#the sketch was from last April but I somehow never did anything with it

[pitske]

JASPER MY BOI!!

[j3ssisam3ss]

Childhood Friends - Fluff

For @animebookworm16

It got kind of long and I’m not really sure it still counts as fluff, but here’s my piece for @maribat-angst-fluff-april, prompt 25, Childhood Friends.

Damian Al Ghul-Wayne was five years old the first time he met a girl his age. And in typical League of Assassins style, he went for efficiency by meeting ten at once.

“These are your betrothed,” Talia told him. “All but one will be dead by your twelfth birthday. You will marry the sole survivor on your eighteenth birthday and produce an Heir to carry on the great legacy of the League of Assassins.”

Nine of the girls heard the words without so much as a flinch. The last stared in shock at Talia, then broke into tears.

“Quiet, Marinette,” Talia hissed.

“No,” she yelled defiantly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I want my mama!”

Talia backhanded her and she fell to the floor with a yelp.

Damian surveyed the girl – Marinette – with distaste.

“Mother, surely you don’t consider this sniveling coward worthy to compete for my hand?”

“Her mother, Sabine Cheng, was our best assassin for years before she turned traitor. I suppose she’s lost her touch if she raised such a weak daughter.” Talia shrugged elegantly. “No matter, if she turns out to be useless, we’ll ship her mutilated corpse back to Sabine as a reminder of what happens when you cross the League.”

She waved the girls away. “To your training now.”

Damian watched as Marinette sniffled and followed the other girls out the door.

She won’t last a week.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was five years old the first time she won a fight. And in typical Dupain-Cheng fashion, she did so in the most unpredictable way possible.

“You’re going down, pigtails,” shouted a pretty brunette, charging at Marinette with a sword that was as tall as she was.

With a startled shriek, Marinette darted away. She hated how behind she was here. Back home, she was good at everything – reading circle, art class, tussles when the teacher’s back was turned. Here, it felt like she was constantly playing catch-up.

Not to mention, the constant threat of death was not fun.

Skidding around a corner of the labyrinth arena, she tripped over a protruding stone and fell to the ground. The brunette grinned viciously, advancing towards her.

Marinette smiled nervously. “Can’t we talk this out?”

“Not a chance, shortie,” said the brunette.

Marinette glanced around frantically.

I don’t want to die!

She reached for a rock, a stick, anything that could help her fight, but came up with only a handful of sand. With a pleading glance heavenward, she flung it into the brunette’s face and lurched to her feet, grinning when the girl had to stop to get the grit out of her eyes.

Taking off into the labyrinth of passages, she nearly stumbled again, this time over a nearly buried metal object.

She shifted away the dirt surrounding it and smirked. “Finally, a weapon I know how to use.”

Ten minutes later, the watching League members straightened in surprise as the smallest and weakest of Damian’s betrotheds utterly decimated her opponent.

With a frying pan.

.

“What are you doing here?”

The two children spoke in unison, glaring daggers at one another.

“I always come here,” Marinette said. “It’s my drawing spot.”

“The vents are my domain, Dupain-Cheng,” Damian said. “Get out.”

Two years’ worth of resentment and anger simmered beneath Marinette’s skin.

 Drawing is the last thing I have of home. I won’t let him take it from me.

“No.”

Damian looked thunderstruck and Marinette couldn’t keep the smirk off her face.

“I am Heir to the Demon! You will obey me!”

“You may be Heir to the Demon, but right now you’re also a kid skipping classes,” Marinette argued. “And if you make me leave, I’ll tell Talia exactly where you go when you’re not in class.”

Ha, take that, you tyrant!

Damian froze. Marinette watched as emotions overtook his face – anger, resentment, then acceptance.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Marinette smiled and returned to her sketchbook – which wasn’t really a sketchbook, just some loose papers she’d tucked into her history book.

A few minutes later, Damian peered over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” she said, holding out a few of her older sketches, the ones she wouldn’t mind losing if Damian decided to rip them. “There’s your mother fighting, cook making soup, the sunset from this other spot in the vents – actually, that one’s pretty bad because I didn’t have any colors.”

Damian stared at the drawing of his mother.

“I’m keeping this,” he announced.

Well, at least he didn’t tear it up.

The next week, when Marinette arrived at her drawing spot, Damian was already there. With an annoyed grunt, he shoved a sketchbook and colored pencils into her hands.

Marinette looked between him and the supplies in confusion. “What’s this for?”

“Teach me how to draw.”

Marinette bit her lip, looking longingly at the colored pencils. Then, she pushed them back towards Damian.

“I want you to give me weapons training. As often as I teach you drawing.”

I may be naturally talented at combat, but the other girls have been training their entire lives. I need to catch up.

Damian eyed her suspiciously. “That’s against the rules.”

“So? Are you scared?”

“Never.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal.”

.

Damian lunged, making a displeased noise when his quarry danced out of his reach.

“You’re slow today, Dami,” Marinette teased. “Losing your touch?”

Marinette was no longer the scared little girl she’d been at five, or even at seven. She’d thrown herself into her training with single-minded determination and two years of training with Talia by day and Damian by night had made her a formidable – and snarky – combatant.

“Never,” Damian replied. His next attack nearly threw her off-balance.

With a grunt, Marinette recovered her footing and countered with a flurry of blows that would have left a lesser opponent dizzy.

Damian smirked, parrying each attack easily. “Completely mediocre. Should I tell my mother that her protégé is slipping?”

Although he’d never admit it, Damian was proud of her. She’d gone from being the worst of the League’s trainees to the only one able to keep up with him in a fight.

“Me? Slipping? Not a chance.” Marinette flipped backwards, knocking his weapon away. “Hey, Damian?”

“Yes, Marinette?” He scooped up his katana, readying himself for her next move.

“The floor is lava.”

With a startled intake of air, he leaped onto the nearest table.

“Really?” he asked, half annoyed, half amused.

Marinette giggled, peering down at him from her spot in the ceiling rafters. “I thought we could use an extra challenge.”

Damian glanced up at her. “You just like having the high ground.”

“Technically speaking, it’s the high rafter,” she pointed out.

“Either way, it won’t prevent me from defeating you,” Damian said, pulling himself into the rafters.

At that moment, the door opened and they both immediately went still.

“Damian? Are you here?”

Marinette raised an eyebrow at him. “Skipping again?” she mouthed.

Damian shrugged in response.

Rolling her eyes, Marinette gestured to the vents behind him. “I’ll meet you in the lower training rooms to finish our bout.”

“Marinette!” The teacher startled as she caught a glimpse of the pigtailed girl. “What are you doing up there?”

Effortlessly, the girl swung down from the ceiling, drawing the teacher’s attention away from Damian’s hiding place.

“Just improving my arm strength, Mistress Eva.” As she distracted his teacher with false information about his whereabouts, Damian climbed into the vents.

Marinette makes a surprisingly tolerable ally.

.

It didn’t seem to matter how many people Marinette killed; it never got easier. Surrounded by the bodies of Deathstroke’s traitors, she retched.

She was alone. Somehow, in the midst of the fight, she’d gotten separated from the rest of the League’s loyalists.

I need to get moving. I’m an easy target right now.

With a shuddering breath, she climbed to her feet and made her way out of the compound and into the shadows. It was there, staring at the ruins of the League’s strongest base, that the realization hit her.

“I’m free,” Marinette whispered, tears trickling down her face.

The Head of the Demon was dead, his followers scattered.

“I can finally go home.”

She ignored the voice in her mind that said her home was here, with the League, with Damian. She ignored the tightness in her chest at the thought of never seeing Damian again. She ignored the fear that he might already be dead.

The League kidnapped me. Talia abused me. Even if I managed to be happy here, I owe the Al Ghuls nothing. A vow of loyalty made under duress is no vow at all.

Her hands curled into fists.

And if they come for me again, I’ll be ready.

.

Damian scowled as their plane descended into Gotham.

“This is imbecilic. I should be assisting you in decimating our enemies, not hiding like a frightened child.”

“Damian,” his mother’s voice was cold. “This is not up for negotiation. You will stay here and train with your father.”

“Yes, Mother,” he replied bitterly. A moment passed, then he tilted his head in thought. “But what of my betrothed? If she is to be my equal, should she not train with me?”

Talia studied him carefully. “You use the singular of betrothed,” she noted. “Despite the fact that three remain alive. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me which one you consider your wife-to-be?”

“Tt. Your protégé, the Cheng girl, is the only one that even approaches competent. You know this.”

“I also know that you trained her separately – against my orders,” Talia said.

Damian nearly flinched. “And yet you didn’t stop me.”

“I wonder if that was a mistake,” his mother said. “You feel more for her than you should.”

“She is an effective ally. That is all.”

“Then you won’t mind being separated from her for a while.”

“Not at all, Mother,” Damian lied.

.

“Marinette? Is that you?” Her mother looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

Marinette smiled. “Hello, Mama.”

Sabine reached out a shaking hand to cup her face. “How are you here? We saw you die.”

“Sabine, do you know where – ” Tom dropped the pan of croissants. “Marinette?”

He jumped over the counter and raced to her. Marinette took a step back before her mind caught up with her body.

This is Papa, you idiot. He’s not a threat.

She threw herself into his arms, shoving away her fears.

Twisting to face her mother, she said, “I don’t know how my death was faked, but I never died. The League kidnapped me.”

Tom’s arms tightened around her.

“The League?” Sabine’s face went pale. “What did they want with you?”

“The usual,” Marinette said with a shrug. “Revenge on you for leaving and a capable assassin and potential wife for Damian if I turned out to be any good.”

“Who’s Damian?” Tom asked with a frown.

Marinette grinned. “Oh, Damian’s great! He’s the Heir to the League, but he’s actually pretty okay for an assassin. He helped me get good enough to survive. You know, after I blackmailed and bribed him.”

“What?”

.

Meeting his father did not go the way Damian had imagined.

Talia always spoke of Bruce Wayne’s great intellect, his strength in combat, his determination in all things. She never mentioned his brainless playboy act, his absurd prohibition of killing, or his habit of taking in strays. Damian wasn’t sure which one was most offensive, but he was incredibly disappointed in his father regardless.

He had to reassess after he saw Batman at work. When not purposely acting like a buffoon, Bruce Wayne was everything his mother had described and more, entirely deserving of Damian’s respect.

He set out to prove himself in his father’s eyes. It didn’t go well. Whatever he did, it was the wrong thing. In any fight with the imposter sons, Damian was punished – even if he won. Assisting his father with Wayne Enterprises was met with an eye-roll and a request to stay away from Bruce’s office.

It should have made Damian angry but instead it hurt and Damian did not understand why.

And then his father was gone. Richard Grayson became Batman.

Damian became Robin. Finally.

And yet the triumph felt hollow.

Not to mention, it came with strings attached: ‘Murder is bad.’ ‘Justice, not vengeance.’ ‘Robin doesn’t kill.’ ‘Protect rather than avenge.’

Grayson’s teachings were imbecilic. And yet he had to follow them. His mother had yet to finish with the traitors.

He wondered where Marinette was, if she was undergoing similar training, if she fought the way he did to reign in the bloodlust. Considering how she had to hide her dislike of killing, how she helped heal her competitors, he thought probably not.

Slowly, things got easier. Grayson became tolerable. Damian learned to suppress the instinct, the muscle memory that said ‘kill or be killed.’ He found an adoration for animals and learned to deal with his classmates. He finally began to understand why Grayson and his father valued life so highly. His father came back and he chose to deny the League. Wayne Manor became home.

On days when he struggled, he retreated to his room and the comfort of his sketchbook. And if a certain blue-eyed girl made an appearance every few pages, well, who would know but him?

.

Returning home did not go the way Marinette had imagined.

She knew it wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, of course. But she hadn’t expected the magnitude of the changes in her home, or in herself.

School was laughably easy. Marinette had the equivalent of several college degrees. Finding x and learning how to spell ‘earthquake’ was a waste of her time. Instead, she spent class drawing and coming up with increasingly complex plans for fighting off the League should they try to kidnap her again.

She kept herself closed off from her classmates – she didn’t know how she’d ever called them friends. They were neutral parties at best – not one ever stood up for her against Chloe. Her parents encouraged them to give her classmates a chance, but the League had trained her well. Misplaced trust could kill. And Marinette had fought long enough for survival to know that dropping your guard was a death knell.

She hated hurting her parents though.

Though they tried to hide it, she saw the pain cross their faces when she flinched away from hugs. When she moved like an assassin rather than a child. When she gave away her stuffed animals. When she skipped family game night and spent her time training.

She hated hurting her parents. So she changed.

Marinette locked away her lethal grace, faking clumsiness and turning it into an art form. She hid her weapons, training only when her parents were asleep. She returned to family game nights; she initiated hugs. At school, she became bubbly and friendly again, though she trusted no one.

More than anything, she tried to atone. She sought out those in need and tried to help – whether by providing food, babysitting, or making them warm clothing. She discovered an interest in fashion design, but mostly stuck to making the essentials for those in need. She met a tiny floating bug named Tikki and became a superhero.

On days when she struggled, she retreated to her room and the comfort of her sketchbook. And if green eyes and a cocky smirk featured prominently in the book, well, who would know but her?

.

Damian frowned as he followed his brother into Wayne Enterprises.

"I don't understand why it's so important for me to be here."

"C'mon, Baby Bird!" Dick said. "You said you wanted to be more involved in the company!"

"I meant the business side of things," Damian said. "I have no interest in showing around a gaggle of unruly teenagers."

"You're a teenager too," Dick pointed out. "It'll be fun!"

Damian sniffed. "I'm an adult. And fun, really? Surely you don't truly believe that?"

Dick sighed. "Just give it a chance, okay? They seem like really great kids."

They walked into the lobby and Damian stopped short, eyes catching on long black hair and brilliant blue eyes.

"Marinette?"

.

In truth, Marinette wasn't all that excited about the Wayne Enterprises tour. The architecture was interesting, sure, but her class had a habit of making themselves a target and Bruce Wayne's patronage was not helping.

She gave it three days, at most, before they got in trouble with Gotham's Rouges.

Which meant she was on 'keep the class from dying' duty. Joy.

She kept her eyes and ears peeled, which meant that she heard the faint whisper of her name from an unfamiliar voice.

"Marinette?"

Forest-green eyes filled with far too much emotion had her breath catching in her throat.

"Damian?"

With obvious effort, the League's Heir pulled himself together. "Fancy meeting you here, Dupain-Cheng."

His voice. Oh, kwami, it should be illegal to look AND sound that good. Nope. Nope. Not doing this. He's an assassin, get your act together, Marinette.

"Al-Ghul." She was proud that her voice betrayed nothing. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you here. This doesn't seem like your scene."

She reached out for a handshake and was taken off guard when Damian kissed her hand instead. She blushed.

"It's Wayne now," Damian said. "I'm... no longer associated with the Al-Ghuls. Or their business."

He's not an assassin anymore? Yes! I knew you were a good person deep, deep down, Dami!

"Really? I broke ties with them several years ago myself."

See that, Damian? We're both good people. Good people that would be great toget - no! Bad Marinette!

Damian grinned. "In that case, I look forward to reconnecting. Perhaps after the tour?"

Oh, kwami, I'm doomed.

"I'd like that."

.

"What was that?" Dick asked in a low voice. "I've never seen you open up to someone so quickly."

With difficulty, Damian tore his gaze from Marinette.

Stars, she grew up gorgeous.

Damian smirked. "Don't be ridiculous, Grayson. I met Marinette over a decade ago."

I wonder, does she still consider our betrothal valid?

"Wait, so she's an assassin?" Grayson blanched. "Who is she here to kill? Who do I have to protect? Ugh! Why can't you ever have normal friends?"

"Relax," Damian chided. "She's an ex-assassin. Like me."

"That does not make me feel better. Who is she to you?"

Damian hummed in thought, running through years of teasing, fighting, and spending time together. "She was my first friend."

And maybe now something more.

[bumackerman]

DEAR ADULT READERS/CREATORS,

18+ (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

^ see that? there is absolutely no way you missed that disclaimer if you understand the proper way to read english. but, let’s say you did miss it... here’s this message;

if you are under the age of 18, do not interact with 18+ adult accounts, or content.

there. hopefully you got the memo. if not, then i guess, one day, you’ll have the great opportunity to be featured in this brand new series of exposing, purging, and reporting minors! i mean... yay you?

disclaimer!; do not send any unnecessary hate to any of these people! it does not solve anything, and it could get you in trouble. just report, and block. thanks.

featured today, we have (drumroll please)... @/matching-with-my-demons!

warning: this post is very long!

alright, so i don’t actually know for sure if he’s necessarily a minor, but i do know that he’s been lying his age, and many, many other details about his life, leading to him getting caught by yours truly.

from this point forward, i will be reciting a briefed account of what exactly happened from a collective point of view of all of the victims involved.

I. beginning.

so, (and i think all of the people involved can agree,) this person is a flirt. automatically. just giving everyone pet names, talking about doing stuff with us, role playing with us, you know. nothing too extreme. i wasn’t suspicious of him at this point. i mean, i was sure he was 18+. to be fair, he did mention that he was 21 turning 22. why wouldn’t we believe him? he was speaking like an adult.

II. little lies & suspicion.

now, i’m not saying that this is impossible, but at multiple times during our conversations, he’d mentioned that he was was fluent in seven languages. seven. it’s not entirely impossible, but you’d think that if english wasn’t someone’s first (of many) languages, they’d have some sort of accent, right?

not only that, but he stated that he was six years old when he moved to america from japan, and he hasn’t moved since. i know, i know, yeah, cool he knows a lot of languages, and he’s a foreigner. yadda, yadda. get to the point.

he said that he was of asian descent, and that his parents were both japanese, and they lived in japan their whole lives. where the hell is he learning all of these extra languages at the young age of 21?

if japanese is his first language, we can cut out the time needed to become fluent in it. next, i’m ignoring english, as he would’ve had from the age of 6 to 21 to become fluent in it, but somehow he claimed he wasn’t? (let’s not mention the obvious fake misspellings and misunderstandings of simple words.) how on earth would he have become fluent in (at least) five other languages in middle school-high school?

OTHER LITTLE LIES N DETAILS

- he claimed that he was a 6’7, 21 year old (cis) male.

- said he was a stripper, bartender, and a sex worker (we’ll come back to that later).

- sent a picture of “his” chest, but it was 100% from google or some shit.

- (not judging anyone who does) he said that his body count was 74, but literally no one asked?

- he texted us when he “got another body” tf? we don’t care. carry on, i guess. (said he went on for like 7 rounds but... what?)

- talked about getting a vibrator stuck in his ass n his roommate had to get it out for him, but once again, nobody asked. °-°

- said he could bench 200 lbs. not impressive, just thought it was worth mentioning.

- said he had the same birthday as bakugou, which, okay.. (4/20)

- he made multiple channels in the server where he could roleplay with certain people, which, i, and a couple other people never used.

III. the voice chat.

after a while of all of us messing around, the conversation started to get heated, and some of us were teasing him, including me. we decided to get on voice chat (his idea), and he started talking into the mic. all of us were very confused, as he did not at all sound like a giant of a grown man.

but, despite this, we all warily continued, until he left the call. when he left, everyone who was participating voiced their current concerns, and laughed out our nervousness. that is, until he re-joined and everyone muted. he continued doing what he was doing until he “broke character”, stating he was a voice actor and it was hard to keep up that voice because it hurt his throat. i would’ve believed him if he didn’t sound the exact same as he did when he was “in character”.

after that, we were a lot more concerned and on edge about his identity, and i started to focus more on the shit he was telling us, hoping to find out who the fuck this person really was. i stopped interacting with him in a nsfw way, and mostly observed what he was saying, just watching from the sidelines.

II. the pictures.

captions:

not only do the skin colors just not match up, the hands in each picture are totally different people. even if you take into account the lighting differences, the undertones should still be the same. these pictures are fake.

if you look at the fingers, you can see that the ones on the right are flatter, and shorter. if the hand on the left were to hold that phone, it would wrap all the way around the device.

from a common sense standpoint, we know that our palms are always lighter than our skin tone. the fact that the hand on the left is still darker, proves that these are different people. (not that we needed proof.)

also, if this guy is so muscular, why can he only bench 200lbs? and why is his wrist so skinny?

+ to me, the phone, (right image) and the quality of the picture, looks like a black iphone 4s. from what i can see, at least. meaning, if i’m correct, that picture is majorly outdated.

for both pictures, he flipped the image so that we wouldn’t be able to find it by just by reverse image searching. luckily, one of the people involved was able to figure that out, and told me immediately.

III. ID check.

like i said before, a lot of us were starting to get really suspicious, but at this point, i thought i was the only one that was sketched out, so i issued another ID check.

