisted/dangerous/deadly when Henry gets there.)

Except, if Henry was a vampire, that couldn’t happen.

(Not sure if it means Henry doesn’t have a soul, if he still has a soul but it’s just not human anymore, or if just part of his soul is gone and that’s the problem.)

Upon realizing that, everything starts falling apart because now Joey can’t complete his Deal. He can’t provide the final Human Soul needed to maintain/complete the Deal.

[I’m not actually sure what happens to Joey at this point. Part of me wants to say that the demon takes his soul as a kind of punishment for not finishing the Deal, him being tied to Henry in some way to make up for the harm he did (no idea how, but I can’t help feeling like this one could be pretty cruel depending on HOW is was done. Like if he was made into a Thrall), or something else.]

After the fight, everything starts to undo itself the staff turning back, the building changing back to how it was before the machine/demon twisted it. (Toons stay though! Not sure how to justify it right now, but they are going to stay.)

And Henry collapses to the ground. Because, without the adrenaline to distract him, his body has basically remembered that he’s starving to death at the moment.

He’s too starved and weak to even go feral by this point, and can’t do anything save himself.

Everyone is terrified, panicked, and doesn’t know what to do to help Henry. But one of the employees comes up with the idea of letting Henry bite them, hoping that they’re changing back fast enough for their blood to be drinkable for him.

(I wanna say Norman, Allison, or Tom have the idea. Because the 3 of them seem to be the most... Solid? I guess? They seem to be the least unstable/inky compared to everyone else. Especially Norman.)

Thankfully, their idea works and Henry is able to eat enough to not die, but he does still pass out afterward.

When Henry comes too, they’re all hurrying to the upper floors out of fear that the building (or rather, the lower floors) only existed because of the Demon. And without it, they were collapsing/falling apart.

Henry (despite still being hungry and a bit weak) starts yelling directions from his memory of the upper levels, and working to get everyone out safely again. They get back to the safer floors in time, and watch the passageway they were sprinting through dissolve into ink behind them. Henry starts guiding them the rest of the way, and they all finally making it to the final door of the studio.

The hole in the floor that Henry fell through is still there, but it’s navigated fairly easily by them hunting down some wooden planks and laying them over it to make a bridge for them to cross.

And once they get out, he leads them to the house/apartment he owns in town (it’s night, so they can all travel safely) and everyone just collapses where they are.

Henry only joins after slipping out and finally (finally!) getting a proper meal in him.

Things happen, mostly about everyone feeling like a fish out of water from how much everything has changed since Joey trapped them. (Many of them coming to terms with everything they lost).

Eventually, everyone (on their own or in a group) asks to stay with Henry to make new lives for themselves. Many even asking to be turned so they can just... Stay. With him. Where it’s familiar and safe.

(Not too sure who, tbh. Sammy for sure, possibly Norman and Wally too. Hell, maybe it’s everyone in the end. Unfortunately, they may have made the choice because they have no where else to go. But at least Henry does his best to help/care for them.)

And Henry ends with a new colony formed from his old coworkers from JDS, the toons real and in his life, and him finally establishing a territory from the town he’d had so many major points in his life in.

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #bendy #vampire henry au #vampire henry #rosie rambles #rosies stories #the true ending #everyone ends up a vampire #joey may or may not die #everything ends okay #mostly?#everyone is feeling very displaced #Henry has to teach them how the world changed #but they're free #they're finally free

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thevindicativevordan · 4 years ago

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Mongul

Wanted to chat about another Superman Rogue who has been around a while: Mongul.

Background

Now this guy enjoys something of a mixed reputation. On one hand he, unlike many other Superman classic Rogues, has actually been in some good stories. There’s the iconic For The Man Who Has Everything by Alan Moore which is the perfect encapsulation of his core character traits. There he’s a hulking brute, with enough raw power to go toe to toe with Superman and actually hurt him with physical force alone. He’s crude, making misogynistic comments to Wonder Woman, and gleefully reveling in the conquest he plans. Yet he’s also clever, using the Black Mercy to incapacitate his foe, and has an air of faux affability to him that only adds to his menace.

It should come as no surprise that an Alan Moore story is still Mongul’s best showing, but there are other stories worth mentioning as well. There’s Superman: Exile, the first meeting between the Post-Crisis Superman and Mongul and personally one of my favorite Post-Crisis Superman stories. There’s Mongul’s debut Pre-Crisis issue where he and Warworld first appear. There’s his attempt to hijack the Sinestro Corps during the Johns era of Green Lantern. Finally there’s his usage in Bendis Superman, which has been the first time in ages he’s been treated as a serious threat, and given an interesting way to serve as a contrast as Superman.

So why does he suffer from a mixed reputation? Well...

He sure does look familiar doesn’t he? He was created by Len Wein and Jim Starlin, and Starlin you might recall was the creator of Thanos, who was a ripoff of Darkseid. So Mongul is a copy of a copy, lacking the grandeur of Darkseid and the ambition of Thanos. He and Apocalypse are both cast in Darkseid’s mold, and have both gotten one really great and iconic storyline that guarantees they’ll stick around, but have also not traditionally fared well outside that one story. Also like Apocalypse:

He has a really bad habit of jobbing and being used by writers to prop up their characters. Jurgens used him to prop up Hank Henshaw in Reign of the Supermen and Henshaw again along with Zod in the Rebirth arc Revenge!, giving him a reputation as a joke. He also got killed by Sinestro pretty easily during his coup attempt.

Besides that he’s also unfortunately been treated as a generic tyrant for Superman to beat up, lacking much in the way of characterization, or in being a meaningful contrast to Superman beyond “Superman uses his strength to serve others, Mongul uses his to oppress them”. For a while I kind of wrote him off as a lost cause, someone that really didn’t offer anything as a Superman opponent beyond that one Alan Moore story. But recently I’ve changed my opinion; I’ve come to believe Mongul does in fact serve an important purpose and should be treated as an essential part of the Superman Rogues Gallery. Part of this turnabout was caused by really enjoying his usage in Bendis’ Superman run, which caused me to do a reread of Mongul stories, and got me thinking about who Mongul is, what he’s about, and what role he plays.

What Role Mongul Plays

A crucial realization hit me while I was rereading Mongul stories: Mongul is The Bully of the Supermythos.

He’s the guy who doesn’t delude himself into thinking he’s the hero like Lex does. He doesn’t consider himself above petty emotions or notions of right and wrong like Brainiac. He doesn’t have a sympathetic background like General Zod does. He’s the guy who enjoys pounding people into the dirt, who doesn’t mask his desire to lord over the populace behind pretenses of noble intentions. He’s gleeful as he crushes his enemies beneath his heel, he’s petty in that he enjoys forcing people to fight for his amusement, he’s dangerous in that while Darkseid can be bargained with, Mongul is always going to prefer to take what he wants via force and is powerful enough to do just that. In other words, he’s the exact kind of guy Superman started out wanting to take down, just living in the cosmic space where Superman can actually kick his ass without it feeling like punching down.

That core ethos, beautifully summed up in All-Star Superman, is in direct opposition to Mongul’s entire lifestyle. When the United Planets starts to form in Bendis’ Superman, Mongul is outraged, not just because it may pose a threat to him, but because the very idea of the “weak” uniting into a stronger whole downright offends him. He runs Warworld to cull the “weak and unfit” of the universe for his own amusement and entertainment, the petty schoolyard bully who has turned a planet-sized Death Star into his own playground, and he climbed to the top via crushing anyone that stood against him with his own two hands or outwitting them with his brain. He’s got no time for others who think they can rise above their station in life without the physical/mental power to back that desire up. If Superman believes that everyone is capable of greatness, Mongul is a firm believer that greatness is the sole purview of the very few (and really only himself).

This core conflict allows writers to bring back the bully hunter of the Golden Age and early New 52 t-shirt and jeans Supermen. Here’s a guy, a foreign ruler no less, who is actively oppressing people. We get to enjoy seeing Superman taking on a foreign dictator because he’s off in space instead of doing so here on Earth where thorny parallels to American interventionism abroad would be raised. Superman can be the Champion of the Oppressed again, and that’s always something I enjoy seeing.

I’d also like to bring up why Mongul was originally created. Len Wein wanted a foe for Superman who could match him physically. In other words, Mongul is like Doomsday if Doomsday actually had a personality. Mongul offers the opportunity for deeper exploration of Superman that Doomsday can’t. We know this literally because Mongul’s best story isn’t just a slugfest between the two the way Doomsday’s is. For The Man Who Has Everything is one of the best explorations of just how damn lonely being the Last Son of Krypton is for Kal. Exile explores the ethics of Superman’s no kill rule, his belief in the sanctity of life, his struggles to hold onto that belief in the face of the cruelty of others. His usage in Bendis’ run is to illustrate just how fragile the United Planets is, how easily it can break apart, and how hard Superman is going to have to strive to make it work. PKJ used Mongul in his Future State Superman: Worlds of War stories to show the lengths Superman will go to liberate others, his defiance in the face of Mongul’s attempts to break him. There’s an opportunity for psychological evaluation of Superman when Mongul shows up that just isn’t there with Doomsday. That alone is reason to keep him around, but he also brings a bunch of cool shit in addition.

Cool Aspects Mongul Brings to the Supermythos

He’s got a Death Star that doubles as a gladiator coliseum, where we get to see Superman compete with other gladiators from across the cosmos. Mongul lets Superman channel that Conan brutality in a very entertaining way, putting Superman in a setting where he’s facing lots of foes who can go up against him with raw strength and numbers alone.

It’s a place that channels that pulp science fiction that Superman was borne from in a very entertaining way in my opinion. Also they should set a Superman video game there (but that’s another blog post). The gladiators are also useful, either as oppressed prisoners for Superman to liberate, and showcase directly how he makes life better, or as bloodthirsty mooks that can actually challenge Superman without dimishing him.

The Black Mercy is an awesome science fiction concept. While it’s been overused in relation to Mongul, it’s also the embodiment of the unknown wonders and threats of DC Cosmic. In the right hands it’s a great tool for exploring characters’ psychology.

Bendis and Fraction reestablished that the name “Mongul” is a legacy one. The current Mongul is from a long line of Monguls, the sons killing their fathers when their fathers show weakness. Given how Rebirth has established the importance of legacy to Superman with Jon, something continued by Bendis, this may be a very crucial aspect to play off of. The way “Mongul” as a mantle is assumed is a dark contrast to the way the “Superman” mantle is taken up by others after Clark. Exploring the Mongul father-son relationship in contrast to the Clark-Jon relationship may be in the cards for the PKJ run given Mongul will be the first classic Superman Rogue appearing in PKJ Action. If not I hope some other writer will take a chance to explore the way the two contrast and compare with one another because it could be very interesting.

What I Would Change About Mongul

I think there’s already a pretty damn solid base to build off of with Mongul, but some aspects that I would play up to better establish him as separate from both Clark and Darkseid:

Making him more of a hedonist. This is a guy who eat, drinks, and fucks, and enjoys himself while doing so. He loves being a bad guy and isn’t “weighed down by his sins” or any such nonsense

Showcase his knowledge more. Mongul is smart, he’s been all over the cosmos, he learned about Warworld and the Black Mercy, show that he knows other dangerous secrets as well. Weapons, planets, florua, fauna, Mongul knows stuff not even the Guardians do

Establish some underlings. Instead of having Mongul job, use some of his gladiators, elite ones raised above the riffraff who can pose a threat and hold off Superman while Mongul accomplishes his goals

Appearance wise I’d like to make him look more different from Darkseid. I’d want to draw on dinosaurs for his look. If you need to justify it, just have another son replace the current Mongul and become the new Mongul, or have Mongul modify himself with enhancements in order to beat Superman

Mongul is cool and brings a lot to the table, DC just needs to stop treating him as a jobber and more as a legitimate threat. I was happy with how Bendis used him, and I am hopeful that PKJ will continue to treat him well. He’s a villain who actually has stories that showcase why he rocks, and not just cool ideas that have never come together like other Superman Rogues. Hopefully he’ll get more opportunities to showcase that.

#superman #mongul #dc comics #alan moore #brian bendis #phillip kennedy johnson #len wein #jim starlin #warworld #future state

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mad-hatter-ison · 4 years ago

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Day 29th of the Ink Demonth: We got Despair

Trigger Warning for Heart and Arm gore

Starring a character, if you think about how much he suffered through, probably had a more unfortunate fate as/than Henry:

Tom Connor

Like I said back in Mechanic:

First he felt the most remorse straightly when the machine functions (Unlike Joey who felt bad once he lost his Bendy rights)

He lost his commissioned work, the Machine, showing more people could be in trouble and it mostly be on his hands, so he is understandably pissed about it

He must’ve return to the studios, only to turn him into a Boris (In my head canon, Joey did it to either ‘Shut him up,’ or taunt him because he is like a DOG to Joey’s tasks).

While it’s good he still had memories, it’s also a bad thing he does, he’s probably forced to witness the horror again and again and there was nothing he can do especially as a Boris. If he can talk, he could’ve stop the machine and save them all.

His wife became an Alice angel replica, and as she said, ‘I don’t remember my name,’ it was possible she lost hers. Really is a rough situation for Tom knowing his wife can’t remember to that point.

Of course we dunno how his arm was torn, it could've been the Ink Demon, it could've been Malice

But I like the theory that it all points to Malice to prove how dangerous she can be.

#the ink demonth #Bendy and the ink machine #bendy au #Resurrected from the Blotter #Tom Connor #boris the wolf #joey drew #Joey Blue Jay Drew #Allison Angel #Malice Angel #ink demon #tw gore #tw death #tw heart #tw limb loss

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this-wandering-mind · 4 years ago

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Avengers Vs X-men by Jason Aaron, Brian Michael Bendis, Ed Brubaker, Matt fraction and Jonathan Hickman

3/5

Hope Summers is the first mutant to emerge after the Scarlet witch erased the mutant gene. A powerful mutant with the ability to mimic powers, who brought the X-men back from the brink of extinction, yet now The Phoenix is coming for her. As the Avengers get involved things quickly turn south, resulting in a war.

Jason Aaron, Brian Michael Bendis, Ed Brubaker, Matt fraction and Jonathan Hickman band together to write this avengers/X-men cross over series.

I’m not going to lie, as someone who follows Wanda’s timeline, I picked up this one purely for the promise of an epic battle between The Scarlet Witch and Dark Phoenix. I had however hoped to enjoy the rest of the series too but unfortunately for the much of it this wasn’t the case, and there were parts that I just wanted to skip over.

I hate it when a potentially decent story line just turns into a cliché superhero punch up. Given the title, a battle between the Avengers and X-men is to be expected, but sidelining plotlines that are actually compelling in favour of characters having petty arguments and punching the living day lights out of each other at every opportunity is just bad writing in my opinion. If constant fighting is what you enjoy this is definitely the comic for you.

Rant aside, let’s talk about the good stuff. This comic series did get off to a strong start with its prologue and the fundamental idea of the story was very good. Having only dipped in and out of the X-men comics, I was unfamiliar with Mutant Messiah, Hope Summers. Nonetheless I found myself immediately invested in her story and where it was heading. It was this part of the plot that kept me reading and I will definitely be going back to read more of Hope Summer’s timeline in the future. Summers is not only a well developed character on a whole but also happens to be an omega level mutant with the ability to mimic the powers of others. This makes for some high stake content as she goes up against some strong opponents.

As the phoenix force arrived on earth, it brought in an unexpected plot twist which really was the turning point in the story, partially in regards to the phoenix five and the god complex elements. Perhaps it’s predictable that any good intentions will turn Dark Phoenix before long but it did make for some stunning artwork as Olivier Coipel and Adam Kubert, two fantastic artists return to bring their skills to the table.

This is another comic that delves deep into the psychology and morals of the iconic line “with great power comes great responsibility.” There’s a lot of debate around this comic about who is in the right in this situation but from what I’ve interpreted I would say that it’s a case of both the avengers and X men being in the wrong. To think if they had been civil to start with, this whole situation could have been avoided.

Overall this series suffered from too many unnecessary and messy threads and there are definitely better cross over stories out there. However, its best points in the last few issues were strong enough to just about redeem it.

Side note: Given what the Scarlet Witch did to him, Vision’s words and actions are completely justified but the scene in the prologue doesn’t half have a brutal impact on your emotions.

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unfolded73 · 4 years ago

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My Heartbeat Shows the Fear (2/4) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: A canon divergent story: Patrick gets into a car accident and it brings the Brewers to town sooner.

Notes: This fic will be posted in 4 chapters, every other day. There is some description of injuries, but nothing too graphic or life-threatening.

The title is from “Overkill” by Colin Hay, which thanks to the show Scrubs puts me in mind of hospitals.

Thank you to Amanita_Fierce for putting so much time and thought into betaing this fic - you made it so, so much better. And thanks also to @high-seas-swan for some helpful suggestions, particularly on that one scene that I tore apart and rewrote.

Rated Teen, this chapter 5714 words. (ao3)

Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

Patrick first became aware of a constant, irritating beeping noise. He blinked his eyes open, his eyelashes crusty with sleep. Oh right, he thought as he took in his surroundings. He was in the hospital. It seemed like no time at all had passed since they told him that he was supposed to go into surgery for his arm. Was the surgery already over?

He looked down and saw his arm enclosed in bandages and a splint. Guess that's a yes to the surgery, he thought. The pain he remembered when he’d regained consciousness after the accident was gone, fortunately, numbed by what he assumed were some powerful drugs. He would have almost preferred some pain to this complete numbness.

Patrick had thought of himself as pretty unflappable when it came to getting injured — as a teen he’d suffered cuts that needed stitches more than once, and the sight of his own blood hadn’t really phased him. Once he’d suffered a ligament tear and knee dislocation playing hockey, and the sight of his leg bending the wrong way had been pretty grisly, but he’d still managed to joke around with his coach while he was being carried off the ice on a stretcher. None of that compared to the sight of his own broken bone protruding through the skin of his arm. That had triggered a visceral reaction, a deep, inborn knowledge from his hindbrain that screamed: this is very wrong! The paramedic in the ambulance had covered it with a bandage to keep any more dirt from getting into the wound, mercifully shielding it from Patrick’s eyes. The pain had been intense, though. ”He’s in shock,” he remembered the paramedic saying as he swam in a viscous soup of cold sweat and nausea and agony.

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked over to his right side and saw David sleeping on the pull-out sleeper chair in the corner of the room. He was still in his clothes, but he’d taken his shoes off and lined them up neatly next to the chair. The sight of David’s shoes brought a swell of emotion to Patrick’s chest.

“David,” he said. His voice was raspy, and he was suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. “David,” he repeated, louder.

David started up, lines on his cheek from the pillow under his face and his hair sticking up on one side. It made Patrick want to hug him.

“You okay? Need me to call a nurse?” David asked.

“No. Is there water?”

David nodded, standing up and grabbing a cup with a bendy straw off of a small rolling table. He brought it over, carefully directing the straw so that Patrick could take it in his mouth and suck down some of the water. It made him feel uniquely helpless, being tended to like this.

“How long have you been here? What time is it?” Patrick asked.

David glanced at the clock. “It’s 2:30 in the morning.” He pulled his sleeper chair closer and sat on it, taking Patrick’s right hand in his.

Patrick frowned. “How long was the surgery?”

“A couple of hours. Do you not remember when they brought you out of recovery?” David asked, the first hint of a smile that Patrick had seen flitting over his face.

“No. The last thing I remember was them prepping me for surgery,” Patrick said.

Now David almost laughed. “In your defense, you were very high when you first came out of anesthesia.”

“What did I say?”

“Well, you swore a lot, which was very out of character. And you said I was handsome several times.”

“You are handsome,” Patrick said with a smile.

“And now all of your nurses know it.” David squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember that.” It sounded embarrassing, but he still would have liked to see a video of it — of himself high as a kite and gushing about his sexy boyfriend to anyone within earshot. He squeezed David’s hand back.

“Mm, don’t be. You threw up and you kept saying your ears were ringing and I might’ve gotten a bit… testy… with one of the nurses when she said it wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“My hero,” Patrick sighed fondly.

“How are you feeling now?”

Patrick tried to assess how he was feeling. He had flashes of more memories — agonizing pain when he was in the ambulance and when they put in him the CT machine, but now there was little more than a dull ache. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yeah, you’re on the really good drugs,” David said, pointing up to an IV bag. “Morphine, I’m pretty sure. Also some antibiotics, but it’s the morphine that’s relevant here.”

“That explains it.” Patrick lifted his uninjured arm and tried to smooth down David’s unruly hair. “Thanks for staying here with me.”

“They would have had to drag me out of here,” David said, his voice cracking with emotion. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault; it was the other driver’s fault.” David reached up and stroked a hand over Patrick’s forehead and cheek. “Do you remember the accident?”

Frowning, Patrick tried to probe his memories, and while he did so the automated blood pressure cuff around his arm filled up, squeezing his bicep almost to the point of pain before exhaling in a long hiss. “Not the impact. I remember flashes of being extracted from my car and put in an ambulance. Some stuff from when they first brought me in here.” He looked down at his arm. “I remember my arm looking really not good.”

David winced. “Yeah. Well, look at it this way: you’ll probably have a very manly scar when all this is over.”

“The car,” Patrick said. “I had all the products from the Mennonite farms in the car.” He knew insurance would cover the losses, but he still felt a stab of guilt that he’d caused some of their precious merchandise to be lost. It would take time to replace, time during which they couldn’t earn any money from the sales. He wanted to kick himself for not watching more closely at that intersection. He’d seen someone run that stoplight before. He should have been more careful.