(be sure to click on the pictures. one of them is really long. also, when reading, read the date and times that messages are sent. i was trying to lighten the mood and be nice, but it was honestly so offensive that he thought i was legitimately dumb.)

so, obviously, these ID’s are fake. not only are the pictures the exact same, but the backgrounds are the same, the outfits are the same, the names are totally fake, and just, wow. i don’t really know how he thought that was gonna slip past me.

after i called both him, and @/yourmajesty-theking out, he went into his own discord and started ranting to some of the other people involved that he was freaking out because he didn’t have his ID.

remember how i said that he mentioned he was a stripper/bartender/sex worker? why the fuck don’t you have your ID on you if you claimed you were at work that day? you can’t get in without it. °-° just- everything he was saying didn’t come together cleanly. the timeline is all sorts of fucked up.

you can’t drive without an ID, how are you getting to work? you can’t get into a strip club without an ID, how are you getting in? you can’t serve alcohol without and ID, how are you a bartender? you can’t get an apartment without an ID, how are you living with a roommate?

he told us that he moved to america with his PARENTS, and somehow his grandmother is in america now? when did that happen? if you’re gonna lie, at least make it believable.

IV. conclusion.

anyway, do what you want with this information. the people in the discord all agreed that based off his voice and the evidence, that he couldn’t have been older than 15, and at most, 16.

though he hasn’t deactivated his account, the last time he was active was april 7, 2021 at 12:39am (EST) he claims he lives in cali, so i don’t know what time that is there.

thanks for reading. i’m sure i missed a lot of stuff, but for now, this is all i could put together. also, lmk if there are any spelling errors. i’m too tired to check.

like i said, if i get any hate for calling out a minor, you will be blocked/reported, and i will not hesitate to turn anons off for the time being. besides, saying dumb shit doesn’t affect me. just makes me laugh.

- bum <3

[boyd-speaks]

Welcome to the end of another year. This was kind of a weird one, because I found a lot of stuff didn't hit deviantart as soon as they were done. Things either never made it here, or sat around and eventually got posted in art-dump uploads. So I'm not 100% sure these match the month they're in, but I think they're accurate. As an overview, we can see a lot of the same style. What's odd, is when I was sifting through the months for images I noticed that it's not that I rarely did anything more detailed, but that when I did I clearly got inspired and did multiple pieces in the same month, so despite the quantity, very few got into the year in review. With all that said, let's get to the individual pieces.

January: A fitting start. I really thought I drew this later in the year. I like the poses and proportions I pushed out here. I feel like this one was pretty fast and done on a whim. Which is really most of my art.

February: This was timely. February was when I started running Rime of the Frostmaiden using Dungeon World. These are my player's characters, and i love them all. In classic rpg fashion, no one has opinions about what their characters look like until you draw them. Only then do they say, 'hmmm, nah, they're blonde actually' or whatever.

March: I also played a lot of Monster of the Week this year. While the Rime of the Frostmaiden game ran about 10 months, just finishing up in December, the Monster of the Week was much more episodic, and kind of just petered out after a few months. Anyway, this was one of the one-off characters I made who I adore. They met a cat.

April: More roleplaying games... It's also one of the group upload images. The featured image was character art for a West Marches style DnD game being broadcasted on twitch. This friend dies pretty fast. but I liked her a lot. If you click through you'll see fanart for the same game, and a monster I drew while gming monster hearts for the same session.

May: I love this pic! This was made to be a dramatic review of a monster in a different (yes a fourth) game, which this time I was running. The character was going to be a players new pc, that I wanted to reveal as this rad monster and see how everyone reacted, not knowing they were going to join. The result was less interesting than I hoped, but I still love this picture. Worth noting is that this one was competing with a very similarly drawn picture I drew for my brother's birthday. So check that one out too maybe?

June: It's father's day! I have already forgotten what else I drew this month that it went up against to get on this list. Looks like some very similarly drawn art (including more rpg characters) but it's nice using a drawing for my dad. I love my dad.

July: And here we see one of my month long challenges. I love doing these. I don't remember where this idea came from, but I'm so used to drawing characters I wanted to try little towns, like you might see as stylized impressions of them on a map that's not trying to be realistic. I dunno if that means anyone to anyone, but I know what I mean, and it was actually a very well received series. The featured image was my favourite one.

August: More DnD! This was actually my second character in the afore mentioned West Marches game. I did do some full body drawing of her, but when it came time to make a token, I just fell in love with this headshot I somehow came up with. The full image includes some more monsters for my own games (a sea hag, their child, a homunculus, and a creature made from a bunch of homunculi glomming together). The last image is another enemy monster that I sketched out mid session while running Monster of the Week.

September: It's my girlfriend! Not, the most accurate depiction, but I do like this drawing. I got her a skirt like the one she's wearing in the picture, for her birthday. Which is unfortunately cut off in the review image.

October: I don't really know why I used this image for October. I guess I just didn't want every picture to have the same art style given the opportunity, but october would definitely be better represented by the daily art series I did during it, which was all original monsters with no prompts. it was super fun.

November: For some reason I suddenly decided wild boars are cool and I needed a wild boar fursona. Because I have a lot of art friends, I sometimes feel like a should have, like, a definitive fursona, but, I just don't? Like animals are cool, and drawing yourself as an animal as rad. but none are like..  me. I guess? I dunno.

December: And then the next month I draw this! Heck yeah! Maybe I was just a fish the whole time and I never considered it! So yeah, I participated in an art secret santa this year, and the only thing I really had to go on was the recipient's favourite colours. As I sketched out this drawing and got inspired by a the idea of a mer-person with faux-facial hair modeled off of a lionfish, I just poured myself into it. I adore this drawing.

[bestillmyslashyheart]

map on your skin

Alex was late. The rest of the group was already settled in around Max’s living room by the time Alex finally sidled in, looking exhausted. He kept to the back of the room and nodded to Jenna to get started without bothering with pleasantries. Kyle tried to catch his eye to see if everything was okay but Alex avoided his gaze.

“Alright,” Jenna huffed, standing up. Next to her, Gregory shuffled a few large files and handed one to her. “This is what we found cleaning out the last of Jesse’s files. Mostly, it’s some nauseating research that I can promise you none of you want to look at,” Isobel and Max looked angry at the thought while Michael hunched in on himself, “but there is a decent amount of information that they managed to discern about where you guys come from and your powers and your anatomy, etcetera, etcetera…” She flipped open the folder in her hand. “And there are other bases.” Jenna whipped out a sheet that had a list of names followed by coordinates. “We’re not sure what, if anything, is still there, but there was definitely something there at one point.”

“We need to search them,” Isobel said immediately. She rose from her seat and ripped the paper from Jenna’s hand, earning herself a scowl that she promptly ignored. “There could be more people there, people like us.”

“Some of these places couldn’t hold prisoners, from what records we have they just weren’t equipped for it, but yes there are a few places that could have held other people at some point. But they all appear to be abandoned.”

“Caulfield appeared abandoned too,” Kyle had to point out. Jenna tipped her head in concession.

“There’s one more thing,” Gregory announced. He dropped his stack of files and unfolded a large piece of paper. Once open, he laid it on the table. Hurriedly, everyone grabbed their drinks and phones to clear some space.

Almost as one, they all stood up and leaned over it to look. “What is it?” Maria asked for the group.

Put simply, it was a mess. There were lines crisscrossing it all over the place with vague shapes underneath. Also, there were three large gaps, giant white spaces that broke up the lines.

“It’s a map,” Charlie answered. Everyone looked at her in confusion. She shrugged. “At least that’s what they believed.”

“A map to what?” Rosa scoffed. “It’s just lines.”

Isobel shook her head. “What are you talking about?” She reached out and dragged her finger across one of the lines. After a few inches her finger fell off the line until she was following something only she seemed to see. “It’s-”

“The stars,” Michael finished. He and Max leaned over further to look closely. “It’s an astronomical map.”

“I don’t recognize that star pattern,” Max mused. He turned his head to look at it from a different angle.

“Okay, what are you looking at?” Maria asked. The three aliens looked up at her. “It’s not a map, astronomical or otherwise.” She furrowed her brow. “It’s just a bunch of lines and blobs.”

Michael huffed. “It’s clearly a map.” He pointed at a blob. “This? This is-”

“We can’t see it,” Charlie cut him off. He glared at her but she ignored it. “It was made by some of the prisoners in Caulfield, and they could clearly read it, but humans can’t. Somehow, however they made it, it doesn’t translate in a way that our brains can comprehend. Whatever it is the three of you are seeing, we can’t.” She gestured at the humans in the room.

“What about the blank spots?” Max asked.

Gregory rifled through his folder. “Uh, they said something about…aha!” He pulled a sheet of paper out and read out, “The heirs will lead the way. Without them, hope is lost.”

“Well what does that mean?” Isobel huffed, crossing her arms. “Are we the heirs? Because we see big white spaces in the middle of this map.”

“Map to where?” Alex spoke up. Everyone turned to him but no one answered. “Where were they trying to go?”

“Does it matter?” Max sighed. “We’re missing half of it.”

Alex eyed the map strangely. Kyle watched him as Isobel and Michael started arguing with Max that of course it mattered. Behind them, Maria was pestering Jenna and Charlie as to why she couldn’t read it if she was part alien. On the opposite side of the table, Liz was oddly silent.

Suddenly, while Kyle was distracted by Rosa pulling out her sketch book and pencil, Alex crossed the room and forced himself gently in between the three aliens. The room fell quiet again.

Alex lifted up the edge of the paper and peeked at the back for a moment before flipping it. Rosa cursed as the edge of it came close to her face but she quickly grabbed it and helped Alex get it turned over.

“Alex, what are you doing?” Michael asked even as he too helped get it flat on the table. “What the…”

Kyle stood up again, unsure when he’d sat down. The map carried on to the back almost like it had bled through the paper but it looked different. A few blobs were in different places, a few lines missing or added.

Alex studied it carefully.

“How’d you know this was on the back?” Max asked, half an accusation in his voice.

Alex ignored him. He nudged Michael out of his way as he reached across the table to touch the two smaller white spots. “Liz?” He asked.

Everyone turned to Liz.

“Liz?” Max asked. Liz gave him a small smile before focusing on Alex, a considering look in her eyes. She didn’t move at first, her and Alex communicating silently over the expanse of the table. After a long moment in which the room seemed to hold its breath she leaned over and tapped the spot under Alex’s right hand.

“You’re sure?” Alex asked.

Liz held her hand up and waved it back and forth. “I’d have to check but I’m pretty sure.” She shrugged. “I’m not a cartographer so I could be wrong.” She jerked her chin at him in question. “You?”

Alex straightened up and tapped the large white spot in the middle.

“You’re sure?” Liz asked. There was a teasing lilt to her voice. Alex smirked and nodded. Liz sighed and tapped the third spot. “What about this one?”

“Might have to wait on that.” Alex started to fold it the paper up but Michael and Isobel both reached out and grabbed it.

“Woah what are you doing?” Isobel said.

Michael waved a hand between Alex and Liz. “What was that?”

Alex stared at Michael. “Do you trust me?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Not right now.”

Michael stared at him for a moment but Alex didn’t blink. Finally, Michael let go with a huff. “Fine. Do whatever.”

Isobel looked at him. “Not. Not fine. This is ours.”

“And you’ll get it back,” Alex promised, tugging it gently from her hands and folding it up. I just need it for a few days first.” Isobel glared but a sharp look from Michael kept her mouth shut.

“Anything else?” Alex asked Jenna, Gregory, and Charlie. The three of them shook their heads. “Then I’m heading out. Good night!” He slipped out the door before anyone could stop him, the map firmly in hand.

“What the hell was that Liz?” Rosa asked as the door shut behind Alex.

Liz shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.” She looked at her watch. “It’s late.” It was barely 8pm. “I should go.” She leaned up to press a quick kiss to Max’s cheek. “Night guys!” With a wave behind her head, Liz followed Alex out the door.

—

Liz had only been to Alex’s house once since he’d been home but she didn’t have any trouble finding it. The Christmas lights on the tree out front, despite the fact that it was April, definitely helped. She parked next to Alex’s car and hurried to the front door, not bothering to lock the car behind her.

“Alex!” She called, knocking loudly.

“It’s open!” A distant call replied immediately. Liz tried the door and found it unlocked as promised and stepped inside.

“Should I lock it?” She asked.

“Up to you,” Alex replied. “I’m sure they’re right behind you and Michael will get in either way.” Liz left it unlocked.

The light in the dining room called Liz like a moth to a flame. She found Alex hunched over the table, cleared of everything but the map, with a marked stuck between his teeth and pencil in his hand. He had already started sketching in a few lines.

“Alex.”

Alex’s hand stilled. He hesitated, clearly considering his options, before he dropped the pencil and sank back onto a chair with a heavy sigh. He took the marker out of his mouth. “Liz.”

All of a sudden, Liz didn’t know what to say. She pulled out a chair and dropped heavily into it. “Alex.”

The corner of Alex’s mouth quirked upwards. “If you’re not going to ask…”

“Michael’s your soulmate.” It wasn’t the question it maybe should have been. It wasn’t a question at all.

“Yes.” It was said simply. Like there wasn’t a mountain of baggage that came with it. Like Michael hadn’t been dating Maria off and on for months.

What Liz wanted to say was ‘why did you never say anything?’, ‘why was Michael with Maria?’, ‘why aren’t you and Michael together?’, ‘how long have you known?’, ‘were you ever going to admit it?’, but what she said was, “Alex.”

Somehow Alex heard all the unasked questions. “It was easier.”

Liz didn’t understand that.

“Why haven’t you admitted it?” He asked. “It’s not like it’d be a surprise,” he teased gently.

She shrugged. “It never came up.” And it hadn’t. Everything had happened so fast and there had been the revelation of what happened with Rosa ten years ago, and then Max was dead and Rosa was alive, and then she got Max back only for things to get crazy with her dad, and it just never seemed like a good time. Announcing you’d found your soulmate, that you’d met your match, was supposed to be a time of celebration and Liz hadn’t really felt like making a big deal. It deserved to be special, it deserved an event, but there hadn’t been a good time for it.

Alex nodded like he understood.

“When did you know?” She asked quietly.

“First time I came back,” Alex answered. “After basic training, before my first posting. It, uh, it was about six months after graduation?”

“That was ten years ago.”

“It was.”

“How could you- I mean, why didn’t you-?”

Alex shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

Liz accepted that. Up until tonight, the only information she had on Alex’s relationship with Michael had come from Maria so she knew she was missing more than a few key bits of trivia. “You know,” she started after a long silence, “the first time I saw it? And realized what it was? I freaked out.”

“Yeah?” Alex laughed.

Liz nodded with a little laugh of her own. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It was right around when I found out what had happened to Rosa. I, uh, I walked in on him accidentally while he was getting ready for work and I saw it and I just…ran. Went home, drank a lot, and ignored it. Right then, he was the guy who framed my sister for an accident that killed two other girls and he’d covered it up for ten years. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that he was my soulmate too.”

She could still remember it vividly. Max had come around the corner in just his boxers, not having heard her come in or call his name, and splashed across his thigh was his mark. She was pretty sure she’d seen it once in high school, or at least the part of it that covered the top of his knee, but it hadn’t solidified then. But that day it was clear as could be, a mess of images on a grid background that should have been an amorphous blob to her eyes. That for a moment, she had wished was an amorphous blob. Because a person’s mark was only a solid image to their soulmate, to the rest of the world it was like a bastardized Rorschach test, and in that moment Liz had wanted nothing less than for Max Evans to be her soulmate. So she’d turned on her heel and ran out the door. It was only weeks later that she let herself get up close and personal with it.

Until today, Liz had never seen anything else like it in the world. It vaguely resembled a map but nothing quite like any she’d ever seen. Not until Gregory Manes unfolded an alien map that humans shouldn’t be able to read but Liz saw clear as day. Equally clear was the blank white spot on the side where Max’s mark would fit perfectly. It was the same size, same markings.

Three cars pulled up outside. The engines cut out and the doors slammed shut. Liz counted silently to ten. On six, Alex’s front door swung open.

“Alex!” Michael yelled.

Alex didn’t answer. He and Liz sat silently as the heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway until Michael appeared in the doorway. “What the hell?” Michael greeted.

“Hi,” Alex greeted with a glare.

Michael rolled his eyes. “Yeah, hi. You knew we were coming, you left the door unlocked.” Max and Isobel filed in behind him. “So tell us.”

Max looked to Liz, the question clear in his eyes. Liz looked to Alex, silently ceding the floor to him.

Alex stood up, his back straight and shoulders square. “Liz and I can read the map. And we each have one of the missing pieces.”

“How?” Isobel asked.

“Because they’re yours,” Liz answered. Isobel and Max turned to her in question but Michael hardly glanced her way.

“Alex?”

Alex sighed. “The missing pieces are your marks.” He pointed at the one Liz had identified earlier. “According to Liz, Max’s mark fits this blank space here. And this,” he pointed at the large one in the middle, “is yours, Guerin.”

“What are you talking about?” Isobel asked. “How do you know that? They said humans can’t read it.”

“I guess since we’re your soulmates and can see your marks, we can see the map? And where they fit in?” Liz looked to Alex and Alex shrugged. “Best guess?”

Max and Isobel turned to Alex then Michael. The sudden synchronicity was disconcerting. “What?” They both asked.

Alex arched an eyebrow. “Thought you said they knew?”

Michael shifted under everyone’s gaze. “It’s not like we talked about it but they knew.”

“Clearly they didn’t.”

“You really want to get into who knew and who didn’t?” Michael shot back.

Alex lifted a hand in concession. “Look, the important thing is Liz and I can fill in the missing pieces from yours and Max’s marks but we’ll still have a blank space unless…” he turned to Isobel.

“Don’t look at me, I’m the one in the room not hiding a secret soulmate.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything!” Max immediately protested. “You knew!”

“Yeah but not because you told me!” Isobel yelled back. “I had to figure that one out on my own.”

Liz tuned them out as she focused on Michael and Alex. She still hadn’t quite processed the revelation that they were soulmates, that they’d known for ten years they were soulmates and done nothing with that knowledge. The two men were communicating silently across the table, both leaning in towards each other but neither saying a word. Finally, Michael looked down at the map and traced the few pencil lines that Alex had started sketching in.

“You do this from memory?” He sounded disbelieving.

“You forget what mine looks like?” Alex asked, eyebrow arched.

“No but yours is a lot smaller.” Michael smiled. Alex rolled his eyes.

“Wait,” Liz sat forward. “How big is yours?” She’d never seen it but- “If it’s comparable to Max’s,” she traced the outline of the white space where Max’s mark fit and it was true to size, “how is yours…?”

Michael rolled his eyes and started tugging off his shirt. His undershirt quickly followed, hitting Isobel in the face as he tossed it aside.

“So gross,” she muttered as she flung it away. Liz didn’t hear her though because Michael turned around and showed her his back.

The entire expanse, from the tops of his shoulders down under the waistband of his jeans and curled over both his sides, was mess of mottled black ink. Liz couldn’t make sense of it because there were no spaces, it was like someone had slathered Michael’s whole back in black paint and just smudged the edges.

Liz whistled lowly. She’d never seen one so large. Most were much smaller. Even Max’s, which covered the space from his knee up to his hip, was considered large. Michael’s was huge.

Michael gave her another second to look and then he started to tug on his shirt, the undershirt forgotten on the floor.

“No.” Michael stopped immediately at Alex’s command. Liz looked over to see him with pencil in hand already sketching in more lines. Michael craned his neck to see over his shoulder.

“Really?” He asked. “You want to do this now?”

“Well you’ve already got your shirt off.”

“If you want me to take my shirt off, darlin’, all you gotta do is ask,” Michael leered. Alex shot him an icy look that froze Michael in his track’s. Instantly, his face fell into a frown and he turned to stare at the wall opposite.

Liz cleared her throat. “Do you have another pencil?”

Alex gestured behind him to cup full of writing utensils. Liz scoured through it until she found an already sharpened pencil and then turned back to the silent crowd. “Alright take your pants off.”

“Woah, what?”

“Hold on.”

“I’m out.” Isobel threw her hands up and left the room. “Have fun with your art project!” The door slammed shut behind her.

Michael glared at Max. “Leave the pants on.” Max rolled his eyes at him.

“Where exactly is Max’s mark?” Alex asked hesitantly. Max ran a hand over his thigh. “And how far up does it go?” He turned to Liz.

Liz considered it. “Probably best if we do that at home.” She looked down at the map. “His is smaller-”

“Yeah it is,” Michael interjected.

“Oh my god are you twelve?” Alex huffed. Michael smirked.

“As I was saying,” Liz continued, “the space for Max’s mark is a lot smaller so it might be easier if I do his first and then give it back to you to do Michael’s.”

“That would make sense,” Alex agreed slowly, looking down. Still, he hesitated.

“No?”

Alex flipped the pencil over in his hand and tapped the part he’d started sketching. “I’ve already started and Michael’s already here and ready, so why don’t I keep it tonight and work on it a bit and then I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. You can keep it as long as you need and then once you’re done I can finish up.”

Liz checked with Max and shrugged. “That works. After all, there really isn’t a rush, right? Since we don’t have Isobel’s section?”

“That’s true,” Max acknowledged. Michael seemed antsy though. “It doesn’t have to happen tonight.”

“In that case, why don’t you just keep it until you’re done and then pass it along?” Liz suggested.

“That works, too.”

“So are we doing this tonight or what?” Michael huffed. Alex nodded. “Okay then.” He spun around and sat on the edge of the table, back to Alex. “Sketch your heart out.”

“You two do that and let us know when you’re finished.” Max looked to Liz. “We skipped dessert?”