Shaking his head, David said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“David—”

“Let me worry about it,” David said.

“You should go home and get some sleep.”

‘Not a chance. Besides, Alexis drove me here and I sent her home a while ago, so you’re stuck with me until she comes back in the morning.” He lifted Patrick’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. David’s eyes were suspiciously wet. “Also I may never let you out of my sight again.”

“I love you,” Patrick said.

“I love you more,” David replied, “as evidenced by me sleeping on this thing.” He pointed at the sleeper chair. “It makes me long for my bed at the motel.”

Patrick felt an itch between his shoulder blades, and shifted his body in an attempt to scratch it. A spike of pain shot through his side. Broken ribs, he remembered. Right. “Ow.” He chuckled uneasily. “This is going to put a real damper on our sex life.”

David leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Why don’t you try to get some more sleep? Your parents are going to be here in the morning.”

“My… what?”

His face cracking into a yawn, David answered, “I called your parents while you were in surgery. It seemed serious enough that they needed to know.”

Patrick’s heart began to race, which unfortunately he could hear echoed in beeps from the machines behind him. David noticed too, his eyes flicking up briefly to the monitors before looking back at Patrick’s face. Mind racing, Patrick tried to sit up, and another lightning bolt of pain kept him from executing that maneuver. “What did… what did you say?”

“That you’d been in a car accident and your arm was being operated on.” David’s face betrayed his confusion. “Patrick, I know you’re not super close with your parents but they needed to know that you’d been hospitalized.”

“Yeah, I know, but… David.” This was the worst case scenario, the thing that he’d hoped to avoid David ever knowing. If he could have just gotten up the courage to tell his parents the half dozen times he’d almost managed it, then David would never have had to know that he wasn’t out to them. That he was keeping his relationship with David a secret.

Well, there was no hiding it now. Patrick looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, steeling himself, before meeting David's concerned gaze. “I have to tell you something.”

David frowned. “What is it?”

“I’ve… I haven’t told my parents about the fact that we’re… together. I’m not out to them.”

“Oh.”

Patrick winced at the hurt on David’s face. “I wanted to tell them, I did, but then I didn’t go home for Christmas, and it’s just hard to… I don’t know how to say it, over the phone. I can’t get the words out.” He swallowed around a lump in his throat. “David, I’m sorry—”

“Mm mm, no. Don’t apologize.” David squeezed his hand and then kissed his fingers again, his facial expression difficult to read. The hurt wasn’t in evidence anymore, but perhaps because David was doing a better job of hiding it. “Coming out is very personal, and it’s something you should only do on your terms. Okay?” His mouth slanted to the side. “That’s why I brought this couple home from college one time and just told my parents to deal with it.”

Patrick chuckled in relief at the way David was trying to lighten the mood, but just as quickly his guilt rushed back to the surface. “I’m not ashamed of you, David. I promise I’m not.”

David’s lips quirked up. “Yes, that was obvious from the way you talked to the nurses about me when you were high.” He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “When your parents get here, I can just be… your business partner.”

His gut instinct was to say no. That wasn’t fair to David, or to what they meant to each other. But then he imagined it, lying here in a hospital bed, in pain and a little bit high on opiates, his arm in a splint, looking up at his parents towering over him and telling them he was gay. That he and David were boyfriends. It was an agonizing mental picture.

“Maybe… maybe just for tomorrow?” Patrick asked in a small voice. He sounded pathetic to his own ears. He looked up at the IV bag. “For one thing, I’d prefer to be sober when I do the whole coming out speech.” It was an attempt at a joke, but it wasn’t untrue. He didn’t feel like he was in any kind of mental shape to talk to his parents about his sexual orientation or his relationship with David right now.

Patrick couldn’t help but notice that David had pulled away from him a little bit, but he still had an encouraging smile plastered on his face. “That makes total sense. Don’t worry about that for right now. Just focus on healing, okay?”

Patrick reached out, putting his hand around David’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered against David’s lips. “So much.”

David gave his shoulder a little pat when he pulled away. “Let’s try to get some more sleep, okay?”

“Yeah.” Patrick felt exhausted from just the half hour he’d been awake. “Okay.”

He watched as David resettled himself on the sleeper chair, twisting and turning before finally settling down and facing the wall. When Patrick finally fell asleep, his last vision was of David’s back, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath.

~*~

When the Lincoln pulled up in front of the hospital, David was outside waiting for it. He’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, noticing every time Patrick shifted in his fitful sleep, and then was woken for good at six in the morning when a new nurse came on shift and stopped in to check Patrick’s vitals and replace his IV bag. Patrick, meanwhile, was in more pain than when he’d awoken the first time, and he was in a mood to match. Alexis finally called to say she was ten minutes away, so David kissed Patrick’s cheek and told him he’d be back later and escaped.

He felt grimy, still in yesterday’s clothes, aware of his own body odor in a way that he absolutely despised. He walked over quickly to the car, wrenching the door open and collapsing into the seat.

“How’s Patrick?”

“Awake and coherent and cranky,” David said. “I told the nurse he needed to up his morphine, but they don’t listen to me.” He tilted his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

“You’re so sweet to stay by his bedside all night, David.”

He whipped his head around, looking for a sign that his sister was making fun of him, but her face was impassive as she concentrated on driving.

“Well, I couldn’t just let him wake up alone in the hospital. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, it happened to me in Singapore,” she said. “Also in Portugal, I think it was? Anyway. I’m glad he’s okay.”

“His arm is being held together with bandages and pieces of plastic and he’s in a lot of pain, but sure. He’s right as rain.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have left then,” Alexis said.

David gestured emphatically down at his clothes. “If I can’t get out of these clothes and into a shower soon, then I might literally have a panic attack.” He turned and looked out the window at the passing fields. “Besides, his parents will be here in about an hour, his mom said.”

“Meeting the parents, David!” Alexis said, and he turned in time to see her execute an exaggerated series of blinks that seemed dangerous to do behind the wheel of a car. “I guess you do want to be freshly showered for that.”

He huffed. “I have to open the store this morning. I’ll meet them later.”

“David, no,” Alexis gasped, “you should go back to the hospital. Stevie and I can cover the store for a few hours. I talked to her about it when I got back last night.”

“I can go back tonight after work. His parents will be there with him,” David said, his stomach in knots, exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs.

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, David.”

Sighing, David rocked his head back to knock against the headrest several times. “Patrick’s not out to his parents. They don’t know we’re together.”

Alexis bared her teeth like that Chrissy Teigen meme. “Oh, David. Yikes.”

“I know. So being at the hospital means that I have to pretend to just be his business partner, and I don’t know if I have the emotional fortitude to do that right now when he almost died yesterday.” He turned and stared out the window again. “Can we not talk about it anymore?”

Alexis didn’t say anything, but she reached over and patted his shoulder in what he guessed was supposed to be sympathy. They drove the rest of the way back to Schitt’s Creek in silence.

By the time David was showered and dressed and had his hair in order, he felt almost human, and he was resigned to not seeing Patrick again until the evening. He stepped out into his and Alexis’s room only to see Alexis and Stevie standing there between the beds. They turned to him and folded their arms, determined looks on their faces.

He pulled up short, indignant. “What?”

“We’re going to look after the store for you,” Stevie said flatly. “You are going back to the hospital.”

“Patrick needs you, David,” Alexis said.

“Patrick doesn’t need me lurking around, making his parents wonder why his business partner is being so emotional,” David said, turning to the mirror and probing gently at the skin under his eyes. His lack of sleep was painfully obvious on his face.

“I’m sure he’ll tell his parents once he’s gotten his bearings. But in the meantime, he needs to know you’re standing by him,” Stevie said.

“That is a lot of sincere emotion coming out of your mouth, Stevie. Did you hit your head?”

“Fuck off,” Stevie said.

“You could also go by Patrick’s apartment and pick up some of his stuff,” Alexis said. “If he’s going to be stuck in the hospital, he’s going to need some comfy pajamas, and some changes of underwear. And a book or something.”

Okay, even David had to admit that was a good idea. He blew out a breath and crossed his arms, mirroring Stevie. “Are you sure you can handle the store?”

“Ugh, David, we’ve done it before,” Alexis said, stomping her foot. “Now go!” she said, shooing him out the door.

“Wait, I need you to do something else for me,” he said. “Can you contact the police and find out where his car was taken? I need to see if any of the things in it are salvageable.”

Stevie nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

He made a quick stop at the apartment and packed a duffel bag for Patrick: pajamas, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, underwear, a book from Patrick’s nightstand, and his toiletries from the bathroom. He packed Patrick’s phone charger, although he wasn’t sure if his phone had survived the crash. He started to put in Patrick’s favorite hoodie, but then he remembered that Patrick might not be able to get anything long-sleeved over his arm. Instead he grabbed the afghan from the back of the sofa, figuring that would have to do if Patrick was chilly in his hospital room.

The nurse at the front desk of Patrick’s floor recognized him, waving him through. It occurred to him that after yesterday, one of the nurses could inadvertently out Patrick to his parents.

David’s first impression of Patrick’s parents was of blue sweaters. I guess that’s where Patrick gets it, David thought as he hesitated in the doorway to Patrick’s room. The Brewers were standing by his bedside, his mother touching the top of his head affectionately. It was a perfect family tableau that he was loath to interrupt, but he couldn’t exactly linger in the hall all morning.

“Hey,” he said, stepping hesitantly into the room. “I’m David Rose,” he said by way of introducing himself. His eyes drank Patrick in, cataloging again the small cuts on his face. His instincts told him to go over to Patrick, to touch him, but he couldn’t do that now. Instead he stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed like an alien who didn’t know how to exist in the presence of humans.

“David! I’m Clint Brewer,” Patrick’s father said, holding a hand out for David to shake. David shifted his bag over to the other arm and suffered the overly firm handshake Clint gave him.

“And I’m Marcy. David, thank you for calling us last night.”

“Of course.” He turned to Patrick. “I went by your apartment and packed some…” He panicked. Was knowing where Patrick kept his things a tell? I mean, it wasn’t a big apartment; he probably could have figured it out even if he wasn’t over there all the time. “Some stuff for you.”

Patrick gave him a fond look. “Thanks.”

David fixated on the least intimate thing in the bag. “I grabbed your phone charger, but then I wasn’t sure if you even have your phone.”

“Yeah, I have no idea where it is. Still in the car, probably, and who knows where that is.”

“Stevie is looking into it,” David said.

“Thank goodness Patrick has you, David,” Marcy said, holding her hands out for the bag, so David surrendered it to her.

David met Patrick’s eyes, and then quickly looked away. “I’m just trying to be a nice person, Mrs. Brewer.”

Patrick snorted, suppressing a laugh.

A doctor David hadn’t seen before breezed into the room and picked up Patrick’s chart. “How are we feeling today, Mr. Brewer?” he said as his eyes scanned over the chart.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Patrick muttered.