Liz smiled. “Don’t worry, I know a guy who makes great milkshakes.” He smiled back at her.  She stood up and looked around for her keys before remembering she’d dropped them on the table in the hallway on her way in. “You two need anything before we go?” Michael and Alex shook their heads.

“Have a good night,” Alex looked up from the map and gave her a small smile that Liz returned.

“Good night, guys.” She squeezed Michael’s bare shoulder in goodbye as she walked by.

“Night!” He called after them.

–

The house was eerily silent once Max and Liz left, the scratches of the pencil on paper the only sounds.

Alex worked steadily for about five minutes before Michael started fidgeting. “Guerin.”

“It’s too quiet.”

Alex pulled out his phone and hit play on his latest playlist, the music flowing a second later. “Now sit still. This needs to be exact.”

Michael was a perfect model for a little over ten minutes. And then he opened his mouth. “You told Liz.”

“Would you prefer I didn’t and left your map incomplete?” Alex shifted to get a better view of the part wrapped around Michael’s left side. 

“You’ve never told anyone.”

Alex shaded in one of the shapes he’d just outlined. Once he thought it might have represented a landmass but now he’s pretty sure it’s a planet. “Neither have you.” They’d never discussed it, not really, but they’d each come to the same conclusion, that their marks were theirs and no one else’s. So no one else needed to know. 

“Well secret’s out now.”

Alex hummed. He couldn’t quite see where the next line ended so he reached out without a thought and gently pulled at Michael’s skin to get a better look. Michael sucked in a breath but didn’t say anything, his back muscles tensing under Alex’s hand. Alex ignored it.

“So who’s gonna tell Maria?” Alex froze, the pencil digging into the paper. 

“What?” He asked, certain he’d misheard Michael.

“I said who’s gonna tell Maria?” Michael looked over his shoulder. “Because I doubt the others are going to come up with some other reason for how we fill in the missing spaces. They know which means everyone is gonna know which means Maria’s going to find out one way or another.”

“She’s your girlfriend,” Alex reminded him coldly. “You should be the one to tell her.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“Eh,” Alex replied. “She’s my friend, yes, but we’re not nearly as close as we used to be. And again, you’re the one dating her. The person responsible for telling her her boyfriend already found his match is her boyfriend.” He poked Michael with the eraser. “That means you.”

Michael sighed. “I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“This thing with her is easy, that’s why I like it.”

“I know.”

“Bringing soulmates into it complicates things.”

Having a soulmate didn’t seem to complicate things all that much, Alex didn’t say. What he said instead was, “I know,” because he did, because Michael had told him as much every time the subject came up. “You still need to talk to her, though.”

Michael let out a breath and hunched over, his elbows on his knees.

“Guerin,” Alex admonished. “Stop moving.”

But Michael stood up. “I need a drink.”

“You really don’t.”

“I really do.”

He left the room and a moment later Alex heard his cabinet door open and shut. Just the one because Michael knew his way around Alex’s house nearly as well as Alex did.

Alex dropped the pencil onto the table with a clatter and followed. Michael greeted him with a glass of his own which Alex took and quickly drained before placing in the sink. “What’s the problem?”

Michael scoffed. “There’s no problem.”

“Guerin.”

“You told Liz.”

“I didn’t actually but she’s smart enough to figure it out on her own and I didn’t bother wasting my breath correcting her.” Alex drummed his fingers on the counter. “And so what if I did? I can’t tell my friend about my soulmate? I need your permission?”

“I thought we would decide together before telling anyone,” Michael confessed petulantly.

Alex blinked in surprise. “When the hell did we agree to that?” 

“I thought it was obvious.”

“Oh well it wasn’t.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we didn’t wait until you got here to discuss it but I won’t apologize for telling her.”

Michael huffed. “Course not.” He drained his glass and placed it next to Alex’s. “Back to the art project.” 

Alex paused a few minutes in the kitchen. Normally, he loved being around Michael, even when they weren’t getting along, even when it hurt, but there was a tension in the air that he didn’t like. He didn’t understand where it was coming from but he knew a powder keg when he saw it and right now they were one.

“Alex!”

When Alex walked back into the dining room it was to find a naked Michael Guerin perched on the edge of his table. Alex stopped and stared, he couldn’t help it. No matter how many times he’d seen it, the view still took his breath away. Part of it was just Michael, absolutely, but part of it was the mark in its entirety. It covered the top of Michael’s ass, enough so that he really couldn’t display it unless he took his pants off, so Alex didn’t always get to see all of it. “I wasn’t doing that part yet.”

Michael smirked. “Well now you can.”

Alex made himself focus on the work for as long as possible but when he had to touch Michael to position him correctly for Alex to see everything, all hope was lost. 

The second his hand grabbed at Michael’s ass, Michael arched his back and pressed into it. 

“Guerin,” he warned. Or tried to.

Michael smirked. “You’re the one with your hand on my ass, darlin’.” Alex quickly removed his hand. Michael rolled his eyes and stood up, turning around to face Alex. Alex dropped his eyes low before forcing them up to Michael’s face. That damnable smirk was firmly in place.

“You have a girlfriend.”

Michael shrugged. “Only technically. We’ve barely talked in weeks, haven’t had sex in like two months. It’s done with we just haven’t actually said it yet.” He rounded the table. “Besides. You’re my soulmate.”

He stepped in close. Alex didn’t move away. “You were pissed at me a few minutes ago.”

“I’m still a little pissed,” Michael admitted. “So what?”

Alex pressed a hand into the center of his chest and pushed Michael back a step. “We’re not having sex.”

Michael arched an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “No?”

“We’re working on your map,” Alex reminded him. “That’s it.”

“Alex,” Michael groaned. He grabbed onto where Alex was still pressing against his chest with one hand and looped a finger through Alex’s belt loop with the other. One sharp tug and they were pressed flush against each other. 

Their lips brushed against each other in a whisper of a kiss before Alex pulled away. “If you don’t want to work on the map then we should call it a night.”

Michael looked upset. “So that’s it, huh?”

“What’s it?”

“We can tell people we’re soulmates but we can’t act like it?”

Alex stared at him. “Don’t.” His voice was hard. “You were the one who wanted nothing to do with me. You were the one who decided to date someone else. You were the one who said we shouldn’t be together. You don’t get to get angry at me for following your lead.”

Michael stared at him, his shoulders rigid with tension, before giving a sharp nod. “Fine. Right. My lead.” He stalked around the table, his clothes flying up from the floor to meet his hands mid-stride. Alex watched him tug on his boxers and jeans, his movements jerky.

“Michael,” he sighed. 

“We can do the map another time,” Michael replied without looking at him. “Like they said, without Isobel’s soulmate there’s really no rush.” He shoved his feet into his boots.  Michael grabbed his hat and plopped it on his head. “Good night, Alex.” His shirt was still in his hands when he disappeared down the hallway.

Alex groaned softly in the empty room. The front door opened. “Guerin!” The front door closed. Alex stepped into the hallway. It was dark but the lights from outside framed Michael’s hunched form well enough for Alex to see. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s early,” Michael replied in surprise.

“It is,” Alex agreed. “Might have to lay there for a bit. Could get boring.”

Michael half turned back towards him. “Sounds like you could use some company.”

Alex hummed. “Probably could.” He turned and headed for his bedroom. “Lock the door and turn the lights off.” By the time Alex reached his room, Michael was right behind him. “No sex.”

“What?”

Alex took his pants off and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic. “No sex.”

Michael hesitated in the doorway. “Fine.”

“Fine.” He set his prosthetic aside. “Take your pants off.”

“You just said-”

“I want to see it,” Alex rolled his eyes. He slid under the covers, his own clothes littering the floor to be picked up later. Michael helpfully shed the clothes he’d just put on and got in on the other side of the bed. 

Alex gave him a moment to get comfortable on his stomach before he shoved the covers down far enough that they only covered their legs and shifted onto his side. Carefully, he reached over and started tracing the lines of Michael’s mark. Michael shivered under the light touch but made no move to stop him.

Slowly, Alex made his way down Michael’s back, making sure to touch each line, every shape. When his finger had mapped the expanse, he leaned over and started again, this time with his lips. It was an old habit, one he’d started the very first time he’d seen it, and it never failed to relax them both. 

He knew every inch of Michael’s back. He knew it in his fingertips and in his lips. Every single marking was etched into memory, he’d hardly needed Michael to model it for him earlier. 

When he was finished, he stayed slumped over Michael’s back, his lips pressed to the planet at the base of Michael’s neck. In response, Michael, now a mostly boneless lump beneath him, turned his face to the side and craned his neck to reach Alex’s arm. In this position, he could just reach the mark nestled in the crook of Alex’s left arm. His mark was substantially smaller than Michael’s; a tiny, detailed planet with a sky full of stars behind it. When it first appeared, Michael had tried searching for the planet in the sky by using the stars as a guide but they didn’t match up with any known pattern. Alex had long accepted that it wasn’t anything specific, more an idea.

“Why isn’t it easy?” Michael asked quietly. “It’s supposed to be easy, right? Find your soulmate, live happily ever after. That’s how the stories go.”

“We’re not a story.” Alex traced the cluster of planets nestled over Michael’s hip. “We’re real, Michael. And if we want this to mean something, to be worth something, we have to work at it.”

Michael didn’t say anything for a long while. “Nothing worth having ever came easy.”

“No. It didn’t,” Alex agreed. He pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of Michael’s neck and rolled off of him. “Guess we need to decide if we’re worth it.”

Michael kissed Alex’s mark. “We are.”

[thatguywiththecoydog]

Anpanman: Apple Boy and Everyone's Hope (2014)

Introduction

Fox's primary free-to-use streaming service, Tubi, had announced that they would be picking up at least 10 of the Anpanman movies to be released in English and Spanish back last October, with them slated for a fall 2020 release. This never happened, so many fans of the Anpanman franchise that spoke native English or Spanish would have to wait a little longer for dubs of these movies to come out.

The delay of these movie dubs went unannounced, leading fans to speculate that the dub was either in limbo or just silently canceled. This was until the first of them was released on April 15, 2021, with no announcement, or even complete details on who is dubbing them or the cast list. This had fans believing for a short while that the dub had taken a bit longer to assure its quality, but as you will soon read, this was most likely not the case.

Naturally, fans were excited as this was the first time these movies would see an official dubbed release in the west. There were other dubs of the franchise in English and Spanish, such as an English dub of the television series made for India that aired on Pogo, and a Spanish made in Spain sometime in the 1990s. However, these dubs are hard to come by and there are no official ways to watch these dubs in North America, as far as I'm aware.

Promo for the Indian Pogo dub posted by @doraedoramichan2021 on YouTube: https://youtu.be/oxAx5EEdX_4

So now we have an official dub of one of the movies that can be watched at no charge with ads. Joy!

Plot synopsis (spoilers below)

The plot starts with Dokin (spelled as "Dokeen" in the dub) and Horrorman (dubbed as "Horror") as they read a book of fairy tales, landing on Snow White. They end up accidentally releasing a shadowy figure from the book as it flies off into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Melonpanna's and Creampanda's (spelled "Cream Panda" in the dub) class are making sketches of the ocean. This is where Baikinman comes in to cause trouble for them with his giant crab robot. Anpanman rushes in from the blue to beat the tar out of Baikinman to save the day as the theme song plays in the background.

After that, we cut to the movie's other titular character, Apple Boy, attempting to fly his hot air balloon over the ocean. After the balloon falls to the ocean, he is swept away by the current.

A whale finds him dehydrated and floating lifeless in the ocean, where he gives him to Anpanman so he can help. After offering a piece of his anpan head to Apple Boy, he takes him to Uncle Jam's bakery, where Uncle Jam and Batako let him stay while they wait for a new shipment of apples from SL-Man.

Back at Baikinman's lair, he discovers that the book of fairy tales was being read by Dokeen and Horror. Looking very worried, he explains to the two of them that he was told never to open that book.

Anpanman, Melonpanna, and Cream Panda find SL-Man with the apples, Baikinman comes by to ruin the apples with his giant caterpillar robot. After Anpanman slows him down, Melonpanna and Cream Panda take SL-Man to the bakery.

Uncle Jam and Batako receive the apples and make them into apple juice. They give the juice to Apple Boy which he quickly drinks and rejuvenates from.

As Anpanman is still fighting Baikinman, Melonpanna and Cream Panda come back with Apple Boy for assistance. Apple Boy ends up beating him by planting an instantly-growing apple seed on the robot's tongue, where Anpanman then punches him into the next time zone.

That evening at the bakery, Apple Boy explains to the crew, with Shokupanman (dubbed as Bread-head Man) and Currypanman there as well, that he needs his balloon to search for the fabled magic apple seeds that can apparently grow the biggest apples anyone has ever seen. Anpanman, Mellonpanna, and Cream Panda help him search for the tree that gives off the magic seeds, while Bread-head Man and Currypanman search for the Apple Balloon. With no luck in finding the tree, they return to the bakery.

As the heroes in the bakery are setting off to find Appleina, an apple girl who might have clues as to where one can find the magic seeds, Horror informs Baikinman and Dokeen of the whole situation through a mock TV newscast.

Once at Appleina's, she shows the crew (and by extension the young audience this movie caters to) how to grow large apples. After many hardships of growing the trees, they finally blossom. Just as they are admiring their hard work, a bunch of bats swoop in and suck the life out of all the other apple trees around them. Unrelated to this, Baikinman attempts to steal all the apples for himself.

At this point, the bats go together to form the wich from the Snow White book that Dokeen and Horror were reading at the beginning of the film, revealing that she was the shadowy figure at the beginning of the movie that escaped from the book.

The witch turns everyone into moldy apples for no other reason than she is evil. The only ones left standing are Apple Boy and Appleina. Uncle Jam and Batako rush to bake Anpanman a new anpan head so he can turn back from apple form and be powered up enough to beat the witch. However, the witch destroys the Anpanman Blimp's oven, meaning they can't bake the head. Apple Boy stuns the witch with the power of a magic apple that he ended up growing. This also bakes the cold head into a perfectly cooked one, giving Uncle Jam and Batako the chance to turn Anpanman back to normal.

They successfully do this and Anpanman beats the witch back into the storybook, as the movie ends and everyone sings about apples.

My opinions

Before you say it, I am fully aware this movie is made for young children, but that is no excuse not to have a quality movie in my opinion. If anything, kids deserve more good content so they can learn and remember seeing that content for years to come. It just makes me feel bad for these children who watch movies that don't have much substance purely because they are "made for children."

The movie itself

The movie is average at best, and boring at worst. I did type out a pretty large plot synopsis for this movie, making it sound like a lot, but there really was not as much as you would think. This movie is only 46 minutes in total too, so there really should have been more here. Like, there was some emotional stuff going on with Apple Boy back on the Apple Planet he came from, but it's never really relevant to the story, nor the series as a whole because of him being made for this movie and only this movie. The movie also has a surprising amount of filler. Like, the part where I briefly mention Anpanman looking for the tree is a montage in the movie that lasts about two minutes, along with a scene where Apple Boy falls off a cliff, which is also not relevant to the main plot. I want to say a good quarter of this movie in total was filler, so we only have about 33 minutes of actual plot.

The writing that is there is also broken. I believe that the most entertaining part about this series is the series villains, Baikinman, Dokeen, and Horror. They don't make too many appearances in this movie to serve as comic relief, rather, Baikinman feels shoved in here to serve as more padding to make that over-40-minute time slot. There are also parts of the movie that make absolutely no sense under any perspective, not just an outsider's. Like, why does giving Anpanman a new head suddenly transform him from a moldy apple back to normal?

Overall, I feel as though both adults and children would be bored to death by this movie. 3/10.

Dubbing quality

If the movie itself wasn't soleless enough, the dubbing somehow makes this worse.

The movie was dubbed by Macias Group, a Florida-based studio that is best known for dubbing English shows into Spanish but does have some English dubbing in their catalog.

They had hired voice actors that I have not even heard of, nor do I think anyone else has. This doesn't make the dubbing automatically bad, in fact, a no-name cast can be quite good if given the right direction. However, this cast I feel did not give enough life to the characters. Some characters sound fine, like Horror or Dokeen, but others sound like the actor is struggling to put on a good performance, like Baikinman.

The characters also tend to speak in a way I like to call "Dora the Explorer Syndrome." It's kind of hard to explain what this is over text, but characters will talk extremely slowly for the young children, along with sounding considerably condescending. Watch the first two minutes of a Dora episode and compare it to this movie and you'll hear what I mean.

The voice acting itself sounds a bit bland and flat, almost like the actors didn't really care for their roles and were just doing it for a small paycheck. I don't blame them, really. An obscure series that they most likely haven't even heard of streaming exclusively on an unpopular streaming service most likely won't pay too high certainly wouldn't get me motivated. To do something like this, it needs to pay high enough or be on a service where it will get more notoriety, and most importantly, the people need to have a passion for the project and voice acting in general, neither of which sounded like they were here. I also heard a bit of recording echo, but I'm going to chalk that up to the actors recording at home rather than a booth due to COVID restrictions. If the dub had a bit more heart, then I probably would have liked it that much more.

I feel as though some of the name changes could have been better. Like some were unnecessary like Dokin to Dokeen or Horrorman to Horror, but things like Baikinman and Anpanman were kept the same, which probably needed the most explanation to an English audience.

The iconic songs from the Japanese version were also translated to English, which is a rarity in 2021 dubbing land. However, the songs sound off from their Japanese counterparts. If you were to listen to the theme song (https://youtu.be/3qSiSWTJkzw) or the closing song (https://youtu.be/c4DY7xmLlQI), you hear that they are bouncy, happy, and catchy. The English versions sound a bit off-beat to the rhythm these songs are supposed to be in. Now, I don't mind if the rhythm is a bit different so it can be optimized to the English language better, but here, it's so off it makes the songs sound worse. Most likely, the singers were given no direction and only listened to the Japanese version a few times. Not only that, but the lyrics are nearly directly translated from Japanese, also messing with the flow of the songs. When listening to the Japanese musical tracks, it almost makes you wonder what could have been.

Overall, the dubbing is not too good and probably could have done better either with a different cast with more motivation, or a whole 'nother studio behind the wheel.

Final thoughts and other recommendations

If you do want another English dub of Anpanman that I think is miles better, watch the fandub by Thomas Blue on Fandubbers Unite, starring myself as Anpanman (renamed to Bean-bun Man) and @clwsblog as Baikinman (renamed to Cavity Creep). It has better writing, better acting, and better songs. Both kids and adults alike will enjoy this version. Before you ask me, no, there is no bias here. I truly believe we did it better and for no pay!

Here is a link to Thomas Blue's dub:

https://fandubbersunite.weebly.com/beanbunman.html

If you really want to watch the official English though, even after my warnings, then go ahead. Here's a link to the Tubi listing:

https://tubitv.com/movies/592033/anpanman-apple-boy-and-everyone-s-hope?start=true

[mcrmadness]

Madness draws: Behind the Scenes of the Bela/Farin: “Widumihei” comic.

A few months ago I posted here this comic:

CLICK HERE for the original post about that comic where you can see it in better and bigger size, and also reblog it ;)

And this post is just a deep dive into how I plan, do and draw my comics.

Let’s start with sketchbook things...

So every comic needs a story, right? My comics usually are born from either some dialogue I imagine in my head or by an impulsive inspiration that happens when I see something or talk with people and a random idea is triggered. I’m very good at coming up with new ideas solely based on just one word or so which is why I often ask people if they have anything they would want to see/read because I suck at coming up ideas on my own. Or I do get ideas, but not as often as I’d want to.

This particular idea was very old and I have tried but I cannot find the piece that was my inspiration but it was in some of my old German books because I remember laughing at it with either my brother or even with the German teacher in 2011 or 2012. I was only able to find my first “sketch” of the story:

This is in the notebook I used for writing down some comic ideas and even had one comic in it, plus it’s also my fanfiction writing notebook. It has no date but I know for sure it was either 2011 or 2012 because that’s when I did my last Bela/Farin comic and pretty much started my (unintentional) 6 year pause from drawing altogether.

I have always been trilingual when I do these plans for my comics, often writing the “narration” in Finnish and the dialog either in English or German because I just cannot imagine them to speaking Finnish. The translation of that text goes as:

COMIC (sarjis = sarjakuva = comic book in Finnish)

1. The phone is ringing. 2. F: “Widumihei?!” B: ? 3. B: “Farin wtf?” 4. Farin walks from another room. 5. B: “Widumihei?” 6. F: “It means, “will you marry me?”“ 7. B: *wtf* REPLAY:

1. Bela is sitting/laying somewhere. 2. The phone is ringing. Reached with his hand? 3. Looks at the phone, “wtf?”, a thought: “von Jan: Widumihei?!” 4. Bela: “Farin?” / “Jan?” 5. F comes from another room, looks in from behind the door frame or something. B: “Widumihei?” 6. F: “Widumihei: “WIllst DU MIch HEiraten”“ 7. B: “WTF”

So when I then started to draw these comics again in 2018, I kept thinking about this one too and still wanted to draw it one day. If you have read the finished comic, you may notice something different in the old plot versus new: I switched Bela’s and Farin’s roles. Back then I didn’t know too much yet but over the years I have learnt much much more about them and I just figured that asking to marry him even as a joke would be too much for Farin and that it would fit Bela’s persona much much better.