The doctor moved over toward Patrick’s injured side, forcing David to step out of the way. He watched with morbid fascination, unable to avert his eyes, as the doctor examined Patrick’s arm, then his side where presumably his broken ribs were. David caught a glimpse of terribly bruised skin under Patrick’s hospital gown, and he flinched. Pain was evident on Patrick’s face.

“No sign of infection; that’s what we are concerned with most with this kind of injury, so that’s a great sign,” the doctor said. He then checked Patrick’s pupils and asked him a few questions, making some notes before clicking his pen and putting it away. “Did they explain the surgery to you yesterday, Mr. Brewer?”

Patrick nodded. “Sure. That it had to be done quickly to prevent infection.”

“Right. We did what’s called an open reduction and internal fixation in this case. Metal rods were inserted which will allow your bone to fully heal.”

“Metal rods?” David asked, and then worried about how worried he sounded. Business partners shouldn’t sound so worried, he thought.

“How about that, you’ll get to set off the machine every time you fly,” Clint said, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s routine,” the surgeon said, putting Patrick’s chart back on its hook. “If you continue to show no sign of infection tomorrow and the wound is healing well, we’ll go ahead and put a cast on it so that you’ll be able to move more freely.”

“Am I going to regain full use of my arm? I play baseball and—”

“And guitar,” David interjected, his stomach queasy at the idea that Patrick might never be able to play again.

The surgeon smiled. “Well, you’ll definitely be on the disabled list for the rest of the season, but there’s no reason that with a little bit of rehab you won’t be able to do everything you’re used to doing after a few months.” He gave Patrick a corny thumbs-up gesture. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “How much longer before I can go home?”

“Well, that’s for the attending physician to decide, but I’d say tomorrow is a distinct possibility.”

“Thank you so much,” Marcy said as the surgeon gave them a wave and rushed out of the room as quickly as he’d rushed in.

David wasn’t sure what to do. There was no reason for him to stay now that he’d delivered Patrick’s belongings, and if he did stay, Patrick’s parents would probably wonder why.

“Is the store closed?” Patrick asked him. He had dark circles under bloodshot eyes, David noticed. He could probably use some more sleep.

“No, Alexis and Stevie are there,” David said.

“That’s your sister, and…” Clint asked.

“And my best friend.”

“Well, it’s very nice of them to help out,” Marcy said.

“Yeah.” David fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. “So I should go…”

“Do you have a hotel booked here in Elmdale?” Patrick asked his father.

“Not yet; we came straight here. I guess we need to find a place before we collapse,” Clint replied.

“Actually, I had an idea,” Marcy said, “if you don’t mind, sweetheart.”

“What?” Patrick asked.

“One thing you’re going to need when you get out of the hospital is food that’s easy to heat up. I was thinking we could stay at your apartment and I could use the kitchen to make you some meals and fill up your freezer before you get home.”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that—”

“Patrick, I want to. There isn’t a lot we can do to help, but I can at least do that.”

Patrick looked at David, and all David could do was shrug. It sounded like a good idea, actually, but he could also think of a few reasons why Patrick wouldn’t necessarily want his parents spending time unsupervised in his apartment.

“I can take them to your place, and… straighten things up.” David said, looking at Patrick pointedly to make sure he understood his meaning.

“Oh, we don’t care how messy it is,” Marcy said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No, that’s a good idea,” Patrick said.

“It’s no trouble,” David added. “It’s on my way back to work. You can follow me in your car.”

“Thanks, David,” Clint said, clapping him on the back.

“Is there anything else we can do for you this morning, sweetheart?” Marcy was still at Patrick’s side, stroking his hair. David felt a stab of jealousy that he couldn’t stroke Patrick’s hair right now. Or kiss him.

“No, I’m good. I’m just going to get some more sleep, I think,” Patrick said.

“I… um… brought the afghan from your apartment.” David gestured toward the duffel. He wanted to spread it over Patrick’s legs, to tuck him in securely, but instead he stood to the side and watched Patrick’s mother doing it. Then he had to settle for a little wave as the three of them left Patrick’s hospital room.

“I’m just going to run to the restroom before we go,” David said, already pulling out his phone before he’d cleared the door to the men’s room.

911, he texted to Stevie. Need you to go to Patrick’s apartment and remove any evidence of our relationship IMMEDIATELY. There’s a spare key in the top drawer of the desk in the back of the store.

Stevie: why?

David: I’m bringing the Brewers over there. We’ll be there in 40 minutes.

Stevie: check. what should i be on the lookout for?

David: Photos, mainly. And there’s a shelf with some of my clothes on it.

He groaned to himself and then added, Make sure we didn’t leave lube out anywhere. Like the bedside table or on the floor next to the bed.

Stevie: gross. if I have to pick up a used condom, you’re going to pay.

David: What kind of animal do you think I am??? Although maybe also empty the trash. Thanks, I owe you.

She didn’t respond to that, but he’d have to assume she’d get the job done.

Stevie dispatched on her errand of subterfuge, he returned to find the Brewers in the lobby. “I’ll be driving an enormous black boat of a car; you can’t miss it,” David said to them as they walked out into the sunshine.

Once they were on the road, David’s attention bounced from the road to his speedometer to his rearview, making sure the Brewers were still behind him. By the time they got to Patrick’s apartment building, he was a tight ball of tension.

He had a text from Stevie waiting for him when he picked his phone up and looked at it. mission accomplished. who needs that many kinds of lube? im mentally scarred and also very curious.

“This seems like a nice neighborhood,” Marcy said, looking around.

David thought about the recycling bin he’d seen a couple of times outside the building that was full to overflowing with liquor bottles, and about the couple downstairs who had screaming fights on Saturday nights, but didn’t think either of those were anecdotes he should tell, particularly because they would indicate how much time David had spent in Patrick’s apartment already. Instead he just agreed noncommittally as he led them up the stairs.

It was only as he stuck his key in the lock that he realized that having Patrick’s spare key was one thing, but having it on his key ring with his keys to the store and his room key at the motel was quite another. He winced as he opened the door, hoping they hadn’t noticed.

“So this is Patrick’s place,” he said unnecessarily, his eyes straying to the mantel and then to the desk. Stevie had done her job — the photos of him were gone. His eyes raked over the shelving next to the bed and zeroed in on the shelf where he’d had a couple of sweaters and a pair of jeans. It was empty.

“It’s not very big, is it?” Clint laughed. “But Patrick never has been someone who kept a lot of things.”

David wanted to agree vehemently — the only reason the apartment didn’t look much more spartan was David’s influence — but he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. “So here’s the key,” he said, unclipping it from his keyring and handing it over. So much for not drawing attention to his key ring, he thought. “There’s a grocery store, Brebner’s, that’s not far away. And you can get fresh produce at our store,” he added, which made Marcy’s eyes light up. “I should change the sheets for you,” he said, turning to the bed.

“We can do that, David. You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

“Nope! It’s no trouble,” he said, and he knew he sounded manic, but there was no way on God’s green Earth he was going to let Patrick’s mother touch the sheets that were currently on Patrick’s bed. “I help my friend Stevie change sheets at the motel sometimes,” he said as he quickly stripped the bed. “I’m very good at it.”

“Oh, Patrick mentioned the open mic nights,” Clint said, pointing at the framed poster on the wall. “Did you know he used to play at an open mic night in high school?”

David finished stuffing the dirty sheets into the hamper and grabbed a clean set from the shelf. “Mm hmm, he mentioned that.”

“I’m glad he’s picked it back up. I think he’d stopped playing guitar for a while before things ended with—” Marcy stopped herself, like it just occurred to her that she maybe shouldn’t be gossiping about her son’s past love life with his business partner.

“Rachel?” David supplied as he stretched the fitted sheet out over the mattress. Marcy came over and grabbed the other side, looking relieved.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew about that,” she said, putting her corners of the sheet on as David did the same on the other side.

He nodded, remembering the worst week of the last year (until this one). “I do.” Then felt like he needed to explain knowing it. “All those hours of working together, you end up telling each other things.” Although not, apparently, that he isn’t out to his parents, David’s brain supplied.

“Thanks for all your help today, David,” Clint said. “We really do appreciate it.”

David stifled a wince and nodded, trying to approximate a smile.

~*~

“Marcy, you don’t have to start cooking right this minute,” Clint said once they had the groceries unpacked. “You’ve barely slept in the last 36 hours.”

“I want to at least get a lasagna put together,” she said, organizing the ingredients for her meat sauce on the counter and then opening cabinets, looking for an appropriate saute pan.

“Well,” Clint said with a sigh, “give me the garlic and onion and I’ll prep them for you.”

Marcy fiddled with the knobs on Patrick’s stove until she had the correct burner heating up. “His store certainly was beautiful,” she said, thinking back to their brief visit that afternoon. “I never imagined that Patrick could put something like that together.”

“Well, he did tell us that he mainly handled the financial side of things, so I suppose the look of the place is down to David.”

“I guess that’s true.” She unwrapped the package of ground beef, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“He’s going to be okay, honey,” Clint said. “Don’t worry.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell a mother not to worry, Clint Brewer.”

She put the ground beef into the hot pan and began breaking it up with a spatula.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Clint said. “I think David might have a crush on our son.”

Marcy frowned at him. “You know, it’s not okay to assume someone is gay just because they’re… you know. Effeminate.”

“It’s not that.” Off his wife’s skeptical look, he conceded, “Okay, it’s not just that. It’s the way he looks at Patrick. You didn’t see the way David looked at our son?”

Marcy blinked, trying to remember. She’d been so focused on Patrick, she’d barely looked at David while they were in the hospital room with him. “I guess I didn’t.”

“Well, I think there are some unrequited feelings there,” Clint said.

She mulled that over while she continued to put her meat sauce together. It wouldn’t be good for their business relationship if what Clint said was true. She wondered if Patrick knew, and if so if it made their relationship awkward. David seemed like a respectful person; surely he wouldn’t do anything to make Patrick uncomfortable at work.

Marcy was still worrying about it when she was brushing her teeth in the bathroom that night, beyond exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. She wasn’t sure what impulse made her reach out and open Patrick’s medicine cabinet.

“Hasn’t Patrick been saying he wasn’t seeing anyone?” she asked Clint as she got into bed next to him.

He was already half-asleep. “Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got a mostly empty box of condoms in his medicine cabinet,” she said.

“Marcy, you shouldn’t snoop.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You didn’t mean to open his medicine cabinet?” he yawned.

“It’s a big box.”

“Marcy.”

“Okay, sorry.” She curled up on her side.

“Maybe he hasn’t had any relationships serious enough to tell us about,” Clint reasoned.

She didn’t want to have to think about her son that way, having casual, meaningless sex instead of a real relationship. That wasn’t what she wanted for him. It was why she’d encouraged him to patch things up with Rachel in the past. And while she now believed Patrick when he said things were really over between them, she still hoped he would find someone else who would love him the way he deserved to be loved. All night as she slept, her hopes and worries for her son monopolized her dreams.

Chapter 3

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek ff #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #my fic

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hellyeahheroes · 5 years ago

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Dylan is a Mary Sue

*look I know that the symbiote has a name and Venom is both it and Eddie. So I hope you don’t get annoyed when I refer to the symbiote as Venom because writing symbiote 100 times gets annoying and I hope you get what I mean when I call it that.

I’ve been trying to write this like nine times because I don’t want to bash this character. When I wrote the post about how I didn’t want Dylan Brock near Miles, I intentionally left out the reason why because I like the character. I hate the purpose and narrative mind behind him. And plus I don’t want to seem like I bash white cis het male characters when the characters I do trash on are bad because writers tend to make them intentionally bratty. I don’t like Spider-kid, Damian Wayne when written without consequence(he is white passing), Jason Todd,or Alpha. Like giving a character a shitty attitude doesn’t make him endearing especially on a male, I’m sorry. Characters like Tim Drake, Alex Power, and Dick Grayson work because there is something genuine in them that they want to be the good of the world.

Anyways, Dylan is fun to me because he has this precocious roguishness that isn’t malevolent nor out of place. His abuse is actually abuse that isn’t made to serve as his training or whatever nor does it warps his views. And his fandom in Eddie/Venom actually makes sense because he is a kid that was abandoned by his mother and left with an emotionally and physically abusive man who would cut him down. A dark passenger like Venom appeals to him because Venom is like the codifier of misguided anger for misguided teens.

But there is a reason why he is written that way: he is a Mary-Sue. Now I don’t care about the gender preconceptions of Mary Sue vs Gary Stu nor do I try to prescribe to reclaiming Mary Sue in some vain attempt at liberal feminism. Mary Sue is bad writing unless everyone gets to play(Mary Sues work in video games). Mary Sue is something writers in most mediums that tell stories should avoid if they want said character to succeed or evoke if you want said character to be disliked. And Dylan Brock is an example that doesn’t work and is largely getting away with it because he is cute.

1. The Immaculate Conception of Dylan Brock

This is when I knew some Sue shit was unleashed on Venom fans. I don’t have to google it but I can guess that Cates has a Catholic background. Whether he is one or raised one, it is apparent in whatever meaningful writing depth he provides outside of meaningless action. And it works because Eddie Brock, being anti-Peter Parker, is Catholic. Hence the brooding and self-loathing and abusive paternity and motifs of redemption and suffering and shit. But this was not only fucked up, but a little too on the nose.

Dylan wasn’t conceived naturally. In fact, Anne Weying was raped by the symbiote and impregnated with Eddie’s DNA. So Dylan is actually the child of the Venom and Eddie Brock. “But Anne is his mother.” Look, Cates didn’t actually consider Anne so I won’t either. Outside of the fact that it doesn’t make sense chronologically since Peter was like in his early 20s when he had the Symbiote and is at most 29 now, Anne is just a vehicle for Cates’ to necessitate the purity of Dylan Brock. Dylan is the pure child of Venom, born from the womb of Eddie’s first girlfriend/fiancé/wife/whatever and the first human woman to wear a symbiote, I think. I mean she didn’t even have sex with Eddie and boom, mini Eddie Brock is wrapped in cloth and left at the meager doorstep at the sacred house of Eddie. Praise Venom, y’all.

Jokes aside, I don’t know how Venom fans just didn’t go, “Iight, Imma head out” after reading this page. Just shows the conviction of fandom.

But I digress. Now let me regale you just how improbable this is which again only serves to ordain Dylan is the truest son of Venom in all the ways possible and also highlight the very unfortunate implications of this fuckery. Symbiotes bond is how they reproduce. When they reproduce with their host, the end result up to this point has always been a symbiote. For Mass Effect fans, it’s the Asari thing except with goo. Before you ask, yes Symbiotes sexually satisfy their hosts unlike the majority of human men*cough*. Point is that Dylan should be biologically impossible but somehow he is a human symbiote hybrid. And the unfortunate implications of such of incident shouldn’t go unnoticed either. Venom and Eddie have several children and prior to this, all of them have been symbiote. Cletus and Red also have children too and again symbiote. In fact, all symbiote bonds produce symbiotes as far as male hosts are concerned...except for the brief bond of Ann Weying and Venom Symbiote. Gee I wonder why she got a different result? Well there are a few female hosts and surprising none of them have spawned a symbiote child. So logically it can be assumed that woman + symbiote = forced impregnation of symbiote. Well this shit got dark. The symbiotes just became the Jeffrey Epstein alien species. But since Cates swears up and down that is not what is happening, he is going for the God/Virgin Mary angle for some reason.

It’s almost like he is the descendent of the Symbiote God. If only there was such a thing.

Welllllll shit.

2. Dylan is incorruptible and all-powerful without knowing why or how

Okay, backstory time because I never properly explained Knull, another of Cates shoddy creations. Knull is the galactic god emperor of the Symbiotes who created the Symbiotes as a weapon to rule the galaxy. Aside of the fact that his existence retconned the previous backstories of the symbiote, he has the ability to domesticate the symbiotes and make them subservient to him.

Guess who else has this ability.

Dylan is symbiote Jesus, hallelujah. This explains the Church of Carnage/Knull/Grendel/who gives a shit. He is the true son of Abraham and Carnage is the false prophet of Venom. It’s what Christianity considers Islam to be or some shit and both Dylan and Sleeper are about to nail the 95 thesis on the door of Carnage in the form of the greatest mixtape you ever heard.

Look, I too am astounded of the sentences my mind comes up with when I so thoroughly hate a writing like I hate Donnie Cates’ Venom.

Dylan goes beyond being just a special snowflake that was forcefully and crudely implemented. He is the pre-ordained established opposite of the nature of corruption that Knull created the symbiotes for. To Knull, the symbiotes are his thralls. To Dylan, the symbiotes are his pets. To Knull, the symbiotes are a tool to become omnipresent. To Dylan, the symbiotes are individuals who need to be liberated if good. To Knull, there is no such thing as a good symbiote. To Dylan, there is and it’s Venom or sleeper or what have you. Dylan is the forgotten son and the New Testament for symbiote kind.

And he doesn’t know yet.

Okay, this is a common Mary Sue trait to absolve culpability of a Mary Sue character. It’s to say that they are not to blame for being special. It’s like the writing form of don’t hate me because I’m beautiful except somehow more obnoxious. Dylan’s obliviousness to this what is essentially an entire alien species religious revelation is like trivialized because their prophet is a 12 year old. It’s like waiting for a savior only to be told he is a carpenter.

Imma let that last one just marinate for a minute.

Look, Cates did a lot of rewriting and retconning just for his self-insert to become his favorite series and hero to be the second coming. He created this lore for Venom only for his avatar to be the prophet. The intentionality of his obliviousness to how important this is just glazed over the fact like it isn’t a big deal. Just like Cates glazed over the whole rape and forced impregnation thing because somehow that doesn’t warrant a follow up.

3. Dylan Brock is fanboy Cates

Okay before I begin, self-inserts aren’t bad nor are they inherently Mary-Sues. Kong from Ultimate Spider-Man is Bendis’ self-insert. Boomerang from Amazing Spider-Man was rewritten to be Spencer’s self-insert. JJJ is a self insert for Stan fucking Lee like...self-inserts are great. To the degree that they aren’t unnatural to the narrative or overbearing.

Dylan Brock’s previously stated precociousness comes from the idea that Donnie is writing the inner teenager that he was as a kid reading Maximum Carnage for the first time. And I get it, man, live your truth and all. Like yeah, force and subjugate other fans of this series to your childlike inquiries like how Symbiotes poop, I mean it’s not like their fandom is important or anything.

First Dylan is a fanboy of Venom just like he is. And while that makes sense meta-wise, in-narrative it doesn’t because...okay Venom fans are about to tear me apart for this but it’s like someone being a fan of Ted Bundy. His heroics usually came with a body count is all I’m saying and I doubt it would be praised but then again Wolverine has an in-universe fandom so what do I know. Back on topic, Dylan’s fandom and praise of Venom to get him out of the dark place that is his father’s abusive household.

And this is why it’s so hard to hate him because of all the fucked up shit Cates put in this book, Dylan feels like the one character that is genuine and pure in that innocent kind of way. No one hates Dylan and how could you? We all get it. And it helps that Dylan has a completely different voice than every other Cates has written from every other character. Like I can hear the excitement in his voice when he pesters his hero for questions and I’m reading his words. The idolization is pure when he meets Normie, the god son of Spider-Man, and it creates this dynamic of Spider-Man fans vs Venom fans. It’s fun in a way.

But it’s just that. When Cates writes Eddie, he is not only writing to retell Cates own personal past demons but also in the lens of how he viewed Eddie as this tortured soul who just got the wrong interview from a copycat that costs his job. The second banana of a greater and more prominent hero. Born to the wrong person. That none of what happened to Eddie was his fault or really his doing even when he was at his worst wearing Venom, it was Venom who tempted him.

Dylan is that pre-teen who sees the best in everything Venom is: The dark avenger of the abused and neglected. And I don’t want to speculate whether Cates fits the category or not because that ain’t my business, I can see why Dylan would be a compelling self-insert if it weren’t compounded on top of Cates’ forceful insertion into Venom and subsequently Spider-Man lore.

Like you remember Carly Cooper? Dylan is exactly like Carly Cooper. And this is why I like to think of Cates’ run as the equivalent of One More Day. Cates’ retconned a crucial element of Venom to make Dylan necessary to the core of Venom. He retconned the one thing that made Venom and subsequently Eddie go beyond just being a twisted revenge story.

The erasure of Mary Brock, Eddie’s sister and Eddie’s cancer. One is the motivation and the sole good Eddie has ever known. It’s his motivation to move past is mistakes. And Cates then turns the one bond in the series into something...horrific.

Okay, Dylan replaced his sister and Venom itself. His being becomes Eddie’s motivation to be a better person rather the struggle to see himself as more than his upbringing. It’s like reading Spider-Man and finding out Uncle Ben was on crack. Uncle Ben didn’t die. He faked his death. Yeah, that is what this was. So he could evade taxes or some shit. This is exonerated Eddie in the worst way and turned him into a manipulated pawn of Venom. Let’s completely retcon the marriage of MJ and PeterVenom and Eddie, Cates pitches to editorial.

Dylan becomes more than just some kid who idolizes Eddie. He becomes the sole motivation of Eddie himself now. Eddie’s past is now completely erased or made irrelevant to uplift Dylan’s importance to Eddie. It’s too a point that the Symbiote kids of Venom aren’t Eddie’s kids anymore. It’s like Eddie was in an interracial relationship and the one non-brown baby with blue eyes is his one true kid and others are mulatto chocolate eugenic mishaps or some shit that his ass don’t want to deal with anymore. I mean disowning Carnage I understand but come on?

Cates’ self insert changed the entire nature of the series. And for what purpose? To give Venom a legacy just as Peter has one. And that is the problem with Dylan.