***

I had a bit of problems with getting started with this one, mainly because the last times I drew a dä comic was in June 2020, in April 2020 and before those in October 2019. Because of so long time between the comics, I just always forgot about my methods and in which order I do things and what works for me the best. So every time I started to work on a comic, I had to start completely over because all I had was blank paper and I somehow needed to get my thoughts in order and out of my head, into a physical form aka as text and images on the paper, and it’s easier said than done.

So pardon me but from this on the text is going to get a little bit confusing for a little while from now on - but it’s also a very good look over how the life with my suspected ADHD be like sometimes...

I started working on the plot once again to my sketchbook... I think it was somewhere in the beginning of 2020. Because the next idea there is from the summer. This is what the plot looked like at that point - here I had already switched their roles:

Shortly, the texts go: 1. Farin is reading a book. 2. A phone makes a noise. 3. (Farin) looks at it/read the message. / 6. B appears into the doorway. / 11. F spits out the tea.

And underneath it you can see one of the stick figure storyboards I often do in order to kinda see the text in pictures better, and I will write down or draw important aspects like expressions (Farin’s eyebrows) or things like *facepalm’* or *eyeroll* so that I remember to add them.

Next I was struggling with the era. It needed to be an era with the old mobile phones with SMS options but still not too early because I feel that Farin would have not been the first in line to buy a brand new technology object, especially not when it’s a phone. I was even googling when did Germany get their first mobile phone - I remember I got my first phone aka Nokia 5510 in 2000 or 2001 after my mom got a new one and gave her old one to me, so the story shouldn’t happen too many years before the Millenium.

Originally I planned 1997 for that - I needed to think about that based on their styles because shorter hair is harder to draw. Here’s me trying out some hairs and how they’re to draw and which era would suit my needs the best. I actually find the text hilarious altho it’s mine but this is what it’s in English:

Time period -> 1996-1997? 1998 I’ve never drawn 1999 is not that much fun to draw 2000 is already a bit too late? Bela not that much fun to draw. -2001 moustaches are not fun to draw?

I think I was struggling with my thoughts because the next thing in that sketchbook is yet another storyboard:

Or actually I think this was just to see how many sheets I’d need and how many panels I could fit on one sheet.

Anyhow, I then did other things for some time before I got back to this project this year. Including finishing with the sketchbook I had been using since 2010 (and the half of it since 2018!) and I had to get myself a new one. So when I started to think about this comic again, one night I was just thinking about some Bela/Farin scenarios as usual and suddenly I just felt that I NEED to do the comic in the 1998 style!!! So suddenly we jump from the original 1997 idea to the new era, only because of the colors. 

So asap I grabbed my sketchbook and started to look for the proper colors for the hairs:

This one I posted here before too as I was struggling a lot and just felt that I didn’t know how to draw, again. Sometimes when I feel like that, I start drawing with my non-dominant aka left hand because it doesn’t have all that in muscle memory so drawing and writing with it feels more free and it feels almost like pressing a refresh button in my brain. Suddenly the right one know again how to draw because left isn’t too well in control. The below part of the image is done completely with the left hand, including the coloring.

And because I had now a new sketchbook, I somehow couldn’t... deal with the plot and plans being in a different sketchbook than everything else so I had write the plot/dialog AGAIN, into this new sketchbook, along with the storyboards and everything:

Translations: kirja = book, puhelin = phone, oviaukossa = in the doorway, teet suusta = tea(s) out of a/the mouth. “Puhelin zoom” just means “close up to the phone screen” in Madness.

You can also see that I found out that I don’t need to do the stick figure storyboards to imitate a sheet when I can just draw this rectangle and smaller rectangles inside of it and write there numbers to match the things in the dialog to make it much easier for me to plan the pages. And here’s also a small easter egg: there’s 13 panels overall in this comic :D I almost did 12 but then felt that no, I really need to do 13 because, you know, the hairs, the era, the album title. And also because I like the number so much lmao.

So from there we get to the second storyboard which is not just stick figures anymore but just me planning how I want the panels to look like. To get the imagery of the rooms and facial expressions etc. out onto the paper so that I can see them in real life instead of my shady imagination that sometimes isn’t as vivid as what I could be.

Also have you ever tried to draw a beach chair? It’s more difficult than you’d think:

I tried to draw the same thing from the same reference photos so many times and still I always felt like I was trying to draw that impossible triangle or some other illusion image. And it just went on and on here:

Originally I also had planned the second panel to be a close up of the phone so that Farin’s face would be left at the background from the frog perspective. That’s what I was trying to with that weird-ass face on the left but turned out that I have never drawn these characters from such angle and I just... couldn’t see it in my head clearly enough to be able to draw it. So I dismissed that idea and that’s why the angle changed from a phone close-up to a side view to the room and at Farin.

As I was in the middle of planning the second page, I suddenly wasn’t happy with my original plot anymore. I wasn’t sure if it would work and needed to think about it one more time. So I wrote two other dialogs here, along with a storyboards for them both. I ended up choosing B from those two options eventually.

I don’t remember anymore if I had already done the first sketch of the comics or not but at some point I just felt that I no longer knew how to draw in my style. Sometimes you just draw and learn wrong things and wrong methods that you get used to and then you have to take a break and actually do a little bit of studying over your own style to find again the way how you want to draw, and get rid of the bad habits and find the good ones again. In my case it was to draw the eyes way way too big when they originally never were THAT big, so I had to learn how to draw them small and normal again. That’s why I did these, as I really needed to pay attention to the faces and remember how to draw them again:

The front-side views were another big readong for this “study” because I have drawn that perspective only once or twice before and I needed to figure out how I want to draw that. Also, I don’t know if it’s just me but for some reason the front-side Farin reminds me of one of the parent characters from this cartoon called The Rugrats which I watched as a kid. It was totally unintentional, but you can google The Rugrats if you don’t know how the charatcers looked like in the cartoon.

The things below are just me testing something. The red Farins were just to test how the colored pencils work on each other and how the fineliners work with the colored pencils, and which way is the better way to do the shading. And the red colored pencil was the only one available at the time so that had to do.

A little bit about the heads btw: You might notice some difference between the left and right faces. It’s because I have always, always struggled with drawing anything that is looking at right. Most of the animal portraits and all I have drawn so that they look at left because I just find it so much easier to draw. I think with comics it’s because I always start with the eye (and the eyebrows if I don’t forget it) and then do the forehead, nose, mouth and chin, and after that I either continue from the hair (from the front) or do the ear first. But when I am drawing them to look at right, I have to basically draw the mirror image and starting from the hair is not the key because it can easily mess up with the perspectives. I still usually draw everything in the same order but it really is difficult because I’m doing a mirror image and my own hand is on the way, too. Basically I’m drawing from right to left instead of left to right! (I think I should try drawing those with my left hand, then...)

And from here we get to the first sketch of the comic. From here on the images are from my phone’s camera so they are sometimes illegally bad but no can do, I again didn’t think I’d post these to anywhere:

Here you can see I was mainly just focusing on the shapes and the space inside those panels. Just trying to see the perspective and how everything is. The only thing that I drew more precisely was the third panel, with the hand and phone. I had quite a nice memory of old phones in my head but I still googled for some reference photos of Nokia 5110 phones as that was my first phone (as I mentioned earlier), and I also happened to have some of my other old phones on the table nearby so I took my own hand reference photos too:

They always say there’s a little bit of the artist in their art and this one literally has that - “Farin’s” hand is actually my hand! :D And I think the size is kinda on point too because this phone was like 2-3 times smaller than Nokia 5110 and I have small hands, and I believe Farin must have much bigger hands, so the 5110 probably would have looked about the same size in his hand.

After the first sketch, the next step was then - the second sketch:

I also wanted to add more action to the panels so that it’s interesting to look at and not just basically the same panel over and over again with just different speech bubbles, so I came up with the idea of Farin spitting out his tea not being as cartoony as it could be and that he would have to actually clean it up instead of just leaving it there just because in cartoons/comics everything is possible. That way I got more depth into the panels and it was also interesting for me to draw because I drew lots of new postures I have never drawn before, and I’m surprised how well it went despite me not even looking for any kind of reference photos! The only things I used reference photos for were the beach chair, and the phone in a hand. (I have actually always been quite good at drawing 3D objects and spaces, especially if they are rectangular.)

So yeah, this is the phase where everything is then finished with pencil and what follows next is drawing the lines with fineliners - I use Sakura Pigma Micron fineliners for everything else, and black Promarker for doing the lines for the panels (and also if I need bigger pitch black areas done).

Here are the panel lines done but I only had a photo of this first sheet.

And here are both sheets with the finelining done and all pencil marks etc. erased. I really like this part because it looks so clean when all those sketch marks are gone. It’s also crazy to think I literally spend hours drawing something in pencil only to erase it all away later :D

And here’s one photo of the coloring process, the first one has only the base colors done but none of the shadows yet (apart from the shirts), and the second one has some of the shadows done but not everything yet.

Usually after coloring, I will then go through everything with the fineliners one more time to make sure all the lines are dark enough as it just gives everything the finished yet a bit “sketchy” look that what I really like with my comics. The actual last detail is always adding my signature along with the date or year.

And here’s the finished comic one more time for comparison:

Don’t forget to check and reblog the actual post about this comic if you read this post all the way here. I’d appreaciate that a lot since art and artist on Tumblr are not really that much appreciated.

[impulsivelycontentious]

No one reads this or connects it with my other online identities but since I've removed personals involvement from my other social media stuff, and I feel like bitching, I am jsut gonna go ahead and do it.

So I have brain damage. Yeaaaaars ago I threw up so hard I actually ripped open the inside of an artery in my neck, and it threw a clot, and that clot did some nasty shit on its way on through and out.

No doctor noticed for two weeks.

Everyone else did.

Good times.

Anyway.

So now I have a damaged brain. Brains don't grow back. Some areas can regenerate a few cells - notably the prefrontal lobe - but mostly brains fix themselves not by regenerating like skin does, but by rearranging the cells we have to fire to fancy new configurations.

This has been quite the ride. Because shit, it changes things.

I don't even know how much of my personality is consistent. No idea. Let alone everything else.

I have memory loss my nurologist won't akowledge because it falls short of dementia. That was the bar. "You don't have dementia, you know what year it is." Gee thanks there chief.

Anyway.

My brain wasn't too stable to begin with. I have always been prone to logic leaps that occur very quickly and not necessarily in ways other people would make them. My mind is jumbled and a little random and things collide all the time that probably shouldn't.

This has become much worse since the brain damage. See, my brain keeps wiring shit together. Shit it really shouldn't. It changes who I am, what I think, what I can think.

It's actually quite terrifying to realise you're a sack of geletine misfiring lighting at itself.

So anyway. To the point. Yes - I have one of those. Probably. It's somewhere in here.

Oh right, no, another detour. I'm autistic. "Oh yeah, they definatly didn't screen girls when I was a kid because how the fuck did they miss this otherwise" autistic.

Back to the point.

Recently I had this sensory processing ... Whatever the fuck that was. I call them.idssocistive episodes. I don't know how accurate that is. But my mind unhooks from my sensory data. Everything feels muted and unreal - sound, sight, touch, heat. Name it. It's wrong.

I hate these.

It gets particularly nasty because there are nurologicsl consequences. See, my concious mind ramps up it's interpretation of sensory data. It goes all in and leaves the rest of my existence stuffed in this tiny little box without enough space to do dick.

One effect of this is I suddenly become highly obsessive. I think it's a comfort mechanism, I require the same stimulus over and over again or to somehow mentally connect it to the same element. Of course, it could also jsut be that obsessive behaviour towards interests is part of who I am. I am autistic. I DEFIANTLY go all in when something fascinates me. But not... Not like this.

Do you have ANY IDEA how many times I watched starwars 8 in 72 hours? Any clue? Holy fricking ... Something. I watched it fast. I watched it slow. I watched it skipping ahead 10 seconds every 10 seconds. I dissected that thing in micrscopic detail.

It gets better. Because mere hours before I got hit with this episode... I was not a starwars fan.

Nope. I watched it. It was ok. I wasn't going out of my way for it.

And suddenly. Wham. Episode 8. All the time. I watched some 7 and 9 as well but it was like it was entierly because eit was connected to 8.

I cannot even.

And while this is happening, *I know*. I know. I really do. I know this isn't my normal behaviour. I know this isn't my wheelhouse. I know something is deeply, deeply wrong in my brain.

I think it might actually be an ok movie, honestly. But not THAT good. And now it's one of my favourite things. Forever. I have no idea if it's actually good. Did I not give eit a chance the first time? Is my obsessive brain simply emotionally hooked up how? Fuck, I don't know.

So that's why I'm posting today. On this day. May 4th.

I'm seeing a lot of star wars today and it's making my brain tickle with it's own ridiculousness.

Not the whole point though. Because it lasted 72 hours (I watched dit one more time after that and if wasn't near as intense).

But what happened AFTER my 72 hours as an obsessive raylo (oh yeah. I went there. I'm not even ashamed. I am also compeltely content with the end they got, because I do not see that shit working out).

Brains don't regrow. They rewire.

And suddenly, I'm drawing. Like... A lot. I filled pages of doodles. Sketches. I redrew a peice I'd been working on for about a month in a few hours and damnit, it was good. It's not professional quality but I'd never down anything that well before. This goes on for another day. And then I started a story, and I wrote 2000 words all at once.

I'm dyslexic. And words are severely impacted by my brain damage to the point it can cause me phsycial pain to force my thoughts in to words.

And here I am. Going nuts on my phone. The words just spilling out and again - damnit, it was good shit.

My brain was abstracting. Where the concious sort had been shunted, it wasn't directing the abstracting aspect of my mind.

And I was making cognative leaps. My brain was wiring itself together for creativity.

For another 24 hours.

And now, dear reader, we get to now.

I have written 200 words in the last 2 days. They feel wrong.

I started and stopped a dozen images. None of them feel right. And there are objective quality differences.

I can still draw a bit. If I'm not tired. I'm almost always tired - it's neural fatigue, it comes with surviving a brain damage.

I have somehow brain damaged my way in to better skills.

And it's... It's not a good feeling.

Doing it the first time and watching something take place in front of my eyes I don't recognise was like magic. It was euphoric. Amazing. Exciting.

Realising as time wears on that the ability to do this is intrinsically tied in to the way ones brain handles brain damage and sensory processing issues?

Not a great feeling cats. Not at all.

I find myself staring at a document willing words on tot he page that just aren't there anymore and feeling so frustrated I could scream.

Whose idea was this anyway? Why can't I keep my rewiring?

It's so hard dto explain the feeling of loss.

It's not me who did these things. A version of me, yes. But not the one we are keeping.

The one we keep struggles to hold a narrarive in her head and the narrator's tone took 3 rewritten to preserve for a single paragraph.

I don't want to stop. But how do I keep going? I'm not the author anymore and I've always struggled with adopting the tone of others.

So yeah. That's where I'm at. And I wanna talk about it. Because I don't want to be alone. But I can't escape the feeling I'm being dramatic. Terribly dramatic. And so talking about it is hard. How much is my own spin and perception and how much is real?

Did this really happen?

I think it did. But like every story I tell, I don't know. Memory loss. Cognetive issues.

I just wanna tell stories and draw. But the words hurt and the art makes me tired.

It's frustrating is all.

I hate being lighting geletine.

In case you're wondering what kind of cognative leap happened:

That one is april 4th.

And that one April 28th.

🤷‍♀️

Fucked if I know, really.

[tiesandtea]

Suede fell out of bed into Britpop and Britpop controversy about Blur and bisexuality and who was doing what to who in what direction, but between episodes of public drama was glammy rock ‘n’ roll in the most classic English tradition. After years off duty, Suede is substantially re-united (without Bernard) and active and playing their first stateside gig at Coachella. 

An interview with Brett Anderson by Chris Ziegler. L.A. Record, 15 April 2011.

How did Suede and Metallica ever get together for all-night rock sessions? Brett Anderson: Our press agent sorta said, ‘Hey, Kirk Hammett is a big fan— should we get you together?’ So we went out to San Francisco to Kirk’s place and spent a lot of time being a bit naughty and playing songs in his basement. He had a studio—a little bit of a jamming room. I remember running through ‘Metal Mickey,’ we did a bit of T. Rex—we were off our faces, anyway. He’s a nice chap!

Kirk said he was struck by how normal you were and how you didn’t spank your buttocks once. I should have spanked my buttocks. He was probably very disappointed. ‘This can’t be the real Brett Anderson. He’s not spanking his buttocks.’

What Crass lyric is so close to the front of your mind at all times that you can sing it to me right this second? ‘Do they owe us a living? Of course they fucking do!’ I love Crass. Feeding of the 5,000 was one of my favorite records growing up. I love that record. I love all the artwork. Talking about bands that draw you into a world—Crass really created their world, and it was a really confrontational, intelligent, political world. I really responded to it as a young teenager.

What part of the Crass ethos do you hold most dear? I don’t live on a commune in Essex. But it opened my eyes—if it’s done right—how powerful political music can be. I never wrote overtly political music, but I did write music that dealt with not like party politics, but themes of poverty and alienation and I used that in songs—that was possibly inspired by Crass.

How was Suede a political band? Dealing with the politics of life. Setting our songs in a real social context. I never wanted to be a writer who waved flags for a political party, but listening to the songs you can tell I was brought up as a member of the working-class, and you can tell the songs have a very strong left-wing bias.

You said you felt there hasn’t been a definitive genre of music invented in the U.K. in the last decade, and that you feel music is meant more to placate than provoke now. Why? I do very much feel that’s the state of things. I can’t see that the last decade has created its own genre, which is a terrible shame for that generation. Not to say there hasn’t been great music. There’s amazing music! I love discovering new bands and there’s a great wave of new bands. But the biggest cultural development of the last like ten years was computer technology. It wasn’t anything to do with art and music, and that’s a shame. Even in the 90s, we had dance music—definitely a 90s genre. Maybe people have become too knowing. There’s too much of a structured sense of what’s cool and what isn’t, and that comes from magazines constantly publishing lists which contain the same five Beatles albums and this kind of thing. There’s this constant pressure to comply with this very sort of rigid set of accepted rock albums. So bands are too afraid to go outside those reference points. I sense this real fear in the music industry. A lot of it is because the industry has become a lot more corporate. People won’t take risks anymore. In the early 90s—that’s the only time I can talk about because that’s when I started—magazines were putting unusual bands on the cover. Magazines put Suede on covers before anyone had ever heard of us. Commercially, that was very ill-advised—but at least it suggested they had a sense of purpose. Now I get the sense people only back who they think are gonna win, regardless of if they actually think it’s any good or not. They will back who they think are the winners, and they will write good reviews for the bands they think are gonna sell lots of records whether they like them or not, and I think that’s a fucking terrible way to be. People are too afraid of not being cool? Or getting it wrong? No one’s willing to get it wrong. No one’s willing to stick their neck out and become a hated figure. No one’s got that kind of confidence. Everyone’s too willing to comply. It’s a terrible thing. But things go in cycles, don’t they? Maybe it’ll move into another period where people are taking chances.

When is the last time you suffered Stendhal syndrome? At the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. I was looking at the Toulouse-Lautrecs, which were absolutely amazing. I’ve never been a huge fan of Toulouse-Lautrec before, but seeing the paintings in the flesh—as it were—is just so amazingly powerful. They’re so beautifully observed. I’m not sure if I actually experienced Stendhal syndrome, but I’ve read about it and it’s an extreme reaction to beauty—that’s the closest I can imagine it to be.

What’s it actually feel like? Like drinking too much coffee. Slightly restless euphoria. Or maybe I’m getting it confused with actually drinking too much coffee. I’m a huge fan of art . I spend a lot of time in galleries and that’s my favorite period of art as well—the post-Impressionists. Paul Gauguin and those artists. I love all the medieval painters as well. People like Bruegel and Cranach and Holbein. There’s something incredibly primitive about it—Bruegel’s ‘Return of the Hunters’ is so atmospheric. What I really like about Holbein is he’s such an amazing draftsman and a great observer of human features. He could completely capture a person. You’re looking at someone who lived 500 years ago but it could be someone passing you on the street. They’re so real. I love that about Holbein’s paintings.

Did you want to try and observe things that carefully in Suede songs? It’s difficult in the framework of pop music. It isn’t a very subtle medium. It doesn’t have as much as fiction or fine art. You’re in a very rigid structure—melody and rhyme and rhythm and those things are constricting you. I don’t think pop writers can ever take it to that depth of observation. But what pop writers can do is engage at an emotional level that other artists can’t do. The pop song, when done right, is incredibly powerful. That’s partly to do with the simplicity as well. Truth in music is incredibly important, but artifice can be incred- ibly important as well—that’s something I’ve done quite consciously. Lots of the songs I’ve written for Suede have been deliberately superficial but perversely enough there’s a kind of truth in that. A sketch is powerful because you fill in the missing pieces. You fill in the framework yourself. If it’s too full, there’s no space for you to interpret it.

Francis Bacon said, ‘The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.’ Absolutely. One of the most important quotes ever about creativity. Something I’ve learned through mistakes over the years is it shouldn’t be too clear what you’re doing. Sometimes the sketch is so powerful because of the room for interpretation. As soon as you know what something is about, it somehow kills the mystery. And mystery is so important in music. That allows the song to have life beyond what it was intended for. When a writer’s writing, they have a very specific thing in mind, but they don’t know about the life of the listener. The listener applies his life to the music and there’s a new interpretation. That’s why a good song has so much power. It reaches into people’s lives. But to do that, there needs to be a sense of mystery. I’ve always tried to do that with detail. There’s this whole thing with great songwriters saying songs should be universal, but I actually think songs should be opposite—strangely specific and set in a place to make them real. I mean, still allow space for interpretation.

You said once that Suede writes about the used condom, not the beautiful bed. That kind of detail? That’s not my favorite quote I ever said—but it keeps coming back. It must resonate with people’s vision of what the band is about. It’s quite a crass way of saying it, but I suppose it’s got some sort of truth. I always wanted to document the sort of grubby side of life. I didn’t want to talk in rock cliché. ‘Baby, I love you!’ clichés. I wanted to sing about the world I saw around me, and the world I saw around me was the used condom. It was the dusty street, the flickering TV. It was that use of detail and the fact I was born in the U.K. that made me write about the U.K. in detail, and it became distorted into the cliché of what became Britpop later—but it was never this nationalistic, jingoistic intention. It was just a desire to write about the world I saw around me.

Did you have to feel like you were living a Suede song to write a Suede song? I don’t feel I deliberately changed my lifestyle. But I didn’t rein myself in. I felt justified in writing what I was writing—the right thing to do for my artistic vision was live the lifestyle I was singing about, but it’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. I was living that, obviously. But you can’t live that lifestyle forever and wanna remain alive. Things have to change. I championed—well, I documented it, and then you realize that what you’re documenting is quite harmful.

Did you think you were going to end up on a prison ship like Dan Treacy? Well, toward the end of the 90s, things started getting quite dark. Life was definitely changing. I thought, ‘Well, maybe we need to veer away from something.’ I always feel I’m slightly on dodgy ground when people talk about this whole concept of the artist as a damaged character—it’s such a powerful cliché that people really wanna believe in, and I think there’s so much great art made through clarity and sobriety. The damaged artist casts a huge shadow people sometimes can’t see beyond. Me personally, as an artist now I feel much more in control of my art. Much more driven. Certainly more than I did ten years ago. But people need to believe in that sort of figure.

Jason Pierce said he started Spacemen 3 because of people like Roky Erickson and Alex Chilton—that he felt he could do what they did because they were flawed and not professional and perfect. It’s the ultimate DIY ethic, isn’t it? The ultimate punk thing? Saying it doesn’t matter how incapable or damaged or all these pejorative adjectives you wanna apply—not you can still create art, but it almost makes your art more interesting or valid or gives it an edge you wouldn’t have if you weren’t damaged? Someone like Ian Dury—the ‘cripple as artist.’ It gives the audience a fascination, I think.

You said you were making music to find community in a fucked-up world. Did you ever find that community? It’s always a search for some sort of community, isn’t it? There’s a line from one of the old songs, ‘New Generation.’ ‘We take the pills to find each other.’ A search for human … ownership or whatever. I don’t know. It’s strange to say because I’ve always conducted my career and Suede’s career almost as outsiders. I’ve never felt accepted by the music industry. I still don’t. I’ve never felt part of any sort of gang, and I never really wanted to be part of any gang. The only gang I’m part of is this weird disparate group of non-members—the ‘others’—and I’m quite happy in that role as well. I don’t jealously look at other people’s lives and wish I could be like that. I don’t have that search for community I used to have— maybe I realized the reality of things.

Does that mean it’s not out there? That it was never there? Can bands create these communities anymore? That’s the definition of a decent band. They create a community. When I answered your question, it was in a personal sense. Whether I’ve found a community. But hopefully Suede as a band created a community. That was one of our real intentions—I loved bands like the Smiths who had this world you went into, with the sleeves and the reference points. You very much immersed yourself. I wanted Suede to have that sense as well. Almost a strong Suede way of being. The Suede army, as someone once said.

If you didn’t find community, what did you find? It made my life. It gave me all those things we were talking about earlier. It gave me everything. Gave me purpose in life. I wouldn’t ever advise anyone to do what I did! I’ve been incredibly lucky in my career. 99 percent of people who go into music won’t be as lucky. It is a lot to do with luck! The fact I’ve met Bernard Butler—little things! I might never have met him, and we never would have written those songs and Suede would have been a very different band. I never just say, ‘This is what you should do!’ I was just confident and stupid enough to do what I did, and it just sort of worked! But some of the decisions I made—they were pretty rash!

Is it necessary to commit totally to being creative to be good at being creative? To jump in with no safety net? Absolutely. You’ve gotta let yourself out there. I didn’t even have an instrument to fall back on! ‘I believe I got enough of a voice to say something interesting, and I’m gonna do it.’ Confidence verging on stupidity that happened to pay off!

Does pop music defend the brave and stupid? I think so. You have to push it as far as it’ll go. Part of the reason the public loves pop music so much is the drama of the story. You have people who have no idea about the drama and just wanna listen to Phil Collins records and that’s fine, but there’s a whole other group of people that love the back story—how it’s made and why people fall out and fall in love. It’s almost treating the world of music like you’re watching a soap opera and people love that.

Why do people fall in love? Probably some sort of chemical function. I don’t wanna be unromantic about it but it fulfills a necessary function for the human race.

[omg-just-peachy]

Letter D in this A to Z April challenge I’m giving myself is Drunken Love Confessions... so naturally it’s more getting together/pining. The team goes to a charity gala, Steve stays home sick, and Tony comes back drunk with something to tell him. 

--

Steve jolts awake at the sound of the elevator doors opening. He had fallen asleep somewhere around six o’clock, the cold he’d been fighting finally getting the best of him. He’d tried medicine, hot tea, and sketching to take his mind off how bad he felt, but nothing helped like sleeping. Now, though, the tower was silent, more quiet than Steve ever remembered it being. The rest of the team had gone to a charity event, leaving him to sleep the evening away.

He hated to miss it, especially because it was a cause Steve loved, an organization specializing in matching veterans with service animals. But everyone agreed; Steve should stay home and sleep off whatever it was he manage to catch. Steve had flushed at the thought, and while he knew they were right, he still felt bad staying behind.

Tony had slapped a reassuring hand to his back before throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in delightfully close, and promising to make an extra large donation in his name. Steve smiled a little at this, both the touch and the knowledge that Tony wasn’t kidding. He never did when it came to people or causes he could help. It was one of the million things Steve had fallen in love with these last few months.

“Steve! Steve, are you awake?” Tony called, tie askew and curls flying as he made his way unsteadily from the elevator to the couch Steve had sprawled himself across.

“I’m awake,” Steve tells him, blinking a few times and rubbing at his nose absently. “Are you okay, Tony?” He asks, smiling a little. Tony looked — not wasted, but definitely like he’d enjoyed a few drinks at the event.

“I’m okay Steve, I just, I wanted to tell you something, but then Natasha said I should wait, and she tried to stop me from coming back up here, but I think I gave her the slip, Steve.” Tony rambles, eyes bright and just a little red.

Steve laughs, knows it’s stupid, how much he loves hearing Tony say his name like that, warm and excited. 

“Yeah? Why, what am I not supposed to know this time?” His running joke was that his teammates never told him anything, leaving him the last to know about Clint’s feelings for Nat, and Bucky’s feelings for Sam, and a million other things along the way.

“You really want to know? You promise you won’t hate me forever, Steve?” Tony stares at him. “I hate when you’re mad at me and it already happens a lot.” He collapses onto the couch, Steve pulling his legs up to make room just in time.

“I really won’t. Here, why don’t you drink some of this, then you can tell me the secret, okay?” Steve holds out one of the bottles of water he’d brought out with him, and Tony takes it, chugging almost the entire bottle in one go.

“I don’t know, I don’t want Nat to be mad either…” Tony hedges. It’s rare, seeing this vulnerable side of Tony. He really does care a great deal about what the rest of the team thinks about him, Steve realizes.

“How about this, I’ll deal with Nat when she gets here, make sure she doesn’t get mad, and you tell me whatever it is you want me to know. Deal?” Steve’s eyes are laughing, and he knows it isn’t fair to encourage Tony to tell him whatever this secret is after he’d been drinking… But Steve could be selfish sometimes, too. A bastion of honesty and old-fashioned American values, sure, but he had feelings of his own, most of them involving the man beside him.

“Deal.” Tony grins at him, wide and unselfconscious and Steve can’t help but smile back at him despite how bad he’d been feeling just minutes ago. Somehow, Tony had moved in closer to him on the couch, and was watching him, clearly deliberating the whole thing.

“Okay okay okay, here goes. Steve… I like you,” Tony says, seeming to hold his breath for a second before clarifying what he said. “Well, I like the whole team, really, even Clint, believe it or not, but I really like you? I mean, Natasha told me not to say it, not tonight at least, but you’re sick and I love you and I wanted to be here with you, and I thought donating to the soldiers and dogs would be enough but…” Tony seems to realize that he’s rambling and stops himself, looking at Steve, whose heart had just about stopped. His stomach twists as he tries to find a response. 

“Tony, I… I’m definitely not mad. What I think we should do now, though, is go to bed, and if you still want to tell me that you love me in the morning, you should, and then I can kiss you as much as I want to without feeling like I’m taking advantage, okay?” Steve looks at Tony, who nods, sleepy-eyed beside him. 

Steve deserves a damn medal of honor, all things considered. 

When Nat comes up, not a half an hour later, she finds them asleep nearly on top of each other on the couch. She rolls her eyes; the scene in front of her is so typical she can’t even tell if Tony opened his mouth or not. She’d have to wait for the morning, too.

--

Steve opens his eyes the next morning, confused by the weight on top of him. He lays there for a minute as last night rewinds in slow motion in his mind. Tony loves you! his brain screams at him, and he sits up suddenly, shifting the weight that was on him, which of course, turned out to be Tony, waking him up in the process.

He blinks at Steve a few times, realization dawning in his eyes, and he goes from sleepy to horrified to determined in an impressively short time.

“I said something last night,” Tony starts, and Steve’s heart sinks, sure this is going to be a statement of regret.

“It’s okay, I know you’d been drinking, we can just…” Steve falters; he doesn’t want to forget about it.

“I said something last night, and I should have waited, but you told me to tell you again if I meant it, and… I love you,” Tony says, before Steve can wonder for even one more second if it was true. “And I believe you mentioned kissing, if I was very good and waited until morning, so…” Tony smiles at him, expectant and vulnerable and sleepy and this time Steve can’t say no, has no reason to, really.

His heart lurches a little, and despite how stuffed up and exhausted he was still feeling, he leans in, brushing Tony’s crazy bedhead back from his forehead.

“I love you, too,” he says, a quiet promise in the early morning, just for them. Before Clint could squawk that it was about time, or Natasha could pretend she was rolling her eyes instead of incredibly pleased at this new development.

Neither of them seem to consider the fact that they’re probably both gross with morning breath and a hangover when they finally bring their lips together. They don’t notice any of those things, or time passing, not until a chorus of voices behind them interrupts.

“Guys, come on, I just want to eat breakfast!”

“Idiots.”

“Fucking finally.”

Steve just smiles into Tony’s lips. Last night had been for a good cause, indeed. 

[ask-hungary-prussia]

I own you an explanation

Hi again... although I don't feel I can say just a hi after being one month without giving any hint of me being alive or anything like that.

Some of you may have notice I suddenly stopped being around here, even when I'm the first in be in tumblr all the time reblogging or talking with you. But the truth is that it hasn't only happened here, but in real life.

Since 10ish of April, until the last week before this, I didn't go to classes, I didn't left home any single time, because I never left the bed except for basic needs

I just, I just couldn't do anything, not a single motivation to get up, my body was like almost not responding, cause I hadn't any will. I have never been a motivated person, but I could always go on with my life, taking more effort than in normal circustances, but at least I kept going

But all sudden, I just couldn't do anything this month, not getting up, not sitting in my chair, and forget about drawing, I didn't touch anything like paper or my tablet during that period of time... Nothing, not a single motivation, bad sleeping, and of course failing classes because I couldn't even go to them and make the exams/put my name in the assistence paper

And every day that passed I just kept feeling worse...worse, but at the same time, I just felt nothing. I mean, I have dealing with depression and anxiety behaviours since 5 or 6 years know, but I could always get up and force myself to walk, to talk, to go out, to do a life, even if I didn't felt confortable. But this month was an exception, it seems.

Anyway, around a week and a half, I went to my psychologist finally (I'm supposed to go every 15 days because my economic position, but I hadn't seen her for around one month and a half). I mean, going there doesn't really help me that much, because my behaviour is a reaction of the main problem, which is at my home, a place where I have to be always, a place where...well, you call home. Anyways that's not the subject here. The thing is that she made me somehow makes me promise that I will go this last week to classes but as I hadn't any notes or what they saw in that month, I of course couldn't understand anything, but at least that helped me to get out of bed and go out of home.... yeah yeah I'm such an idiot for not going the last important month hahaha now pray for me because my finals are in a week

And well, I forced myself to go to class these 2 last weeks, and I made it! It's not a biiig stept, but at least I began to smile again and laughing at things

The problem now is that, as I didn't go to class, I may have lose the year because of that and return the money of what cost that year😭😂 I don't know if I want to laugh or cry at this point hahahahaha

The last thing I wanted to tell you, is that I'm trying to draw again!! I took my pencil last weekend and started to sketch up some things.... I failed of course hahaha but at least I spent a good time... and now I want to draw again all the time! But I don't do it yo, now I'm too busy trying to make a miracle happen for me passing the next finals exams without having full notes...... Today I had one exam, a parcial exam..... and I fail 🙃 I promised my psychologist next time I will tell her that after focusing a whole week in the exam, I passed it..... But now it will be a lie, at least I tried

Well... I think that's everything. Sorry for my english, it's 4 am, and English was another thing I didn't touch in a month, and now I'm really struggling with the verb to be and have

Hmmm last thing last thing...ah! Right! I want to say you I'm really glad and thankfully of all of you, even if you didn't notice my absence or did <3, although i don't deserve you, I know I'm such a mess even when I spent all my life trying to cover it up

I'm not planning to abandoned this blog, this still feels to me like the only island in a really big big ocean, a place that helps me a lot. Also, [don't read this part if you don't like it] this last season of Miraculous Ladybug is bomb! So I'm really in a urge of drawing those to dorks too... but I know there's people here which don't like the show, and I understand it, that's why I'm planning to do another blog just for MLB!...well.... if you want to. It wouldn't be now, but it's just an idea

Now, it's true I won't be that active in June or some days of July because my final exams, but when I have free time, I'll use it to recover what I forgot about drawing!! And although I don't upload any drawing, I'm always waiting happily to talk with you all, and answer always any question from you! ♡ (specially those which don't require drawing, at least for these weeks, I mean, you won't want to see a deformed potato for Hungary)

Have a nice night/day/whatever!! Look the bright side, at least this year you didn't had Mishapocalypse or Eurovision memes from me I couldn't see Eurovision this year because...things, but I heard Russia's song and I felt in love

Well, I'll stop writing now, it's already 4:30, I spent 30 min writing this and my fingers hurts haha. See you later!!

[lastbluetardis]

Chemical Potential (6/11)

Summary: Slightly homesick and stressed about her abysmal chemistry grade, Rose Tyler meets quirky James Smith, the boy who sits in front of her in their chemistry class. They become fast friends as James makes it his personal mission to help Rose get through the semester.

Ten x Rose University AU

This chapter: ~6000 words, light teen

Notes: This was written for the lovely @thegreenfairy13 as part of the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange.

AO3 | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | epilogue

Rose was looking forward to her sleepover with James all day. All of her classes seemed to drag by, impatient as she was for it to be four o’clock, the time James said he would meet her at the library.

Finally, hurrying to the library after her final class of the day ended, Rose spotted James’s figure slouched in a cushy chair near the front doors of the library, an open newspaper in front of him. She took a minute to admire him and the graceful curve of his body as he sat sideways in the chair with his legs slung over the armrest.

He hadn’t spotted her yet, so she snuck up behind him and breathed into his ear, “Guess who?”

He yelped far louder than was appropriate for a library, earning them both a sharp glare from the librarian on duty.

James sprang up from the seat, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. His cheeks were bright red, and Rose felt a little bad for startling him so badly.

“Rose!” he exclaimed, breathless. “Hi!”

“Hi,” she giggled. “Ready to go?”

“Yup, let me just…” He hastily folded up the newspaper, not even following the creases, before he shoved it into his bag.

“You performed your civic duty, I see,” she noted, spying the tiny “I Voted!” sticker on his jumper.

“Yep! Got to the polls right as they opened this morning. I’m glad, because rumor has it the lines are impossibly long now.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, then touched her wrist briefly before he let his hands drop to his sides. It was an automatic response for Rose to thread their fingers together as they made their way outside.

“Isn’t it supposed to be cold by now?” Rose asked as they walked into the late afternoon sunshine and the unseasonable warmth. Across campus, some students were in t-shirts and shorts, or were carrying around jackets that had become unnecessary as the temperatures approached sixty.

“Well… climate change, y’know. The Earth is dying.”

“Very cheerful,” she muttered, reaching over to pinch his ribs.

He squirmed out of the touch, but didn’t relinquish her hand as they walked to his car.

James remembered the way to her apartment, and fifteen minutes later, he’d pulled up in front of her building.

“D’you… want to come up?” Rose asked awkwardly. “I might be a few minutes. I’m an idiot and didn’t pack an overnight bag yet.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he said softly, and while she’d meant it offhand, a piece of her heart fluttered at his immediate protest. “But sure. I’ll come up.”

He turned off his car and exited. He dug through his pockets for a quarter that he fed into the parking meter.

“Will fifteen minutes be long enough?” he asked, glancing at her.

She nodded, then guided him into her building and up the flights of stairs to her floor.

“It’s a bit small,” she said apologetically when she unlocked her front door. “But make yourself at home.”

She was all too aware of James’s roaming gaze as he drank in her flat. It was small, even for one person. Thankfully she didn’t have much stuff, so it wasn’t cluttered. There was a loveseat sofa and a dining table in the living room, but the table was so covered with her art supplies that she often ate her meals standing over the kitchen counter.

“Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge,” she said as she made a beeline for her bedroom.

She pulled out a bag and stuffed a change of clothes and pajamas into it, then she moved to the bathroom. Her makeup was spread all across the countertop, and she collected them into her makeup bag, which she stuffed on top of her clothes. She then grabbed her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, which she rolled into a towel. All of that she placed into her pack as well.

After making sure she had everything she would need for staying overnight somewhere, she joined James in the living room. He was towering over her table, and Rose was mortified to see him looking at the various pages of sketches littered across the surface. She knew there were several portraits of him among the pages.

He jumped when he heard her approaching, and his cheeks flamed red.

“I- I’m sorry,” he squeaked. “It was all right out there in the open. I didn’t mean to snoop. I just… You’re very good, Rose. They’re beautiful.”

Her sharp rebuke about invading her privacy died on her tongue. She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, and if she hadn’t wanted anybody to see, she should’ve put them away. After all, it wasn’t as though she was unused to sharing her artwork; but she was unused to her artistic muse seeing the final results.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, accepting his compliment.

She decided not to draw any more attention to her drawings, on the off chance he somehow hadn’t seen the ones she’d done of him. Instead, she moved to the fridge for the unopened bottle of wine that had been there since her first week in the flat.

James frowned.

“How the hell…? The drinking age in America is twenty-one,” he blurted. “How did you even buy that?”

Rose raised an eyebrow at him, then said slowly, “Because I am twenty-one?”

He blinked. “What?” His voice went high, and he coughed to clear it.

“Yeah. I turned twenty-one last April,” she said. “I took a few years off school before deciding to try uni.”

James nodded, and his throat bobbed. “Good. That’s… good.”

Rose cocked her head. “Why’s that good?”

His cheeks burned redder and he stammered for a moment before saying, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble here on foreign soil is all.”

A lame excuse, and certainly not what he’d meant, but Rose didn’t push it.

“Shall we?” she said.

He nodded and reached for the wine, then guided her back to his car.

He drove them to the outskirts of town, to a small residential development. Quaint brick houses lined the streets, and a twinge of jealousy flared through Rose. But she pushed it down when she considered where James had gotten the money to afford a house: he’d probably inherited any money his parents had when they died.

“Home sweet home,” he said, pulling into the driveway of one of the smaller houses in the development. “Oh! Er… are you allergic to cats? I completely forgot.”

Rose shook her head. “I had a few cats when I was growing up.”

He looked relieved. “Great.”

She followed him into his house, and was immediately greeted by the happy, screaming meows of a black and gray tabby.

“This one’s Pippin,” he said, bending down to scratch the cat’s chin. “He’s a love bug. If he gets too annoying, I’ll shut him in my room.”

Pippin purred loudly, then turned to Rose and rubbed himself against her calves and feet.