@ubernegro

#dylan brock #venom #sleeper #symbiote #eddie brock #long post #donny cates #cates run

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faded-black-ink · 5 years ago

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Dylan's mother and father! Plus new back story!

As I stated I planned to make a new mother and father for Dylan, and with the help of my sister @thebsayraduka we came up with there looks.

First of all we all know that Dylan growing up (in the bendy's Mafia au) he didn't have a good life, his father didn't show him much love but his mother was always by his side.

With this story it's waaay different

Meet Genevieve Rockefeller a 2 tailed demon cat, she has black fur and red eyes with dark purple hair. She's a praformer and opera singer, this is were Dylan got his love for singing and it was from his mother who showed him everything he knows now. She absolutely loves her son and husband more then anyone in the world!

And now his father Rex Rockefeller, a hard working business man who works at one of the largest companies in toon town ACME, even when this man works he always makes time for his family even taking his son to work with him. This man never shuts up about his family to his co-workers and always shows off photos of them to everyone.

Dylan Growing up with his family was never boring or dull and was always filled with fun and smiles, there were days were it would rain and make Dylan feel down when he wanted to play outside, but his mother always found a way to make it fun and relaxing for the little devil.

As Dylan got older the little one started to show his true personality, Dylan was known to be a little mousey but always loved making friends with anyone, his teachers at school loved and adored the little demon as he was always ready to listen and learn anything they had to offer, however he was a sensitive little man and would cry if he fell down or if it were storming out, so some of the toon children would pick on him but in the end the little guy did his best to ignore it even if it hurts. Other then that Dylan was a good child and barely did anything naughty. (Almost)

However when the boys powers started to show more as he aged and worries started to fill his parents minds, he had a hard time controlling them and even hurt a few kids in his school who were known to pick on him, he never meant to hurt anyone but he had a hard time holding back his temper. when Dylan turned 16 years old he was taken to Heaven's tower, known for housing the most powerful angels in toon town. With their help they were able to help the Rockefeller

Unfortunately the shackles they used on the young Dylan were not strong enough and a new demon was born, the name Astaroth was given to the being that inhabited the boy and was known to be a bloodthirsty monster who had no issue eating anyone and anything in his path. When all was said and done and he was stopped by both Hell's tower and Heaven's tower Dylan was placed in a cell with new shackles and no memories or what had happened on his 21st birthday, however the memories never left the minds of the toons that survived the attack.

Years after he was released to his mother and father care he kept living life as if nothing had happened (in his mind nothing DID happen) but he noticed that most toons were scared of him or were violent towards him, after about a month of dealing with this he confronted his parents about his issues and they knew they could not keep it from him any longer. Being told this put him into despair and guilt as he had no memory of the events that unfolded.

But even with all that had happened, all the suffering and sadness he dealt with Dylan never felt anger towards his parents and still showed love to them both, time went by and soon Dylan found love in a toon cat named Bonnie q lovely white cat who showed him as much love as she could but since Dylan didn't know how to slow down they soon ended a month later and they ended up friends.

But even with the two being friends poor Dylan was heartbroken that his first relationship with a lovely lady didn't work out like he had hoped. But things changed soon after, Dylan after getting out of the rain runs into a diner and was met with a lovely human named Belladonna, she was kind and sweet to him and made sure he was dry and cheered up. Ever since that day, Dylan visited the girl at her job to get to know her more since she never judge him making him feel loved by another person other than his parents.

After a year of being around don he finally asked don out on Valentine's day and soon asked her to be his girlfriend, and with that she said yes. He was extremely happy at last and wanted to take things slow with Don and not mess this up like he did with Bonnie, it took a few months but he later on asked don to move in with him in his own home his mom and dad gifted him since she had lost her home and of course she agreed.

However he always felt he was being judged by toon town as a hole because of what he had done in his demon state, his shackles always felt that he had a Target on his back and a label as a killer and a monster. He wanted to be free and be forgiven for all his sins so with Don's help he went to see Mavrick M. Azazel, one of the most powerful mafia bosses in toon town. When he went to see him he had begged him to help him and make a deal with him to free him and have his past from the people of toon town forgotten, mavrick had to think about the deal and asked for something of equal value.

Dylan offered his life to him saying he would work for him and his Mafia as long as he wanted, this surprised the man and with that he agreed, and the rest is history.

---------

Art by @eliana55226838 @devilsroost @thebsayraduka

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queenofcats17 · 5 years ago

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Hi, I'm not sure if you're still taking batim prompts for Hell's Studio but I was hoping this one was okay to ask. Basically ink gets on Sammy and Bendy (or whoever you would like) and they body swap.

I am still taking prompts, don’t worry.

This is going to be good.

Based on these two comics by @owldart

———————————————————————–

The day had started out normal enough. With a hallway flooding.

It was honestly kind of sad that this had become so common in Sammy’s life that when he came in and found the hallway flooded, he didn’t even bat an eye.

“Oh! Hey! Mornin’ Sammy!” Bendy rounded a corner, grinning upon seeing the music director. Sammy just sighed, letting out a long and drawn-out groan.

“Please tell me someone’s working on fixing this,” he said.

“Yeah, Wally and Tom are on it,” Bendy assured him.

“Great.” Sammy put down the boots Bendy hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. They were tall and rubber and honestly pretty ugly. They looked like the sort of thing a sailor or a fisherman would wear. Bendy hadn’t expected Sammy to own a pair of those.

“Are those galoshes?” He tried to stifle a snicker. “Why do you have galoshes?”

“Why do you think I have galoshes?” Sammy replied in a deadpan voice.

“Oh right. The flooding.”

“Yeah. The flooding.” Sammy turned away, grumbling to himself as he began wading his way through the faded hallway. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Alright! See you later, Sammy-boy!” Bendy called after him.

“Don’t call me that!” Sammy yelled back.

Bendy chuckled to himself, ready to turn around and head back to his office himself. That was when he heard an ominous creaking sound. Slowly, he turned back around. The ceiling above Sammy was sagging mightily, creaking under the weight of what was likely a burst pipe. It looked moments from breaking and dousing Sammy in ink.

There was always the possibility that Sammy getting doused in ink wouldn’t do anything, but if there was the possibility of something going wrong in the studio it absolutely would. If he got doused, Sammy would probably end up getting turned into something or another and then he’d be miserable and unable to work.

“Sammy!” Bendy ran into the flooded section, thinking he could grab Sammy and pull him out of the way before the ceiling could break. Sammy stopped walking, turning to see what Bendy wanted.

Unfortunately, the moment Bendy grabbed Sammy’s arm, the ceiling boards broke and the two of them were covered in a torrent of ink. It was a moment or two before either of them could see.

“Aw, geez.” Bendy blinked his eyes open, noticing ink dripping down into his line of vision. “Don’t tell me I’m meltin’….again….” He trailed off as he noticed that it wasn’t Sammy he was looking at, but himself. Except ‘his’ eyes looked different. More like Sammy’s eyes.

The two of them stared at each other. Then they started to scream.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were in Joey’s office. Sammy, who was now apparently in Bendy’s body, had Joey on the floor and was holding him by his lapels. He’d rolled down Bendy’s sleeves and commandeered his tie from Bendy.

“You have 30 seconds to convince me not to rip off his mustache and feed it to the ink machine,” he growled.

“He signs your checks,” Bendy replied, fixing his bowtie. He’d rolled up Sammy’s sleeves and opened his vest.

Joey, to his credit, was pretty confused. Sammy and Bendy looked and were acting different and he didn’t know why. They both kind of smelled like ink, so maybe they’d gotten doused and something had happened?

“Um, could I ask what’s going on?” He asked, raising his hand. “I’m afraid I’m rather lost.”

“Sammy and me switched bodies,” Bendy said.

“So you’re…” Joey looked at the person he thought was Bendy.

“Sammy,” Sammy said, getting off of Joey and straightening his tie self-consciously.

“Hm.” Joey sat up, frowning as he looked between Bendy and Sammy. “Well-”

“If you say it could have been worse, I’m letting Sammy rip off your mustache,” Bendy pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done that. It was some ingrained response. It was weird having a nose.

“Then I will not say that!” Joey got up, dusting himself off. “I’ll get on figuring out how to fix this.”

“Thanks.” Sammy headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bendy asked.

“My office,” Sammy replied, noting with some irritation that reaching the doorknob was difficult. “Where else?”

“Okay! Stay out of trouble!” Bendy called after him as Sammy sulked out. “Don’t make too many interns cry!”

That day was…interesting to say the least. Everyone was initially rather confused as to why Sammy and Bendy were acting so strangely. Upon being informed of what was going on, that confusion transitioned into a certain degree of interest. It was honestly pretty funny to watch Sammy and Bendy go about their days in each other’s bodies, acting in ways that the original body’s owner never would.

Sammy was still able to play his banjo, somehow, and contented himself with holing up in his office and alternated between playing and composing. No one was entirely sure how he was still able to play with only four fingers. It was probably something about toon logic.

Bendy was delighted at being able to play the piano with five fingers, testing how much better he was in Sammy’s body. It helped that Sammy’s body came with a certain degree of muscle memory when it came to playing just about any instrument.

“This is great!” Bendy said as his fingers flew across the keys. “Why doesn’t Sammy do this more often?” Seeing Sammy’s body smiling in such a Bendy-like way was more than a little disturbing to the assembled studio members.

The two of them were returned to normal by the end of the day, their work mostly not having suffered. Sammy had gotten a good amount done while being a hermit in his office, which wasn’t that different from normal, and everyone had listened to Bendy even more than usual due to residual intimidation from Sammy’s body.

“Maybe we should do that again,” Bendy remarked once they were back to normal. “Being in your body was actually kind of fun.”

“Absolutely not.” Sammy couldn’t leave the studio fast enough.

#bendy and the ink machine #fanfiction #hell's studio au #bendy the dancing demon #sammy lawrence #joey drew

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ccfstephaniebrown · 4 years ago

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House: Hufflepuff Year: 6th Year Pet: No Pet Wand: Chinese Fireball Dragon Heartstring || Bendy || Transfiguration || 9 inches || Poplar Other: 6th Year Prefect

My name is Stephanie Clarisse Lestrange-Brown, and I am known as the worst Lestrange ever to exist. A title I wear with great pride. No male member of the Lestrange family will claim me, as my mother was a muggle born witch who was kept prisoner in the dungeons of Lestrange manner until she gave birth and then was cast out.

I unfortunately was kept.

My mother, Crystal, would often sneak into the Lestrange manor to visit me promising me she’d one day save me from their cruel world.

She never did.

You see, my mother suffered an addiction that the Lestranges were well aware of. Whenever they would find that Crystal was getting her life back together and visiting me, they would often trigger a relapse.

Then the day came I had been waiting for for 11 years. I was free. Hogwarts had accepted me, and I would never have to return to the Lestrange manor again. I was sorted into Hufflepuff, another embarrassment on my family that I got great pleasure from. I’m not great at anything. I’m pretty sure I was put in Hufflepuff, because no other house would want me.