A few moments later, a brown and tan tabby padded over to them. He wasn’t quite as affectionate as Pippin, but he sniffed Rose curiously then bumped his head into her shin before trotting back in the direction he came from.

“That one was Merry,” James said.

Rose stifled a grin. “Are Frodo and Sam in hiding?”

James giggled, looking pleased that she understood the reference.

“They live with my Aunt Sarah,” he said, toeing off his shoes by the front door. Rose followed suit, and was amused to see his socks had chemical structures printed all across them.

She followed James down the hall and to the kitchen, where Merry and Pippin were circling two of three empty bowls.

“Watch out for Gollum,” James warned. “He doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Or even to me, honestly. He’s a grumpy old man. I should’ve let him drown in the storm drain honestly. But I felt too sorry for the bastard.”

Rose turned at a growling meow, and saw a Siamese cat slinking further into his box on the cat tree.

“That whole tree is his,” James said, shaking his head. “He won’t let Merry or Pippin on it. I had to get them their own tree. And Gollum will sometimes even take over that one, the little shit.”

She watched James move around his kitchen, filling the three bowls with food. He gave Merry and Pippin each a full body stroke before letting them eat their dinner in peace.

“I’ll show you where you can put your stuff,” he said, beckoning with a tilt of his head before he strode down the hall.

He guided her to the first door on the right and stepped into the room. There was a large bookshelf completely covered with books, as well as a long bay window with cushions that looked like the perfect place to curl up for a few hours to read. Judging by the distinct scent of James that lingered in the room, she suspected he spent a lot of time reading here.

Against the opposite wall was a full-size bed.

“My aunt stays in this room when she comes to visit,” James said. “I put fresh sheets on. The loo is directly across the hall. And my bedroom is at the very end of the hall, should you need anything in the middle of the night.”

“Thank you,” Rose said, setting her bag onto the bed. “Your house is lovely.”

He smiled a little awkwardly, as though realizing the very different lifestyles they lived.

“Ready for pizza? Results probably won’t start coming in for another couple of hours. But we can put an order in a while and maybe play something? Do you like board games? Or we could play a card game? Whatever you want.”

Rose’s stomach flip-flopped, suddenly nervous that she was alone with James in his home, and that she would be spending the night here. Not nervous for her safety—never that—but nervous about the implications of it all. Did it mean the same thing to James as it did to her? What did it even mean to her? Was this just two mates hanging out together? Or was it… more?

“I’m fine with anything,” Rose said. “And yeah, let’s order the food now.”

James nodded, and together they walked back to the kitchen. Pippin had already finished his food, and was slinking closer to the cat tree and the full food bowl there.

“Oi, you know better,” James warned. “Do you want to get gutted?”

Pippin continued towards the food bowl though, and just when he was about to snitch a piece, Gollum let out a hiss and jumped on top of him.

“Stupid cat,” James grumbled.

Pippin rolled out from underneath Gollum, and trotted towards James, meowing rather pathetically. When James paid him no mind, he turned to Rose and rubbed against her calves.

“Does he like being picked up?” she asked.

“Mhm, oh yeah. I told you, he’s a total attention whore.”

Rose laughed, then she reached down to scoop the cat into her arms. He nuzzled close to her chest and purred loudly.

“Don’t let that mean ol’ kitty boss you around,” she cooed. “You’re an absolute sweetheart. Aren’t you such a beautiful boy?”

“Toppings?” James asked as he held his mobile to his ear.

“Cheese is fine,” Rose said.

He gave her a thumbs-up, then started speaking into the phone, placing an order for a large cheese pizza, a medium supreme pizza, an order of fries, mozzarella sticks, and two dozen chicken wings.

“It’ll get delivered in an hour,” he said, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“Are more people coming?” she asked. At his frown, she said, “You ordered a hell of a lot of food.”

The tips of his ears went pink.

“Er, well, I like a variety. And I’m starved. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He shrugged. “And in any case, I’ll have leftovers for dinner for the rest of the week. Mind if I open the wine?”

“That’s why I brought it,” she teased.

He stuck out his tongue, then rummaged through a drawer for a few noisy seconds before procuring a corkscrew.

“So,” James began as he worked on uncorking the wine bottle. “You’re twenty-one? What did you do between finishing up school and coming to uni?”

Rose nuzzled her nose into the soft fur of Pippin’s forehead, then bent down to set him on the floor. “It’s a long story.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, you don’t have to talk about it,” he said softly.

Rose nearly took the out he gave her. But he’d entrusted her with his grief and heartbreak over losing his family. Not that she felt she had to reciprocate and spill her own personal misfortunes, but he made her want to share with him. He made her want to give him every piece of herself, both the light and dark parts of her.

And maybe she was naive to have this much trust in someone she’d only known for a month, but maybe, just maybe, James was worth it.

“I left school when I was sixteen, after I finished my GCSE exams,” Rose said. James paused for just a moment, but then he continued working at the cork. “I was okay at school, in the subjects that interested me at least. But I was young and stupid and fell head-over-heels in love with my boyfriend.” James’s hands spasmed, and he dropped the corkscrew. “Jimmy. He was my first serious boyfriend. He was a year older than me and in a band. The band was decent enough, I suppose. They had a bunch of local gigs and had a self-made album out.

“Anyway, I thought he was the one.” Rose shrugged, her heart aching at how carefree those early days with Jimmy were. “He seemed to love me as much as I loved him. I didn’t hesitate when he asked me to move into a flat with him. It was a small flat, just one bedroom, but it was just the two of us, and it was ours, so it felt perfect.

“And we were happy. We really, really were. I’d quit school to help out with the bills, and I honestly didn’t mind it. School bored me, and I felt a lot better about myself to have a job and get paid and help out with the rent. My job wasn’t exciting—just working in a clothes shop—but it paid well, and I had steady hours.

“Jimmy’s band had been doing well, too. They’d gotten seen by some producer, and long story short, they were asked to sign a contract for their first real studio-produced album. Of course, all the guys jumped on board. I was so proud of them.

“But they began pulling long hours at the studio. Which was fine. They were busy. But there’d be weeks when I saw Jimmy for only an hour or two.” Rose’s voice died as she remembered the nights she’d go to bed alone, only to be woken up a few hours later by Jimmy’s wandering hands and lips. Sometimes she enjoyed their midnight romps, but other times, she wished he would let her sleep. She’d yelled at him the morning after that first night he’d ignored her wishes to keep sleeping. He’d yelled right back, eventually storming off. He’d called her a few hours later, apologizing and begging her to forgive him, promising that he wouldn’t do it again.

James was looking at her curiously, but without an ounce of pity. She could’ve kissed him for that kindness. He’d finished with the cork, which lay in a few mangled pieces on the counter, but his attention was fixed on her.

“We sort of… grew apart,” Rose said softly, skipping over the details of her deteriorating relationship. Living through them had hurt enough; she had no desire to recall them to memory if she could help it. “I was getting restless. I made decent money at my job, but I knew I didn’t want to be folding clothes for the rest of my life. But Jimmy… well, he thought I should be happy with what we had. And that I wouldn’t need to work once the album was finished, because he was gonna be a famous rock star.” Rose snorted and shook her head. “We got into it over me not wanting to be a trophy girl for him to parade around like a prize. And how I wanted to have a partner in a relationship. I didn’t want to be dependent on someone.”

Jimmy hadn’t taken well to that statement. He’d sneered at her that she was damn lucky to have what she did, and any other girl would be grateful to be in her shoes. But if she wasn’t happy, she could damn well leave and see how far she could get in life on her own.

That had been one of the cruelest thing Jimmy had said to her.

“Good for you,” James murmured.

Rose sighed. “Thanks. Jimmy didn’t think so, though.”

“He sounds like a bit of a wanker. Er, no offense.”

Rose snorted out a laugh despite the crack in her chest. “He kinda was. But I still hadn’t realized. I was still in love with him, and blind to anything he said or did. I figured he was stressed because of the album he was making.” She shrugged. “Anyways, he stopped coming home at a reasonable hour, and there’d be days when I didn’t see him. He and his band would go off partying with other up-and-coming musicians. He started drinking. A lot. His half of the rent went to booze and God knows whatever else. I made good money, but not enough to cover the full rent. We got into huge rows about it, but he always said we’d be fine when the album came out.

“This had been going on for a few months. We’d been together for over a year—which to me, seemed like forever. It was proof that he was the one and we’d grow old together and get our happy ending. I figured we were going through a bit of a rough patch, but everything would be fine when the record came out.

“Well, the album was released, and it was a local hit, but that was it.” Rose smiled wryly. “No fame and fortune for Jimmy Stone. But he still partied like a rock star, still spent all our rent money, and still stayed out ungodly late. He was never home on the weekends. And one day, he just never came back.”

Rose’s eyes burned as she remembered the helplessness of sitting around the flat, waiting for word from Jimmy. She didn’t know if he was performing in a nearby city, or dead in a ditch. Her calls and texts had gone largely unanswered.

“After two weeks, he called me to say he was moving in with this other girl.” Rose shook her head and rolled her eyes. “He’d been seeing her on the side for months. They were in love, apparently.”

Devastation pulled at James’s face. “Rose, I’m…”

She shrugged. “I was left with almost six-months back rent, and all the current utility payments. I called my mum, told her what happened, and asked if I could move home. And that was that. I released the flat, chatted with the landlady to explain the situation, and got myself on a payment plan to pay off the debt. She was really, really sweet about it.

“Mum was nice enough to not charge me anything when I first moved back. I chipped in with groceries when I could, but most of my pay went to the rent. I sent Jimmy a courtesy text, telling him I let go of the flat and to pick up his stuff, but other than that, I wanted nothing more to do with him.

“I worked for a year, then got restless, and went back for my A-levels. It took a bit longer than it should’ve but I was working as often as I could. I’d paid all my debts, but was utterly broke. I saved up all the money I could to pad my bank account and chip in with my mum’s bills. When my A-levels were finished, I started entertaining the idea of going to uni. Mum thought I should keep working. I had a good job, made good money, and if I stuck it out for a few more years, she thought I could probably get promoted through the shop.

“But I’d told Mum I didn’t want to work in a shop my whole life. Which she took offense to,” Rose added, pursing her lips at the remembered argument with her mother. “She worked in a shop her whole life, and she didn’t know why I didn’t think it was good enough. I said I wanted something different with my life. She still doesn’t really understand.

“I applied to universities, hoping to get some financial aid. I’d built up my bank account and didn’t want to deplete it, if I could help it. And this uni gave me the best offer, and I’d always wanted to see America, so here I am.”

Rose’s cheeks burned at exactly how much she divulged. Hearing the story aloud, listening to the way Jimmy had treated her… She was mortified and ashamed. What must James think of her? He probably thought she was the most naive, ridiculous girl who was an idiot to stay with someone who had treated her so awfully. Even her mother had been full of ‘I told you so’s when Rose had moved home.

But James… James was looking at her with the softest expression on his face. There was no judgement. No pity. Nothing but acceptance and sympathy.

God above, she loved him for that. For being here and letting her talk, and not sneering at her for her past mistakes.

He took a step towards her and opened his arms to enfold her in a hug. She went gladly and wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing her nose into the fresh scent of his sweatshirt.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “I’m sorry Jimmy was a wanker. But you should be proud of yourself, Rose. So proud. Look at what you’ve done, eh? Look at what you’re doing. You pulled yourself out of a shit situation, and made a better life for yourself. You’re amazing, Rose Tyler.”

Rose smiled into his chest, and felt her eyes prickling at the warmth of his words and the utter conviction in his voice.

“Thanks for listening,” she whispered.

“Thank you for trusting me with your story,” he countered, giving her a tight squeeze. She could’ve sworn she felt his lips press against the top of her head, but it was too gentle and quick of a motion. Perhaps it had merely been a bump of his chin.

He released her and smiled softly down at her.

“Wine time?” he asked, jutting his chin to the bottle.

They took the wine to the living room, where a stack of board games and a deck of cards sat on the coffee table.

As they waited for their dinner, they played a few rounds of War.

When the food arrived, James scooped up Merry and Pippin and shut them away in his bedroom.

“They’re obnoxious around food,” he explained. “They’d be walking all over it, and Pippin would eat half of it, no matter if it made him sick for days. I sprinkled some catnip on their beds, so they should be stoned for the rest of the night.”

Rose chuckled and shook her head at him. He sat down on the floor with his back to the sofa, prompting her to sit beside him as he opened up all the bags and boxes of food.

“What do I owe you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I would’ve ordered this much food even if it was only meself tonight.”

Rose nodded. “Thank you for dinner.”

As they dug into the vast amounts of food, James flipped on a news station and taught her a few of his favorite board games.

Rose had never really played board games before, but she found she thoroughly enjoyed it. He introduced her to Risk, Settlers of Catan, and Pandemic, explaining to her his bastardized rules for two people versus the real rules when more players joined in the fun.

“I had game nights with my mum and dad every Friday,” James told her out of the blue when he moved his playing piece across the Pandemic board. “We would stay up ‘til almost midnight, sometimes playing one game for hours, and other times hopping between a few different games. After they died… I refused to play with my Aunt Sarah. It wasn’t the same with two people, y’know. And- and it hurt.

“But then one night, I’d gone to the kitchen and Sarah was playing Solitaire at the table by herself, and she asked if I wanted to play Rummy. Being the sulky fourteen-year-old I was, I grumbled for a few minutes, but eventually gave in. We only played one round, but it was the first time I’d played something in the five months I’d been living with her. We slowly made our own tradition of playing games. Not Friday nights, though. But special occasions, usually. Holidays, nights I couldn’t sleep—” James tilted his head to the TV, where news anchors were debating the odds of Clinton versus Trump winning the election— “election nights. It became a once-in-a-while thing for me and my aunt.”

Rose swallowed though the lump in her throat. Not knowing what to say, she just shifted closer to where he sat on the floor and rested her palm on his thigh. She felt his leg muscles tense, but before she could retract her hand, his covered hers and he said, “S’your turn.”

Even though it made eating and playing their game a bit harder, she kept her fingers twined with his.

As the night wore on and results started coming in, they called game night quits and instead moved to the sofa, where they continued laying into the wine. The bottle was nearly finished, and Rose’s face was hot as she got tipsier.

“How is it still too close to call?” James screeched at the TV. “How has Hillary not completely swept up all of the votes?”

“It’s only nine o’clock,” Rose said soothingly. “The entire west coast hasn’t closed their polls yet.”

“Hmm, true. California alone can probably steal this election for Hillary,” he mused. He reached out for the wine bottle and frowned when he saw it was empty. “Did we spill some?”

Rose giggled. “Nope. We drank the whole thing.”

“So that’s why the room is all wibbly-wobbly.”

“Wibbly-wobbly? Is that a technical term?”

“Oh, definitely,” he said, setting the bottle back on the coffee table. “I think I should switch to water now, though.”

“Yeah, you’re a bit wine-drunk.”

“Wine-drunk?!” he spluttered. “I am not!”

“Yeah you are,” she countered, sticking her tongue out at him.

He blew a raspberry back at her, then shuffled to the kitchen. When he came back, it was with a platter of biscuits and two glasses of water balanced in his hands.

“Found come chocolate chip cookies in my freezer,” he said, passing her a glass. He then carefully plopped back onto the sofa and set the plate of biscuits onto the table before them.

Rose grabbed one and nibbled slowly. They lapsed into an easy silence as they watched the news. She could feel the tension coming off of James as the time grew later and things were still too close to call.

“What if he actually wins?” James murmured quietly, frowning at the television.

Rose shrugged, not knowing what to say. Instead, she scooted nearer to him under the guise of wanting to grab the blanket that was draped behind him.

“Oh, sorry, is it too cold in here?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m fine,” she said. “A blanket will be enough. D’you need it too?”

His mouth worked for a moment, before he nodded slowly. Perhaps it was the alcohol giving her a boost of courage, but she pressed herself into James’s thigh and threw the blanket over their laps. His body was warm beside hers, and it took every ounce of strength to resist resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist.

Instead, she mangled the blanket in her fingers and sat perfectly still as they watched the news anchor.

After a few minutes, when it was clear that James wasn’t uncomfortable with their close proximity, Rose let her muscles relax bit by bit. She no longer flinched away when their legs brushed against each other, and she stopped caring if she was half-nuzzled into his side.

Her heart thudded hollowly in her chest as she committed the feel of this moment to memory. She remembered when she and Jimmy would cuddle on the couch. Wrapping herself around the person she loved, leaving no space between their bodies, had been one of the best feelings in the world.

It felt even better to be pressed up to James. The smell and feel of him soothed her and left her aching for more.

She glanced up at him through her lashes—he was utterly entranced by the TV and had shoved half a biscuit into his mouth, making his cheeks bulge out. She watched his jaw work as he chewed, then the way his throat bobbed and flexed as he swallowed. He swiped his tongue across his lips and at the corners of his mouth, getting any lingering crumbs, and his bottom lip shined so invitingly. God, she’d never wanted to kiss him more than she did in this moment.

And really, what was the worst that could happen?

He could freak out and get upset or angry and I could ruin the closest friendship I’ve ever had and never see him again and as a result utterly fail chemistry and get kicked out of uni and have to move all the way back to London where I’m sure to never ever see or hear from him for the rest of my life.

Rose deflated at the tiny voice in her mind. Right. Of course. Stupid Rose. James was her friend. He was her friend who was helping her study for a class so she didn’t fail out of uni. That was it. That was all they could be.

Something deep in her chest cracked, cleaving an ache that left her cold and empty.

She let out a soft sigh and returned her attention to the TV rather than the beautiful boy sitting beside her.

Another hour passed, and as the clock neared midnight, the television finally heralded good news.

“Thank God!” James crowed when Hillary Clinton surpassed the necessary 270 electoral votes. “Blimey, there’s no reason this election should’ve been this close.”

Rose beamed, weak with relief at the outcome.

“Oh, Trump’s sure to go on a Twitter tantrum,” James chuckled. “Wanna see?”

He was already reaching for his mobile, and after tapping a few buttons, he leaned into Rose’s side and held the phone out in front of them. There were a series of Tweets proclaiming all sorts of awkward things about “Crooked Hillary” and “voter fraud” and general insults of the nation as a whole, specifically Democrats.

“What an arse,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “Thank God that man-child isn’t going to be in charge of a nation.”

“Thank God indeed. Hopefully there are no universes where that imbecile got elected.” James scrunched up his face in an expression of disgust, but Rose cocked her head at him.

“No universes?”

“Have you heard of the theory of parallel universes?” he asked.

“No, but I’m pretty sure the name sort of implies what they are,” she teased, poking her tongue out as she grinned. He pouted, and she couldn’t contain her laughter. “Oh, all right. Tell me about parallel universes.”

James sniffed, but quickly got over his feigned offense.

“It’s the idea that there are an infinite number of worlds all stacked around each other, and that every decision we make branches off a new parallel world where maybe we made a different decision. Like maybe rather than eating a burger for dinner one night, you had the salad, but it was contaminated with E. coli and you had to go to the hospital, where you then met a someone who you befriended then fell in love with, and you go on to get married and have kids and you grow old together.” Rose marveled that he was able to say so many words all in one breath. “Well, there would be a parallel you who ate that burger instead of the salad and you didn’t get sick and you didn’t find your future husband and you’re still going on with your life.

“Therefore, there have got to be universes where Trump got elected president, or where the UK left Europe. Or…” He shuddered. “Or both.”

Rose shook her head at his daft, over-the-top reaction. But her heart stuttered and she couldn’t help but beam at him. He was just… so very James-ish in this moment that her whole body thrummed with love for him.

In an attempt to shove that thought to the side, Rose said, “So there’s probably a universe where I decided to not come to uni in the States?”

James went still beside her, but he nodded, a short, quick dip of his head. He looked so sad that she wrapped her arm around his and hugged it.

“For the record,” she whispered, “I’m very glad I’m living in this parallel world.”

His throat bobbed. After a moment, with a raspy voice, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m glad I’m living in this parallel world, too.”

Kiss him kiss him kiss him kiss him. Rose ignored the little voice in her head and instead hugged his arm tighter. That little voice in her head grew louder as she felt his breathing go unsteady, his head ducking down towards hers. She peeked up at him, and saw his eyes were a shade darker than they’d been before. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his eyes flashed to her mouth too.

Oh God oh God oh God.

“Well, it’s late,” she blurted, panicking. “We should probably go to bed.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice flat. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Rose tossed the blankets off of herself and stood up from the sofa. She nearly ran from the room, but didn’t want James to think something was wrong, so she forced herself to move normally as she gathered up some of the dirty dishes and took them to the sink.

After a moment, she heard James following her.

She turned towards him as he walked into the kitchen. His eyes were shuttered, his face wary.

Shit.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” she said, wringing her hands in front of her. “Really. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.” She chewed on her bottom lip and squeezed her fingers so hard that she popped her knuckles. Then, before she could even think, she skipped up to him, rocked up on her tiptoes, and brushed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft and warm, and his day-old stubble tickled deliciously, and god-fucking-dammit she was making it a thousand times harder for herself to not press herself closer and move her face a few inches to the side to catch his lips straight on.

It took everything she had to drop back onto her heels and take a step back.