But I didn’t care. I never had to step foot in that hell again, and I was okay. I’ve spent every holiday at Hogwarts and my summers are spent traveling and couch-surfing.

Except during the Summer between my fourth and fifth year, Dumbledore came to me with a request. To spy on the family that destroyed my mother and hurt me. To help bring the Lestrange family down. A request I can’t deny. My mission this year? Become an acceptable Lestrange. They’ll never fully trust me. But that’s okay. They shouldn’t, because my goal is to destroy them.

#ccfhogwarts

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mitterstorm · 4 years ago

Text

Dance For Me

Chapter 1

“Finally we are here today to seek and to receive comfort. We would be less than honest if we said that our hearts have not ached over this situation. We are not too proud to acknowledge-

You couldn’t take it anymore, just by standing here listening to that preach addressed his departure. Your knees feel weak and your eyes burn, but you refuse to make a scene, taking deep breaths while clenching your fists is helping you calm down.

Still, it’s not enough.

You want to scream again just as you did when you saw his body limp against yours, scratch your arms in attempts of making the pain and hurt go away. To drift your mind from these ugly feelings.

A sick way of coping indeed, teensy bit of self-harm ain't going to kill you. It helps you somehow, preventing yourself from breaking even further in a public place like the cemetery.

Finally, you regain control of yourself and shift back to the preacher. Unfortunately, he concluded, now you have to prepare for the worse.

Henry, who is your most precious friend, is dead. His body was being carried away in the concealment of a coffin; he said his last farewell to you early in the morning when you ate breakfast with him, offering your company so he wouldn't feel alone, regain some strength by appreciation itself.

Something was up that morning; the old fart was more talkative than usual and flashed a smile here and there. You are at fault for not noticing from the start. You should have been more perceptive and observant; you are keen on people after all, especially when he gave you that look as if he was parting ways with you. He didn’t fight death, accepted it as embracing a hug from an old friend. That thought alone fills your head with doubt.

Was he even happy when he left?

Did he feel satisfied with the life he lived?

Were you enough?

Fuck, you never would've imagined his passing will affect you this much.

<<You old geezer, why were you so kind to me? Why did we let ourselves get attached?>>

The time is near, you will eventually have to confront him with all of these people staring at you, but you need to be strong for sake. You are what’s left of his loved ones. Linda died long ago. They never had a chance to procreate and bring a new life, Joey went mad or something along those lines.

Just like the rest of the crew, and he didn’t make any friends while he was on service for the military. If he did, they were dead. He didn’t like to talk about it.

<<I tried to make you happy, make you feel at ease as you did for me>>

Yet he kept secrets from you, of course, you respected his wishes and didn’t pry any further.

However, it stung.

<<Now it’s not time to reminisce, there’s nothing to reminisce for me at the moment>>

They called your name to the front; you ran out of time. It’s your turn. Is your first time burying someone, yes, you have assisted other burials besides this one, but now you are who’s lost a loved one. Those past times were favors people close to you had asked a long time ago; they said it felt nice to have somebody there when someone else is missing in their lives. In other words, you were there as comfort. A shoulder they could use to cry and lean on.

Hesitant, you take away from the burier’s grasp his shovel and with a gulp. You start shoveling some dirt into the hole were Henry’s coffin lies.

<<Shit, I can’t stop trembling! Come on, stop being a pussy and get over with this!>>

Despite that, your body wouldn’t obey, it made you look clumsy. No matter how much you lied to yourself.

You are scared.

After burying Henry, your vision goes black.

Waking up tomorrow morning at home without a clue of how you got there made your mind fuzzy.

How fun.

You try to get up, but end up failing.

“Fuuuuuck! Why do I feel like absolute shit! Everything hurts!” These feel just like a hangover. Why does it feel like one? Did you go to a bar once Henry’s funeral ended? How much did you drink?

“Enough to blackout it appears,” You say under your breath. Of course, your dumb ass would go to a bar and get drunk to cope with the pain! An upcoming headache awaits you for being arbitrary, instead of showing apprehension towards the situation and mourn, as you should, your voice of reason zonked out. “I reek of booze. Agh, it stinks”.

No more addressing what happened yesterday; feeling like trash isn't doing you any good. Henry would have called you out on your bullshit.

"Stop whining like a whore and man up, chum! I'll buy you a drink. Later we can relax and cut you some slack, nothing a magsman like myself can't do".

“Ok boomer,” You said in a humdrum tone, at least it made you laugh internally. “lo and behold, this will be a shitty morning-err afternoon, it’s 1 PM, I thought it was too early to be awake”.

That means it’s time for brunch.

Must compel your stomach desires, eat a lot little of food. Therefore, you'll have to leave the bed, go downstairs where the kitchen is; you force yourself out of the comfiness that are your covers. So you walk out of the room barefoot towards the kitchen. You open the fridge faking interest with whatever is inside and close it, then repeat, only that this time you pay a little more of attention.

You grab the water pitcher and pour some in a glass, then look for oatmeal and toss three spoonfuls of it at the water, after that you chuck a spoonful of sugar and mix it. A simple drink full of roughage. It’ll suffice for now.

*Clink clink*

Metal hitting porcelain serves you as a white noise to rearrange your thoughts. Yesterday was hectic and had your mind high wire, you were thinking about the old man; how long have you two been friends? Five or six years more or less, you met each other by autumn at a hospital. On that occasion, you were merely an intern in the middle of their practice and had to change sheets, deliver meals, give them their meds and reassure they took them at the time the doctors had said. Like a nurse or carer (the difference it’s you possess more knowledge than one and can prescribe medication, it was also part of your duty as a trainee assisting the doctors with whatever you could). That’s how both of you came face to face with.

Mr. Stein was sick and injured. He needed to tend some wounds since they required special treatment. Battle scars, you didn’t know at the time, however, as days passed, you became close to him, he told you how he got them; the biggest can be found on his back.

Unfortunately, a sharp pain arose, preventing you from wandering further in the past. You had forgotten about your headache, which it’s more noticeable now, you are sure there aren’t any pills left.

“I ain’t leaving being this crappy, besides I don’t feel like moving right now…” Your eyelids are heavy and keeping them open, it’s such a pain, so you shut ‘em in hopes of relaxing for a little bit. Leaning your back on the kitchen island while drinking your beverage, its coldness helping you somehow with the throb.

Once again, your mind wanders.

Thanks to it, you know where to find some ibuprofen.

“Are these the ones?” You asked while holding a box for him to see, squinting Henry finally recognized the packet.

“What’s it called again?” He questioned, rubbing his head to ease the ache a bit. His voice raspy because of a dry throat. His normal soft tone replaced by a croaky. He’s clearly suffering.

“Ibuprofen.” You read aloud as you’ve been asked and turn back to look at him.

“Yup, that’s the one, lass. I know I’ve bothered you enough, but could you serve me a glass of water?”

“You old coot, not a bother at all. I’ll be back with your water in a jiffy”.

The pills are somewhere inside Henry’s studio. You can do that, going upstairs isn’t as demanding as buying them, cuz leaving home means changing clothes that look presentable and aren’t dirty. Henceforth, you don’t feel in the mood for seeing the outside.

“I should stop thinking of how lazy I am and look for those meds…” Talking to yourself it’s quite common, so you ain’t no stranger to these situations.

Therefore, you took a break from your bullshit and went upstairs where Henry Stein used to draw; he passed most of his time in there, secluded from the outside world, before military service, he worked at an animation studio owned by the man he once considered his best friend, Joey Drew was his name if your memory doesn’t fail you.

Your friend called him a bastard, never explained why only responded by saying: “He lost his mind.”

Nevertheless, Henry kept drawing cartoons, and sometimes, he would let you watch him sketch and answered your questions. He carried on with his old comics he left unfinished long ago. The same he had drawn back thirty years ago. The main characters are three little fellas: Bendy, Alice Angel, and Boris. Henry said they animated their adventures and later on, added side characters. The Butcher Gang, if you recall, also consists of a trio: Charley, Barley, and Edgar.

When Henry started storytelling, you felt like a kid back again, he could’ve marked your childhood just as the rest of animators who made those toons while you were a child. Oh, how you treasured these memories, you’ll never forget the time you spent together.

Evoking past times has helped to soothe your headache an itty-bitty, yet you still need to find the ibuprofen.

“Where could it be…” You asked to no one, hoping the walls may respond, even though it’ll never happen.

Seeking everywhere you soon turned the room upside down, papers on the floor resembling a carpet, art supplies rolling across the table (pencils, colors, pens, paintbrushes, blending stumps, etc.) and some books based on anatomy and animation were disorganized on their bookshelves. It all ended after you opened a drawer (this one didn’t need your touch, it was already a disorder) and found what you were looking for, and because of your rashness, more papers fell on the floor.

“Damn, what a mess…” You muttered under your breath a little irritated with yourself for being so careless while searching. You collected the papers and put them in order back again one by one, because of it you grew curious and read some of them, a letter grabbed your attention.

It was one of those fancy letters with a seal and all (what does it say? Seems of importance).

You don’t consider yourself nosy, just interested in its contents.

<<From Joey Drew? Huh, looks like your old buddy send you his salutations after all this time>>

Oh, you had no idea.

Henry knew about the letter, he already read it and did as they told him. The old studio where they used to make dreams come true transformed into a living hell.

‘DEAR HENRY

IT SEEMS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO SINCE WE WORKED ON CARTOONS TOGETHER.

30 YEARS REALLY SLIPS AWAY, DOESN’T IT?

IF YOU ARE BACK IN TOWN, COME VISIT THE OLD WORKSHOP.

THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.

YOUR BEST PAL, JOEY DREW’.

You finished reading the letter.

*Snrk*

Well shit.

Did you just read a confession or a love letter? Why not both? You don’t know why, but it feels like one.

“Okay, let’s stop right there. I can’t make jokes on circumstances as these ones”.

What could be so urgent for Joey to write a letter after thirty years of silence?

Should you investigate?

<<The letter could’ve been sent years ago! Henry surely read it; otherwise, it wouldn’t be inside a drawer of his studio, though there’s a possibility he didn’t, I doubt it. He must have seen his friend has written message>>

Okay, sure. Let’s suppose he didn’t pay any mind to the damn thing, you can pretend, now the real issue it’s the location. Joey Drew Studios must be closed (or broken down into pieces, you didn’t know if they decided to demolish the whole building).

“Wake up ___! Face reality, you shouldn’t be fantasizing, this ain’t some silly story with you as a heroine…instead of wasting my time, I shall swallow that damn pill and take some zzz’s”.

You left Henry’s solace and went to bed once again after you swallowed the pill with some water. A dreamless sleep greeted you.

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

Bendy’s POV

“ん乇'丂ムの刀乇”.