“Thank you, James,” she said softly, her cheeks burning. “G’night.”

Then she fled the kitchen before he could even reply.

[nomanwalksalone]

STYLE ICON: PRINCE

by David Isle

I’m not always proud of my interest in clothing and style. Most people associate style with vanity and elitism - ways to grow your own sense of superiority and root your disdain of others in the fertile ground of expensive garments and pretentious taste. But at its best, style is not about self-obsession, but self-possession. It can’t be bought or taught. And nobody was more self-possessed than Prince.

Whatever Prince did, he owned. He wore high heels and makeup, wide-shouldered jackets with no shirt underneath, ruffled Victorian blouses, skin-tight pants, assless one-pieces, even - on the cover of Lovesexy, where he offers himself as a (fallen?) angel - nothing at all. This confused the public - what kind of point was this guy trying to prove? Who and what is he? Is he a woman or a man? Is he straight or gay? But he was always just Prince. He owned it. He owned himself. Self-possessed.

The first Prince recording I ever bought was his Hits & B-Sides triple-disc collection. I know every one of those songs by heart now, but the first thing that knocked me out were the images in the liner notes. Dig if you will a picture. Prince in black and white, facial hair so finely trimmed it seemed like calligraphy, a lacy french-cuffed (the links spell ‘INSATIABLE’) blouse open to his navel, long eyelashes pressed against his silver-tipped cane. Is he weeping? Is he dreaming?  

Typically to be self-possessed connotes a sort of sang-froid - someone who brooks no panic or even exertion. This in itself is a high achievement. But Prince’s self-possession went beyond that. At times he seemed possessed by a demon, only the demon was he himself, exploding into paroxysms of pure expression. I saw him in 2004 on his Musicology tour - well into his forties, with rumored hip problems that were supposed to limit his on-stage movement. And yet, two hours into the concert, there he was, writhing on stage to “The Beautiful Ones,” crawling towards the audience on his hands and knees, right hand outstretched, singing the final lines, “Do u want me? Cause I want u!” You get a taste of the same energy at the end of this performance of “Shhh”, his facial expression wrought into rictus by the music flowing through him. But it’s all him. He owned it all.

Prince was also fixated on economic self-possession. At the height of his dispute with Warner Brothers, he appeared in public with the word “slave” written on his cheek. This was partly a play on musical terms - the “master” tape is the original recording, which Warner Brothers owned, not Prince, and therefore the copies made from it are “slaves” - but also a literal insistence on his own self-possession.

Other musicians, even the great ones, are somehow less than their work. They create, and then the thing stands on its own. Prince’s songs don’t really exist separately from him. Prince’s music is so much his own that the songs themselves seem to me almost incidental. They are just the vessels through which we happen to be experiencing him, like I am writing to you now in English, but if we were both born in a different place, I might just as easily be writing to you in French and the meaning would be the same. It’s not that the songs aren’t good - I love those songs - but if it hadn’t been those songs, it would have been other ones, and they would have been just as true.

That feeling comes partly because he wrote so many hits; even if you take away all 56 tracks on the 3-disc set mentioned earlier, you’ve still got the entire Batman soundtrack (maybe the best original soundtrack ever), the aforementioned “Beautiful Ones” as well as other Purple Rain hits like “Baby I’m A Star”, delightful songs like “Starfish and Coffee” off of Sign of the Times, plus the many great songs he has put out since Hits and B-Sides, like “Shhh,” “P Control,” “Call My Name,” “Black Sweat,” and “Chelsea Rodgers.” It doesn’t even include the haunting “Sometimes It Snows In April,” one of the last songs Prince ever played in concert. But it’s also because his musical presence was so strong in every performance. When he covers a song - anything from “Whole Lotta Love” to Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love” to The Foo Fighters’ “The Best Of Me” (at the Superbowl halftime show!! Who does that?!?) to Radiohead’s “Creep” - it becomes a Prince song. Even the songs he gave to others, like “Nothing Compares 2 U”, achieved second life on a higher plane when Prince recorded his own version. And no one covers Prince songs. It’s just too intimidating. The only successful Prince covers I can think of are Alicia Keys’ version of “How Come You Don’t Call Me Anymore,” and Chaka Khan’s “I Feel For You,” and Prince’s versions are still better.

Prince was often mis-understood as self-obsessed instead of self-possessed. And at times he was - there’s the story about Prince breaking The Roots guitarist Kirk Douglas’ guitar on The Tonight Show, or snubbing Kevin Smith when he came to Paisley Park to do a movie on Prince - but there are two reasons that’s not the main way I think of Prince. The first is his sense of humor, especially his ability to laugh at himself. This comes through in his lyrics sometimes, like the line in “Raspberry Beret” where Prince, 5’4” in 4” in heels and 120 pounds soaking wet in someone else’s sweat, sings, “Built like she was / She had the nerve to ask me / If I planned to do her any harm.” Or when he put a photo of Dave Chappelle, dressed as Prince in the famous Charlie Murphy basketball sketch, on his own single. Prince could be downright goofy.

But mostly I don’t think of Prince as self-obsessed because his music showed so much empathy towards others, especially women. Most male sex symbols portray sex as a physical thing that men do to women. For Prince, it was something for people to do together. Or even something for women to do to men. And it wasn’t exclusively, or even primarily, physical. He opens his song “Sexy M.F.” with the verse:

In a word or two it’s u eye wanna do No not your body, your mind you fool

The connection he made with his live audiences is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He played to 20,000 seat arenas and made every person there feel like the whole show was for them. He liked to stop in the middle of his song “Cream” after singing, “You’re so fine / You’re filthy cute and baby you know it,” and tell the audience, “I know y’all have been singing that line in the mirror every morning! And if not, why not??”

He often had a blessed few join him to dance on stage for a song or two. But it was never just the hottest or the most scantily clad young women. It was always a big beautiful mix - men, women, young, old, big, small, black, white - they were all to be found at a Prince concert, finding themselves. He wanted everyone to own themselves just as much as he did. And while he was playing, maybe they did. It was a dream more awake than consciousness. It was church. Nothing compared.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in April 2016.

[kalluun-patangaroa]

SUEDE: SLIGHTLY RESTLESS EUPHORIA

April 15th, 2011 

Illustration by Amber Halford

Suede fell out of bed into Britpop and Britpop controversy about Blur and bisexuality and who was doing what to who in what direction, but between episodes of public drama was glammy rock ‘n’ roll in the most classic English tradition. After years off duty, Suede is substantially re-united (without Bernard) and active and playing their first stateside gig at Coachella. This interview by Chris Ziegler.

How did Suede and Metallica ever get together for all-night rock sessions?

Brett Anderson (vocals): Our press agent sorta said, ‘Hey, Kirk Hammett is a big fan— should we get you together?’ So we went out to San Francisco to Kirk’s place and spent a lot of time being a bit naughty and playing songs in his basement. He had a studio—a little bit of a jamming room. I remember running through ‘Metal Mickey,’ we did a bit of T. Rex—we were off our faces, anyway. He’s a nice chap!

Kirk said he was struck by how normal you were and how you didn’t spank your buttocks once.

I should have spanked my buttocks. He was probably very disappointed. ‘This can’t be the real Brett Anderson. He’s not spanking his buttocks.’

What Crass lyric is so close to the front of your mind at all times that you can sing it to me right this second?

‘Do they owe us a living? Of course they fucking do!’ I love Crass. Feeding of the 5,000 was one of my favorite records growing up. I love that record. I love all the artwork. Talking about bands that draw you into a world—Crass really created their world, and it was a really confrontational, intelligent, political world. I really responded to it as a young teenager.

What part of the Crass ethos do you hold most dear?

I don’t live on a commune in Essex. But it opened my eyes—if it’s done right—how powerful political music can be. I never wrote overtly political music, but I did write music that dealt with not like party politics, but themes of poverty and alienation and I used that in songs—that was possibly inspired by Crass.

How was Suede a political band?

Dealing with the politics of life. Setting our songs in a real social context. I never wanted to be a writer who waved flags for a political party, but listening to the songs you can tell I was brought up as a member of the working-class, and you can tell the songs have a very strong left-wing bias.

You said you felt there hasn’t been a definitive genre of music invented in the U.K. in the last decade, and that you feel music is meant more to placate than provoke now. Why?

I do very much feel that’s the state of things. I can’t see that the last decade has created its own genre, which is a terrible shame for that generation. Not to say there hasn’t been great music. There’s amazing music! I love discovering new bands and there’s a great wave of new bands. But the biggest cultural development of the last like ten years was computer technology. It wasn’t anything to do with art and music, and that’s a shame. Even in the 90s, we had dance music—definitely a 90s genre. Maybe people have become too knowing. There’s too much of a structured sense of what’s cool and what isn’t, and that comes from magazines constantly publishing lists which contain the same five Beatles albums and this kind of thing. There’s this constant pressure to comply with this very sort of rigid set of accepted rock albums. So bands are too afraid to go outside those reference points. I sense this real fear in the music industry. A lot of it is because the industry has become a lot more corporate. People won’t take risks anymore. In the early 90s—that’s the only time I can talk about because that’s when I started—magazines were putting unusual bands on the cover. Magazines put Suede on covers before anyone had ever heard of us. Commercially, that was very ill-advised—but at least it suggested they had a sense of purpose. Now I get the sense people only back who they think are gonna win, regardless of if they actually think it’s any good or not. They will back who they think are the winners, and they will write good reviews for the bands they think are gonna sell lots of records whether they like them or not, and I think that’s a fucking terrible way to be. People are too afraid of not being cool? Or getting it wrong? No one’s willing to get it wrong. No one’s willing to stick their neck out and become a hated figure. No one’s got that kind of confidence. Everyone’s too willing to comply. It’s a terrible thing. But things go in cycles, don’t they? Maybe it’ll move into another period where people are taking chances.

When is the last time you suffered Stendhal syndrome?

At the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. I was looking at the Toulouse-Lautrecs, which were absolutely amazing. I’ve never been a huge fan of Toulouse-Lautrec before, but seeing the paintings in the flesh—as it were—is just so amazingly powerful. They’re so beautifully observed. I’m not sure if I actually experienced Stendhal syndrome, but I’ve read about it and it’s an extreme reaction to beauty—that’s the closest I can imagine it to be.

What’s it actually feel like?

Like drinking too much coffee. Slightly restless euphoria. Or maybe I’m getting it confused with actually drinking too much coffee. I’m a huge fan of art . I spend a lot of time in galleries and that’s my favorite period of art as well—the post-Impressionists. Paul Gauguin and those artists. I love all the medieval painters as well. People like Bruegel and Cranach and Holbein. There’s something incredibly primitive about it—Bruegel’s ‘Return of the Hunters’ is so atmospheric. What I really like about Holbein is he’s such an amazing draftsman and a great observer of human features. He could completely capture a person. You’re looking at someone who lived 500 years ago but it could be someone passing you on the street. They’re so real. I love that about Holbein’s paintings.

Did you want to try and observe things that carefully in Suede songs?

It’s difficult in the framework of pop music. It isn’t a very subtle medium. It doesn’t have as much as fiction or fine art. You’re in a very rigid structure—melody and rhyme and rhythm and those things are constricting you. I don’t think pop writers can ever take it to that depth of observation. But what pop writers can do is engage at an emotional level that other artists can’t do. The pop song, when done right, is incredibly powerful. That’s partly to do with the simplicity as well. Truth in music is incredibly important, but artifice can be incred- ibly important as well—that’s something I’ve done quite consciously. Lots of the songs I’ve written for Suede have been deliberately superficial but perversely enough there’s a kind of truth in that. A sketch is powerful because you fill in the missing pieces. You fill in the framework yourself. If it’s too full, there’s no space for you to interpret it.

Francis Bacon said, ‘The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.’

Absolutely. One of the most important quotes ever about creativity. Something I’ve learned through mistakes over the years is it shouldn’t be too clear what you’re doing. Sometimes the sketch is so powerful because of the room for interpretation. As soon as you know what something is about, it somehow kills the mystery. And mystery is so important in music. That allows the song to have life beyond what it was intended for. When a writer’s writing, they have a very specific thing in mind, but they don’t know about the life of the listener. The listener applies his life to the music and there’s a new interpretation. That’s why a good song has so much power. It reaches into people’s lives. But to do that, there needs to be a sense of mystery. I’ve always tried to do that with detail. There’s this whole thing with great songwriters saying songs should be universal, but I actually think songs should be opposite—strangely specific and set in a place to make them real. I mean, still allow space for interpretation.

You said once that Suede writes about the used condom, not the beautiful bed. That kind of detail?

That’s not my favorite quote I ever said—but it keeps coming back. It must resonate with people’s vision of what the band is about. It’s quite a crass way of saying it, but I suppose it’s got some sort of truth. I always wanted to document the sort of grubby side of life. I didn’t want to talk in rock cliché. ‘Baby, I love you!’ clichés. I wanted to sing about the world I saw around me, and the world I saw around me was the used condom. It was the dusty street, the flickering TV. It was that use of detail and the fact I was born in the U.K. that made me write about the U.K. in detail, and it became distorted into the cliché of what became Britpop later—but it was never this nationalistic, jingoistic intention. It was just a desire to write about the world I saw around me.

Did you have to feel like you were living a Suede song to write a Suede song?

I don’t feel I deliberately changed my lifestyle. But I didn’t rein myself in. I felt justified in writing what I was writing—the right thing to do for my artistic vision was live the lifestyle I was singing about, but it’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. I was living that, obviously. But you can’t live that lifestyle forever and wanna remain alive. Things have to change. I championed—well, I documented it, and then you realize that what you’re documenting is quite harmful.

Did you think you were going to end up on a prison ship like Dan Treacy?

Well, toward the end of the 90s, things started getting quite dark. Life was definitely changing. I thought, ‘Well, maybe we need to veer away from something.’ I always feel I’m slightly on dodgy ground when people talk about this whole concept of the artist as a damaged character—it’s such a powerful cliché that people really wanna believe in, and I think there’s so much great art made through clarity and sobriety. The damaged artist casts a huge shadow people sometimes can’t see beyond. Me personally, as an artist now I feel much more in control of my art. Much more driven. Certainly more than I did ten years ago. But people need to believe in that sort of figure.

Jason Pierce said he started Spacemen 3 because of people like Roky Erickson and Alex Chilton—that he felt he could do what they did because they were flawed and not professional and perfect.

It’s the ultimate DIY ethic, isn’t it? The ultimate punk thing? Saying it doesn’t matter how incapable or damaged or all these pejorative adjectives you wanna apply—not you can still create art, but it almost makes your art more interesting or valid or gives it an edge you wouldn’t have if you weren’t damaged? Someone like Ian Dury—the ‘cripple as artist.’ It gives the audience a fascination, I think.

You said you were making music to find community in a fucked-up world. Did you ever find that community?

It’s always a search for some sort of community, isn’t it? There’s a line from one of the old songs, ‘New Generation.’ ‘We take the pills to find each other.’ A search for human … ownership or whatever. I don’t know. It’s strange to say because I’ve always conducted my career and Suede’s career almost as outsiders. I’ve never felt accepted by the music industry. I still don’t. I’ve never felt part of any sort of gang, and I never really wanted to be part of any gang. The only gang I’m part of is this weird disparate group of non-members—the ‘others’—and I’m quite happy in that role as well. I don’t jealously look at other people’s lives and wish I could be like that. I don’t have that search for community I used to have— maybe I realized the reality of things.

Does that mean it’s not out there? That it was never there? Can bands create these communities anymore?

That’s the definition of a decent band. They create a community. When I answered your question, it was in a personal sense. Whether I’ve found a community. But hopefully Suede as a band created a community. That was one of our real intentions—I loved bands like the Smiths who had this world you went into, with the sleeves and the reference points. You very much immersed yourself. I wanted Suede to have that sense as well. Almost a strong Suede way of being. The Suede army, as someone once said.

If you didn’t find community, what did you find?

It made my life. It gave me all those things we were talking about earlier. It gave me everything. Gave me purpose in life. I wouldn’t ever advise anyone to do what I did! I’ve been incredibly lucky in my career. 99 percent of people who go into music won’t be as lucky. It is a lot to do with luck! The fact I’ve met Bernard Butler—little things! I might never have met him, and we never would have written those songs and Suede would have been a very different band. I never just say, ‘This is what you should do!’ I was just confident and stupid enough to do what I did, and it just sort of worked! But some of the decisions I made—they were pretty rash!

Is it necessary to commit totally to being creative to be good at being creative? To jump in with no safety net?

Absolutely. You’ve gotta let yourself out there. I didn’t even have an instrument to fall back on! ‘I believe I got enough of a voice to say something interesting, and I’m gonna do it.’ Confidence verging on stupidity that happened to pay off!

Does pop music defend the brave and stupid?

I think so. You have to push it as far as it’ll go. Part of the reason the public loves pop music so much is the drama of the story. You have people who have no idea about the drama and just wanna listen to Phil Collins records and that’s fine, but there’s a whole other group of people that love the back story—how it’s made and why people fall out and fall in love. It’s almost treating the world of music like you’re watching a soap opera and people love that.

Why do people fall in love?

Probably some sort of chemical function. I don’t wanna be unromantic about it but it fulfills a necessary function for the human race.

L.A. Record (US Magazine), April 2011

[saieras]

I’m proud of you, kid

Summary: On the 1-year anniversary after the Snap, Tony, Pepper, and May deal with their losses and remember who and what they are fighting for.

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T

Notes: This fic is based on an incredible piece of fan-art I saw the other day, about Tony and Pepper having a baby, and giving him a Spider-Man doll to play with.

Art is by 茗牌耳钉 on Weibo.

EDIT: he/she has Twitter as well!

Also on FF & AO3.

I hope you enjoy the read~

————————————————————

April. The first sneak peek of spring, the first month of slush-free roads. Central Park, turning green.

Tony Stark hovered over the city, his helmet open. The wind was brisk at this height, so he had a little trouble keeping his eyes open, but he wanted to see the colors with his own eyes. It was a lovely Saturday, and millions milled about the streets and avenues below. Madison Square was packed to the brim.

He flew a short distance over to Washington Square Park. It was similarly filled. He was at roughly the same altitude as the Empire State building, so doubtless the throngs pulsing below could see him well and clear. Without the suit's visual feed, Tony couldn't make out the individual faces as they peered up at him.

He imagined they must be cursing him.

Nonetheless, his vantage point afforded Tony a veil of sorts, a barrier vast enough to block out the sounds below. It was peaceful and good — this was his city, and he was her protector, standing high and mighty in the clouds.

… Hiding, low and broken, behind his worthless armor, suffocating under an avalanche of shame.

“Boss,” FRIDAY said, “you're going to be late if you don't start heading — ” 

“I know,” Tony said. He closed his eyes. The nanobots obeyed his thoughts, reforming the helmet over his head, and a second later Tony breathed in the familiar filtered air. It used to make him feel invincible, this clean, sterile smell. Now every breath was a reminder.

“I know,” he said again. He took one last look at the restored Washington Square Arch beneath him. “Let's go.”

————————————————————

It was a nice and quiet place with impressive views of the city's skyline. Not many of the residents were new, so there were relatively few visitors. Tony landed in an out-of-the-way little garden, making sure he wasn't seen. The armor disintegrated and rolled itself back into his chest.

He took a deep breath. It smelled like flowers. Oh, he'd forgotten to bring flowers.

He donned his shades, as if they protected him from the scrutinizing stares as he walked the short distance over. He had only been here once, but he knew the place well — he'd visited, after all, more times than he could count, in BARF and in his dreams.

Three people were already there; a girl, a boy, a woman. The grass beneath his feet rustled to herald his arrival. Tony willed himself to not flinch as they looked up.

“Mr. Stark,” May Parker said. There was not an ounce of surprise in her tone… in fact, there was not an ounce of anything in her tone. Tony wished there was. He wished she would curse, scream, cry, seethe. Anything.

“May —“ he began.

“Please call me Mrs. Parker,” the woman said.

“Right,” Tony muttered. He was a fool. He couldn't do this. He stared up at the blue sky, and wanted nothing more than to materialize the suit and fly away.

“Mr. Stark?” piped a timid voice. Tony looked over to see the boy in the group, a chubby Asian holding a Lego Millennium Falcon, stealing a glance at him. As their gazes met, the boy averted his eyes — bloodshot and rimmed with red, Tony noticed.

All the same, the boy shuffled aside.

“Are you going to… uh, join us?” he asked, voice even smaller than before.

“Ah,” Tony said. He squeezed out a smile. “Yes. Thank you, Ned.”

The boy looked astounded that he'd remembered his name. Tony stepped up a little, and gave a brief nod to the girl now beside him.

“And you must be… Michelle, right?”

Michelle blinked and shrugged. “Mmhmm,” she said, obviously every bit as surprised as Ned, though rather better at feigning nonchalance.

Tony hated how he had to act as if he was asking — as if he wouldn't know the names of the kid's best friends.

As if he didn't know the names of every member of the Midtown Tech Decathlon team.

As if he hadn't memorized the names of every person who bothered to show up to the service. Not that there were many — the kid hadn't exactly been popular in school.

Nothing else was said after that. May Parker had closed her eyes, and Ned was muttering something under his breath, clutching his Lego piece. Michelle was looking over towards Manhattan, her jaws tight.

Tony fought the urge to look up again at the sky. Two point three six billion lightyears away, there was a decaying planet called Titan, in a whole other galaxy still undiscovered by NASA… at least that was what the blue-green android woman had told him.

He clenched his hands into fists. Breathe in, breathe out. He repeated this ten times before finally, with a light jerk of his head, his gaze settled on the stenciled letters.

Peter Benjamin Parker, 2001-2018

A loving nephew, a best friend, and always our hero

Mr. Stark? I don't feel so good…

I don't want to go…

Sorry.

The sound that escaped his throat was something Tony did not expect. Suddenly, all he could see in front of him was dust, and dust, and more dust, blowing on the brown and tattered landscape. It wasn't until he heard Ned's surprised shouts that he noticed the helmet forming around his head.

Tony allowed himself a second of respite inside cocoon of filtered air, where the world could not see him break — where the world only saw the red and gold mask, forever strong.

Then he willed the nanobots to disassemble.

All three of them were staring at him when his skin once again touched the free air. Tony tried to speak, tried to crack a joke — he had to take a call from the company — always at the worst time, am I right?

But then May Parker said, “It's okay. I'm here with you.”

And Tony simply collapsed in front of the headstone, his fingers gliding over the smooth surface, etching out each letter. Behind him, May put her hand on his shoulder, and Tony was glad she was there, glad because she too understood what it felt like to have your soul ground and pulverized until it was a colossal vacuum that could never be filled, not by all the happiness in the universe.

When he screamed, he took what little comfort in knowing she was beside him, walking every step of this hell with him. Her fingers on his shoulder tightened, and for a moment they were linked through that eternal pain; that void of a parent losing a child.

————————————————————

May had brought a plate of her signature walnut date loafs, and a few other new recipes she'd wanted for Peter to try. Ned had brought the Lego, naturally. Michelle had brought a sketchbook. Tony noticed how thin it looked; more than half the pages had been ripped out, and the cover looked splattered. For a moment Tony imagined the skinny girl, sitting alone in her room, the drip-drip-drip of her tears soaking through her sketches.

Tony wished he'd remembered to bring flowers. He wished he'd remembered to bring something. Hastily he downloaded a model of a flower, and ported it to the nano-assembly algorithms. Soon a miniature white rose grew out of the palm of his hand, glinting in its metallic sheen. The display had been enough to captivate Ned, who seemed to have temporarily forgotten his grief.

Looking at the boy's face was like a gut punch. That same wonder, that same curiosity. That same fascination and youthful enthusiasm. Peter made that face often, pretty much whenever Tony allowed him inside the lab or workshop.

What Tony wouldn't give to see that face again, just one more time.

Gently he laid the flower down in front of the headstone, next to the others' gifts. It landed with a small clink.

“Do you have a place to be?” May asked. Her voice seemed hoarse, but somehow softened.

He did. He had other memorial events to attend. He planned to make a visit to Happy's family, as well as Sam's. He had a meeting with Hank Pym and the rest of the Avengers.

He needed to get back to Pepper and their boy.

“No,” he said. “I've got a while.”

“Eat with us,” she said. “We — we were going to Peter's favorite Thai place.”

“That sounds fantastic.”

“I'll tell you where it is, and you can meet us —“

“No. I'll ride with you guys.”

May nodded. She lingered a few seconds more, before bending down and kissing the headstone. Ned gave it a squeeze, hard enough his stubby fingers turned white. Michelle… Michelle didn't do anything. But Tony knew if she touched that stone, she would shatter.

“Are you coming, Mr. Stark?” May asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just — give me a minute.”

He waved them ahead. When he was sure they were out of sight, he knelt down and hugged the headstone tight.

“I miss you, kid,” he said. “You know that? I really — really miss you.”

He choked down the lump in his throat.

“I'm so proud of you, Pete,” he whispered, and for this small moment, he allowed himself to crumble.

————————————————————

The Thai food was very good, but Tony was forced to cut their lunch out a bit short. He thanked May, and Ned and Michelle, for allowing him to intrude. It surprised them, and himself too, because that was so very unlike him.

But then May had given him a smile — a small smile, but a genuine one.

“Peter would've wanted you here,” she said simply.

Tony turned and pretended to watch the TV.

“I heard you had a baby,” May remarked when their table fell silent.

“Ah, yes,” Tony mused, not knowing why she changed the topic, but grateful to pivot. “Not my best creation, to be honest — all he can do at the moment is cry and poop and eat. Even Dum-E is a little better in —“

“Thank you,” May said.

Tony paused.

“Yes, the world often does,” he said finally, chuckling awkwardly. “But I've gotta admit, I don't know why you are —“

Tentatively, May squeezed his hands. Tony flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away.

“Tony,” she said. “Thank you.”

She knows, he thought. He hadn't intended her to know. He worried that she might think of it as an affront. He thought maybe she'd think he didn't deserve it; didn't have the right to use that name. But here she was, thanking him.

“Yeah,” he said, not trusting his face. “I guess I have the paparazzi to thank. Honestly, you'd think they have more important things to report on — Anyway, I got to go, there's —“

“Wait!“ May's grip on his hand tightened a little. She rummaged around in her purse before pulling out a tangle of red and blue fabric. “I — I was making — I was making this, and I…“ She trailed off, and just put the thing on the table between them.

It was a spider-man doll. Coarsely made at first glance, but Tony picked out the little scabs on May's fingers, dots of dark red. Suddenly, he recalled Peter mentioning once how she couldn't sew or knit to save her life.

'And other people were like, aren't aunts supposed to sew you stuff? And I'm like, not May!'

'Kid, could we save the topic for when you're not literally being sewn up?'

'It distracts me from the pain, Mr. Stark. Ow. Are you really sure I can't use anesthetics?'

The memory brought a bittersweet smile to Tony's lips. He picked up the small doll.

“Thank you for making this for him,” he said, his voice solemn.

“I meant it as a gift to celebrate him finishing junior year,” May said softly. “But I never seemed to get around to it, and then… last year, when that… I just stopped working on it.”

Tony's mouth felt dry. “So why did you finish it now, after all this time?”

May shrugged.

“Because we're still here,” she said. “Because we're the only ones who remember Peter as spider-man. Because we owe it to him to pass it on.” She paused, before giving Tony a brief smile. “That's why it's not for our Peter.”

Tony frowned. “Our Peter?” but then he got it.

It was for his Peter.

Tony took the doll and lowered his head, so neither May nor the two kids could see his eyes. Then he stood up, and let the suit spread over his skin. He ignored the gasps and cries of surprise from the other customers. He made sure to keep the doll in a safe compartment.

“Thank you,” he said. With the suit, he could be sure his voice didn't sound too-tight. “Thank you, May.”

She smiled again. “Say hello to him for me.”

He nodded, stepped out of the restaurant, and took off.

————————————————————

“What's up, Mr. Stark?” Peter called out as he bounded into the lab. “What are you working on?”

Tony, being Tony, didn't answer. Instead he gave a vague wave of his hand and dumped the current design blueprints onto Peter's Starkphone. Peter was used to this, so he happily hopped onto a Hulkbuster model, and began swiping through the information.

“Woah,” he said, grasping the gist in barely a minute — brilliant, as usual. “You're trying to create a nano-arc reactor with vibranium at its core! That's so cool!“

“Trying is the key word, kid,” Tony said fondly. “Don't think it'll happen in the near future, not unless I can convince Wakanda to share some of its technologies and resources.”

“I'd like to go to Wakanda sometime,” Peter said wistfully.

“You and me both, kid. I even hear they have a Princess your age. Come on, get down from there, Hulkbuster's not something to play on.”

“Hmm,” Peter said, reading further into the file and ignoring Tony's admonishment. “Mr. Stark, do you think the vibranium could work as an alloy or does it have to be pure?”

“We'll have to try to make do with an alloy, otherwise it'll never be feasible. I swear, it's more expensive than that thing from what's-that-film, the one with the blue people —“

“Avatar,” Peter said. “And it was called unobtainium. But they could've come up with a better name, at least!“ the teen plopped down on the Hulkbuster's head, draping himself over the eyes. “Hey FRIDAY, can I get something to drink? I'm so parched.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Parker. Milk or OJ? Or perhaps beer? We have whiskey, too.”

“FRIDAY,” Tony warned.

“Sorry, Boss.”

“OJ, please,” Peter said, too engrossed in the data to notice the banter. Tony smiled and shook his head.

“By the way, kid,” he added. “Tell me when you're finished reading that. I've got a project for ya.”

“Really?” the teen said, looking up — looking down — at Tony, at once bubbling with excitement. “I'm done reading! What's the project ab—“

The boy's voice stopped. Slowly, the lab faded away. Tony stood up from where he had been watching and looked around, somewhat disoriented. A second later he spotted Pepper at the door, arms crossed.

“You have a meeting tonight,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, blinking away the bright lights. “Very astute, Mrs. Stark.”

“You told me you were taking a nap.”

“I woke up.”

“You said you weren't going to use BARF anymore.”

“I wasn't. FRIDAY must have forced it on me.”

“Boss…“

“Leave her out of this,” Pepper snapped. “Tony, you can't keep doing this. Especially not today. You promised.”

“Stark promises aren't worth very much,” Tony said, chuckling. “Runs in the family.”

Pepper strode over and yanked him to her. Then she kissed him.

“Come on; if you aren't going to sleep, and it doesn't appear you are, let's go check on little Mo. He's gonna wake up soon.”

Mr. Stark knew there was no use in arguing with Mrs. Stark at the moment, so he sighed and allowed her to grab his hand. She guided him over to their room, where a high-tech crib stood in the corner, monitoring everything from vitals to blood sugar to the state of the diapers.

Tony peered down at his sleeping son. “Morgan,” he whispered softly. “Morgan. Morgan Peter Stark.”

The full name alone sent him to the edge. Pepper patted his back, as if she could soothe his tensed muscles back down.

“The best Stark there ever was,” she joked. Tony kissed her.

“I met May Parker today,” he said, not wanting to leave the warmth of her lips. “She… she knows of Mo.”

“Well, the entire world knows we had a baby,” Pepper said, smiling.

“No, Pepper.” Tony said. “She knew his name… she knew his middle name.”

“Oh,” Pepper said. Her hands stopped caressing his back. “There must have been a leak. Damn it, they've been digging for the baby's name for months — those press people will never let go once they sniff out a story. Tony, I'm so sorry, I know you didn't want her to know, I'll get someone to check where it got out —“

“She thanked me,” Tony said, cutting her off. “I — I named my son after Pete, without telling her, and she thanked me. Jesus, Pepper, what did I do to deserve to be — I killed him. I killed him, and she thanked me.”

“You didn't kill him,” she said.

“I couldn't — I tried to protect him —“

“Tony…“ Pepper said.

“I put everything I could think of into that suit,” Tony continued. “I tried, Pepper, I thought I was ready — I couldn't —“

“Tony, please —“

Tony turned away from the crib, feeling like he couldn't breathe. “I couldn't,” he croaked out. “I couldn't protect him. I watched him disa—“

“Anthony Stark!“ Pepper shouted. “Stop that right now! You didn't kill him, you hear me? You did not kill him.”

Tony was trembling all over. He knew she would kiss him, so he let the kiss happen. Pepper's fingers dug into his palm.

“Breathe,” she said. “That's it, Tony. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

Gradually Tony was able to gather himself, like grasping the shards of a glass house and putting it back together… piece by painstaking piece. Pepper combed his hair, pressing him to her, whispering encouragements all the while. Finally Tony gave a low chuckle, exhausted.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“We're always here for you,” she replied. “Mo and I.”

Tony kissed her. He looked down at his sleeping son. “Mo wouldn't be here without him, you know.”

“I know,” Pepper said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

They stood by the crib for several minutes, just listening to the steady quiet breathing. Tony reached down to nuzzle the baby's rosy cheeks.

It wasn't long before Mo began to stir. Tony withdrew his hand, abashed, but Pepper laughed.

“It's okay,” she said. “He should be waking up around now anyway.” She reached down to tickle the little tummy, and the baby's dark eyes popped open. “Hey Mo!“ Pepper said. “Look who's here? Daddy's here.”

Mo's plump little face beamed at Pepper upon hearing her voice. Then he turned his head towards Tony, and chortled.

“Hey Mo,” Tony said. “Hey.”

We owe it to him to pass it on, May had said.

For our Peter. For my Peter.

Tony closed his eyes, and reached into his coat pocket to pull out the spider-man doll.

“Tony?” Pepper said. “Tony, what's that?”

“May Parker made it,” Tony replied wearily. “She wanted Mo to have it.”

“Wow! That's adorable!“ Pepper took the doll from him, and moved the arms as if she were controlling a marionette. She made the doll wave. “Hi, Mo!“ she said as she peered down at the baby. “I'm spider-man! And I hear you're a very brave boy.”

Mo let out an incoherent noise of interest, and reached up for the doll. Pepper let his tiny hands grab the doll's arm, and Mo's grip tightened instantly, as if making introductions. Pepper laughed and tickled the baby a bit more.

Tony watched them play together. He tried to ingrain the moment in his memory, but all he could think was, I wish you were here, kid.

I wish you were here, Pete.

Once again, credit to the artist ~

[livehorsesartpage]

Gaining trust by DeviantLivehorses

Although Mérante was apparently sitting comfortably in a chair, that didn't mean that he was relaxed. He was in a dynamic job only his family can notice. Odette knew how stressful he could get and how susceptible he could become. She even knew that she going around was grateful for him. Entering the room was a relief and Mérante usually wished Odette to stay and make the moment more relaxed. But the one he never wanted around was his adopted noisy daughter. He could spend nights doing this job... He leafed over and over the papers and notes. He watched and analyzed partitures that his fellow composer sended to him the last day. He wrote, sketched, erased, sometimes with energic angry. Sometimes he got up from his desk, partiture in hand, and walking through the room, he went to sat at the piano and rehearsed a tune the times was necessary until he felt satisfyed enough to return to his notes. Sometimes he rehearsed some steps or danced along the space to clarify his subjective thought he wanted to insert in his coreographies... Sometimes in the low level of the house it can be heard a single little scream of frustration. Sometimes some sketches made a crumpled ball ended rolling on the floor, or in the fireplace as fuel. Sometimes the coffee wasn't enough, sometimes the hands ended placed in his head. Sometimes he got up from the place and started walking around the room while grumbling. That very day his mind was really busy, but at least he wasn't so frustrated as the other night. "What ya doin'?" asked in a vulgar french tone a squeaky voice next to Mérante's ear. Mérante released a scream in a high pitch tone unusual in his voice. When he turned around, he found himself face to face with Félicie, arms recharged in the back of the chair. Mérante sighed between relief and frustration. It was only her; yes... ONLY Félicie, the last one he wanted to be there that moment. "It's-obvious". he answered in a stern tone. "I know." said his daughter. "But I wanna see. I like your coreographies. What is this time about?" Mérante sighed more relaxed. After all at that hour it was bed time and that probably meant a bed-story time. He felt somehow a little less stressed and more warmed by the girl's prescence. After a moment of silence, he took the child and made her sit in his lap. He started showing her his sketches, his ideas, telling her the story in which he was working. Félicie, as a curious cat watched and made questions as usual. At some point that didn't annoyed his father but made him glad to been asked of his main favorite subject. He took advance of the situation to presume about his knowedge, feeling extremely proud everytime Félicie gasped or said "wow" to all of his explanations. "Can I dance this?". asked her. "I'm afraid not. This is not like the things you have danced. It's for formed dancers only." "You should do more child dancers' ballets." Mérante laughed gently and placed a kiss in the girl's forehead. "Maybe some day my little strawberry. Now if you excuse me, I have to go to the piano, I have to think this musical phrase". And after saying this, he took Félicie softly and placed her in the floor. "But can I stay?" asked her in a plea. "If you remain silent while I play, yes." Then Mérante rose up and walked to the piano, followed by Félicie's wide open eyes. He sat and started playing a tone. But in the middle of his performance, he got a feeling in his back and heard behind him an energic sequence of wild steps. He stopped suddenly and turn around fast to find Félicie stopping dancing, interlacing her fingers and her face blushing. "What were you doing?" asked Mérante suprised. Félicie lowered her head in shame. "I couldn't resist it, the melody was catchy." "But WHAT were you doing?" "Dancing?" she rose her brilliant green eyes to meet them with the hazel eyes of his father. Mérante passed his legs to the front of his seat to face completely his daughter and placed his elbows in his knees, interlacing his fingers as well. "I want to see you." Félicie stepped back, her face getting more blushed. "I-I can't". "You don't have any shame everytime you dance. I can remember that time in the bar in front of a lot of strangers. Why can be different with your own father?" "'Cause..." the words were stuck in her throat and were refusing to go out. "You're the master." "Forget that, I'm your father now." "You will not get angry if I do it wrong?" "No, I promise. No scolding this time, we aren't at class. Besides... your dance is always on fire." Félicie draw a huge smile in her face, showing how her heart was getting wild of exitement inside of her. Mérante smiled, and turning completely, placing his fingers on the keys, he prepared himself to play. "I will play the piano, and I need you to be at my left so I can see you meanwhile." Félicie did as she was told, walking and placing at the left of the piano. "Just..." said Mérante suddenly. "Be careful to not break anything in the middle of your dancing, stay away from the decoration." he was now watching at an expensive porcelain flower vase and a greek sculpture. "Okay." said Félicie laughing. Mérante started playing the melody, and for a moment Félicie stayed still in her place. Even if Mérante noticed it, he continued, waiting patiently for her daughter to take inspiration and confidence. And it did happen; Suddenly, Félicie found herself cought in the middle of the music, and letting her body flow like the water of a creek, she moved around the left space, following what the music dictated to her heart and therefore to her feet. While playing the piano, Mérante rose up sometimes his sight from the keys to look at her daughter. Captivated by her performance, he got some glances of forgotten moments of his youth, when he whitnessed behind a door, some fair young dancer going around a classroom like a swan in light flight. Of course, Félicie had a wilder and less elegant performance, but not by that less passionate. The muses of inspiration went around both and Mérante's brain started to create great coreographies based on the incongruent ravings of the little dancer. He wanted to stop suddenly to return in a crazy race to his desk before this ideas dissapeared, but he didn't want, as he watched Félicie to be in a heavy ectasy, to made her fall violently from the clouds. But for the disgrace of both, the piece of music ended, and both found themselves forced to fall slowly from the Dancing Heaven and to place their feet in the ground again. Both look at each other for a while, having the same feeling of inspiration. Speaking after the sublime voice of music was heard in the air was almost impossible. "Well... I guess that this is all for the moment". said Mérante in a sigh, eyes shining like Félicie never saw before. He returned to his desk and started to place his newborn ideas in the papers. For some time he remained silent, and he felt how her daughter approached to him. "Dad?". her voice sounded cracked. Mérante rose up his sight and found Félicie with a worried face. "You will always be my dad? I'm your daughter right?" Mérante stared at her starting to feel concerned. "I mean... Do you love me?" "But of course I love you!" exclaimed Mérante while raising from his chair and going to hug her daughter. "Why I wouldn't love you?" "I don't know..." answered Félicie while starting to weep in his father's shoulder. "Maybe I'm a dissapointment". "You're not my dear. You can't imagine how much I love you". at some point his voice also cracked, and some tears appeared in his eyes. "You have made my life and Odette's such a great joy, you united us. And we are a family." Suddenly both felt how a couple of arms surrounded them and embraced them in a warm hug. When they rose their sight, they found like in a vision, the face of Odette, her beautiful eyes glowing behind brilliant tears of conmocion and joy. It seemed that both of them never realized how she was watching at the door of the room, to Mérante playing at the piano and Félicie dancing. They were so into the moment when they hug each other, that they never realized the sound of the cane approaching to them. The family joined like one in a single hug.

So, this is a B/L! little fanfiction of my favorite family, the Mérante family. This came out to my mind around yesterday and here I am doing it. Of course, even if I will not be a writer, I must say that I see this as my writing masterpiece. I never was able to describe a scene with so much inspiration and detail, I'm really moved and delighted. Also, it was so satisfying that I found exactly every word I wanted to use and to express my ideas so clearly. That keeps the main idea intact in the writing. I'm so proud that I wrote about one of my favorite subjects, Mérante & Félicie's storge love. Also, I've recently had issues with my own dad, that he loves me and have given me everything... Sometimes I forget how much he does for me. He is in some points simillar to Mérante's character and sometimes is hard to be with him, but from him I learned and share same tastes a lot. I'm just kind of feel broke because he usually keeps his distance, because he doesn't want to hurt us. But I'm very lucky to have such a loving, kind and gentle father. I almost cry while writing this...

Made at March 29 of 2019.

Remember I promised a fanart for my fanfic of the same name? Here it is! I take advantage of that Holy Week Vacations has just started. I really like the results. And I really, really love all Mérante family stuff. That's why I am here.  I'm very suprised that my airbrushing is working out so well. I have improved... But, this is a mess of many hands one can't easily know of who belongs each one. But, more or less that's the idea.  And now I'm happy, but also my index finger hurts. DX Made with DeviantArt muro at April 11 of 2019.