Even though he should be celebrating, the Inkarnate can’t seem to find any joy in his being, no emotion tried to overtake him. Why? He doesn’t feel anything. True, he may not possess all the emotions a human has, but anger, joy, sadness, and hysteria weren’t unbeknownst him. There’s no satisfaction nor sorrow towards his creator’s death, not even an ounce of regret. Ok no, he won’t sense any guilt for what happened to Henry, he deserved to die just as much as Joey, but he was grasping straws in here!

How’s it possible to not perceive the slightest of emotion within himself?

The Ink Demon was turning apathetic in regards to the subject; he didn’t have an answer as to why. One thing he’s sure of, his world turned dull no longer exciting as he thought.

It was as if the little dancing demon had opened his eyes for the first time, after all those years blinded by the dripping ink, before that, he only saw what his mind showed him. He finally realized how monochromatic his world truly is.

All is black and white for the demon’s eyes.

A wave of indifference invades his mind and his mind is fuzzy, he dissolves into his inky form and rests.

However, not for much.

“-aHahaHAhahaHahaHAhaha!”

Alice.

That bitch.

He despises her nearly as much as those liars, yet the little devil darling couldn’t give a damn about her right now. Let her laugh all she wants as the malady she’s. The Angel probably got the word, celebrating, unlike him.

Immersing himself even more inside the ink, he found…peace. He can work with that, serenity aids his jumbled thoughts; darkness envelopes him and swallows his body whole.

<<In the end…I feel empty. Is this how revenge it’s supposed to be like?>>

He can’t respond to that, how could he? He doesn’t even know what’s life supposed to feel like.

<<Their imagination cursed us all with life, they couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and show us how to drive through it>>

Back when he was the small little imp everybody loved, there were all kind of colors, unlike now. The studio felt warm in contrast to all the ink that surrounds it now.

The remains of those old days lurk inside the deep abyss as ink creatures, husks who replaced the humans that worked here.

Thinking about it got him tired, Bendy finds himself drifting from consciousness, he’s falling asleep.

“Was it worth it?”

<<Again that cunt>> Despite his thoughts, the Inkarnate didn’t feel irascible towards the narcissist woman. Actually, there isn’t much for him to perceive.

She’s not in here, she wouldn’t dare to step a foot on his domain. The wench had the nerve of placing her cutouts and posters; he destroyed a few just as she did the same. She is communicating with him using a damaged poster with her face.

“I know you can hear me, demon, don’t fake pretend.”

“Wんﾘりのﾘのひ ᄃﾑ尺乇?” He hopes to scare her, even though he knows it won’t work while using his beast form for some reason his speech turns nightmarish. Yet he doesn’t wield it often because of how difficult is controlling his instincts. Thoughts become more primal, talking it’s hard after a few hours transformed in it gets tiring, and he can’t measure his own force. He favors his inky form best: practical and gets the job done.

“I don’t”. So she’s just shitting with him, insufferable.

“Then why ask?”

“Spirit of inquiry. Your relationship intrigues me, up there in Heaven, we get curious as to why you didn’t kill him yourself. And don’t even try to justify your actions. You had many opportunities. The little errand boy nearly ends up killing you, he tried the same with me”.

After listening to what the Angel had to said, his permanent smile turned slowly into a frown. It’s never a good thing when the Lord ain’t wearing one.

“…”

“Well?”

The fallen angel is laughing at him.

“Not even you know the reason behind your acts of mercy!” He remains silent, it’s not like she’s wrong, the little devil does not why he was so resilient with Henry.

After that fiasco, she left him be.

Thanks to Alice’s short visit, Bendy finds questioning why she dropped by. They hate one another, true. She has eyes here and there, but it’s to keep him in line, so he won’t cross an inky limb on her domain. Unlike the female cartoon, he does not have any cutouts, posters, plushies, or ink servants near her place. He wants nothing to do with her. That’s why he finds it so unusual, it’s not like her.

Unless…

She fancies something he has.

<<If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she won’t be picking her nose in my business>>

Later he’ll do his rounds throughout the studio, maybe, the imp will find what she’s searching before she does, whatever it may be, he won’t let her have it.

He’ll make sure of it.

Who knows what her deranged mind has planned; he’s tired of the gruesome scenery this place is in, corpses all around, clones of his ol’ friend bring back unsavory images from the past. Oh, Lawrence, he’s a madman, made satanic circles as a way of showing his devotion towards the black devil. Thanks to Sammy, he has eyes in nearly the entire place.

Yes, he’s aware the musician it’s alive, but Sammy Lawrence continues being of use for him.

<<I’ll take care of him when I wake up…>>

He’s exhausted. However, he stays on his beast form sunken in ink.

The demon’s slumber it’s a peaceful one…

Until you enter his kingdom.

An animalistic rumble shakes the tinted walls.

He’s coming for you.

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

Three days.

You paced on the issue for three days, until you finally had an answer.

“I’m gonna pay a visit to your ol’ pal, maybe he’s still alive…or not…” You lowered your voice in the last part; Henry called Joey a bastard and accused him of being mentally unstable, you trust his word, but what if…what if he changed? There’s a possibility he redeemed himself and went through a rehabilitation process to help him with his instability.

<<I need to look for the address and from there I’ll see what can be done>>

You googled ‘Joey Drew Studios’ on your phone and within seconds Google Maps showed up, you were going to click at it, but then something catches your eye.

An article and it’s quite old.

‘Joey Drew Studios, also known as the workshop. Is an American corporation and an animation studio of the Bendy franchise, established in 1929.

Founded by Joey Drew and Henry Stein in an unknown full date other than the year of 1929, Joey Drew Studios is located at Broadway, Brooklyn, New York City, New York.

In 1946, Joey Drew Studios was under investigation after reports of hazardous work environments, missing employees, harassment, and excessive back pay, as well the company's danger of being bankrupt, all of which are a result of Joey's mismanagement of the studio. Anonymous employees threatened to make labor unions over the poor conditions, which included unpermitted buildings, hazardous electrical wiring, and a plumbing system prone to bursting. In addition, there were excessive work hours, most of which were unpaid and several animators were unable to see their families in weeks, after being threatened with disciplinary action and termination if they were unable to finish animations on tight schedules.

There were reports of barricaded offices, employees locked up in work spaces, and complaints of crazy malfunctioning machinery. Despite the evidence against the company, Joey Drew remained firm that the studio has done nothing wrong, calling the accusations "preposterous" and "ridiculous", dismissing them as either complaint from menial employees, or feeble attempts by competing studios to discredit Joey.

On August 16, 1959, the law firm known as Snooks, Spitner and Snooks sued Joey Drew, having heard the rumors of Joey's mismanaging of his own workers. 12 days later, the studio was closed down in accordance to legal regulation 11 U.S Code § 1125 (which forbids the misrepresentation of legally established companies) as evident by the bankruptcy report found in Joey's apartment, as well as health and safety concerns directly by the mention of a health and safety board meeting schedule found in the appointment lobby.’

Oof.

<<That’s a lot to take in>>

Why the fuck would Henry’s friend would want to meet at that nightmare show? Has he learned nothing after all this years? And not only that, the sucker it´s/was an abusive prick with his employees!

<<Man, you weren’t joking>>

You fear a screw lose isn’t Joey’s only problem.

<<He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want to put up with his shit...I’ve got enough dealing with people like him on a daily basis. Sure, not everyone it’s an ass and there’s some decent/kind people out there, but handling jerks as the likes of him tires me out>>

Sometimes you aren’t the most patient person, it all depends. But this whole ordeal it’s too much for you.

<<The studio is in the big city, New York it’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money for travelling that far, I’ll have to bid on my savings and package supplies for the journey>>

Crap. Three days and you didn’t think all of this through! How can you be so stupid?!

Now this looks like one of those impulsive decisions you take for being careless and inattentive.

<<How could Henry put up with me when not even I can stand myself?!>>

You need an adult, that’s what you ought to have beside you.

Your life is such a mess sometimes…

“Before spending money on my idiocy I should read more and prepare myself.” You mutter angrily to yourself.

That’s exactly what you did the next two days, finally you are ready for departing.

You grab your backpack and the car’s keys. “Cellphone in the front pocket, all that’s left is open the door, lock it and call Abby, easy.”

During those two days you made a few calls and went up for gas, it was going to be a long trip from Miami to New York. Sure, it ain’t that extensive, but you’ll be driving by yourself for approximately 20 hours. A place to stay, money, gasoline and food are big girl’s problems. Not counting the money you’ll spend on a cheap motel to rest your head.

“That or make a few stops on gas stations…maybe sleeping in the car won’t be that bad…” The good thing is you have options; you aren’t tied solely to one alternative.

<<Abby won’t charge me for doing me this favor, another plus>>

She’ll guard the house in your absence and will call if any emergency transpires.

Now, you are free to go.

<<I hope I made a good decision doing this>>

The first 8 hours were a torment, bored and your ass felt numb of sitting for that long, the last time you remained that still was in high school, since you made your schedule. Your feet hurt just as your arms did. You made a stop for eating and going to the bathroom, after that another 8 hours.

Overall, the journey was relaxing, while driving you admired the views offered to you, savoring each sight. It helped you keeping away some melancholy.

You miss Henry, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself with this excursion of yours, the emptiness stays in the back of your mind.

Your wounds are still fresh, you haven’t mourned properly, because you don’t want to. That’s why you are doing this, to keep yourself busy so you won’t think about it. You need it, you ain’t prepared for it yet.

Soon you’ll be.

After a short nap (before that you made many stops, ‘cuz you’re a whining bitch who ain’t strong enough to control her fucking bladder), you started driving again. You have three or four hours left on the road.

Time to listen some music, you activate Bluetooth and connect your phone to the car’s stereo, finally you found a song of your liking in Spotify and play it. You spent the rest of the trip singing along; sometimes you’ll speed up a little bit on the spur of the moment.

Soon you got to your destination, didn’t waste time changing clothes, you collapsed on the bed in the motel and slept for an hour. After that, you washed yourself and got ready for visiting Joey Drew.

“Here goes nothing…”

You regret already coming here, silly you just ruined a change of clothes! Why is there so much ink? You’ll never get out the ink of your shoes, fuck! You have been here for less than ten minutes and all went to shit for you! It doesn’t help this place keeps giving you the heebies-jeebies! Every time you take a step on the creaky wooden floor it feels as if someone is following you, like a slithering sound. The ink splashes keep creeping you out, if it wasn’t black you would think it’s blood, Jesus Christ.

<<Thank God, the lights still work; it would make this place spookier if they didn’t>>

As you venture further deeper into the studio, a beast rumbles, shaking everything around you, more ink drops fall.

At that moment…

…you knew you fucked up.

So you hide.

Your mind provides you one last thought before going high drive

‘WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!’

<<FUUU-

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #fanfic #bendy #boris the wolf #alice angel #bendyxreader #sammy lawrence #henry stein #reader #Dance For Me Fanfic #bendy fanfic #BATIM fanfic #batim fanfic

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